================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Late Morning < About 10:33 AM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 25 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 17 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3041>
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RL time: Mon Sep 10 15:51:06 2007
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Northern Fences of Lorien
The rolling foothills of the northwest come to and end here in this river valley, nestled up against the wide Anduin river to your east, and the sprawling forest to your south. This region is called the Northern Fences of Lorien, for it forms the border to the legendary Golden Wood, whose boughs you could soon be travelling beneath, should you venture any further southward. As you look into the dense forest growth which begins only a few dozen yards into the woods, you recall the legends which bespoke of the fateful one-way journeys creatures of evil intent undertook when they chose to desecrate that realm...

A well-concealed hithlain ladder hangs near the trunk of one of the mellyrn, some distance above the ground. It looks possible to climb up to it.

Contents:
Galharth
Lostiriel
Norweg (Tempted by Maglind)
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The late morning sun rises upwards into the sky, casting a golden light over the snow covered lands that lay to the north of the thick forest that lays in the shadows of the Misty Mountains. Golden leaves mingle with skeletal branches. While winter rages over the lands many of the trees within the forest still hold a greenish tinge as if time does not pass. To the northern winds, a silence lays beyond the treeline, as if something watches all that passes to the north.

Atop the most northern talan of the forests border, a silver haired ellon stands looking outwards over the land. "So quiet," he mutters softly. As he speaks, Galharth looks down towards the ground. As something glimmers in the snow, he furrows his brow. "Something lays upon the ground." He says, moving towards the ladder.

Mornakh grunts from her position in the snow, her weapon blackened with soot from the fire. She spies a rabbit hopping across the scorched area then darting off. Sighing, she looks up and about, waiting for a something to happen.

"Don't get too close," advises a guard in the same tree. Norweg plays listlessly with a handful of scattered arrows, his face drawn and pale from events in the near past. "Who knows what they have left behind?"

Moving silently behind Galharth, her breath escaping in soft white clouds, Lostiriel's grey-blue eyes scan the area nervously. She pauses for a moment, listening, watching. She shivers, but it is not the cold that causes her to do so. "Galharth," she calls softly, quickly catching up to him, but she does not say anything else, for she pauses, tilting her head to the side as she listens once more. Long strands of silken blonde hair are pushed back as she continues to cautiously look around her, then she asks, "What is it? What do you see?"

Looking over his shoulder towards Norweg, the Tailor nods once. As he turns his gaze once more towards the ground, he furrows his brow. "There is something that sparkles in the snow." He mutters softly in reply to Lostiriel. "I can not tell what it is."

Falling silent for a moment, the Tailor changes his position so to gain a better view. "It is of no use." he complains. Looking towards the Guard, he tilts his head. "We should check to see what it is, but not until the area is called clear."

"A piece of ice catching the light," replies the Warden dryly, tossing the arrows to the talan floor. They clatter. "Is it of any importance? We may be putting ourselves at needless risk."

"Risk? Certainly there is time to go down and then return well before anything could draw near." Galharth says as he looks once more to the ground. Falling silent, he leans over the edge of the hidden Guard Talan. "It is not ice. While silver is in the hue that sparkles, so too is green and gold." Dropping to his hands and knees at the edge of the talan, he peers at the sparkling item. "We should retrieve it so to prevent a beast from finding it."

Also peering down at the glittering object below, Lostiriel replies, "It is curious, but perhaps it would be risky to go down... After all, the way everything has played out as of late would seem to indicate extreme caution." Still, she looks down with extreme interest on her face, and she kneels down, also looking over the edge, "And you are right, Galharth. It is something other than ice." She looks over to Norweg, asking, "What do you think should be done?"

Peering at the sparkling item, the Tailor frowns. "Could be a button..." he mutters more to himself than to anyone who now stands upon the talan. Glancing up to Lostiriel, Galharth rises to his feet. "Do you not know the difficulties that I go through to obtain the buttons needed for the clothing we use?" Rising to his full height, his gaze turns towards the shining item below. "Wood does not last... metal."

Not finishing his words, he moves to stand beside Norweg. "Is it clear? It would only take a moment."

Giving Galharth a strange glance, Lostiriel shakes her head. "A button? If you are going to take upon yourself uncertain risk, I should hope that is for something more valuable than a button." She releases a sigh and continues looking down, then looks up at Norweg again. "And what do you think? Do you feel that a button is worth the risk?" The courier attempts to mask the humor in her voice, but her eyes gleam brightly as she glances at Galharth once again.

Norweg shakes his head, ramming arrows solidly into his quiver. "Are you mad, Galharth? Do you know how much blood has been spilt here this fortnight? You'll be attacked soon enough."

The warden waves a hand. "I see nothing. Go, see what it is, and return quickly. I expect you're good enough with a sword to defend yourself against anything unseen."

"What risk?" Galharth asks softly as he sweeps a hand towards the north. "A rabbit bounces unmolested across the snow, fully revealed, and yet we stand as nervous birds, all a twitter in the trees?" Taking in a deep breath, he looks towards the guard. "Your son has taught me much, are we now holding back?"

Frowning and peering at the Warden, the Tailor shakes his head in response to the Guards words. "I fear much Norweg, but it seems silly to worry when something so simple as retrieving a fallen item gives us hesitation as it is now."

Though it be morning, these are wicked times. A distant howl rings in the faraway woodlands to the west, full of pain and longing.

Black is the shape that creeps through the afternoon sun. Nerggis is dressed all in black, the uniform of an elite guard. Silently he slips from copse of trees, to shrubs, to tall grass. ever does he work his way closer to the hated elves and their trees. Alone he is this day, dagger held in his mouth as he belly crawls through ferns near the guards. The howl causes him pause and a curious look crosses over his face.

Eyes returning to scan the area, a slight smile tugs at the corners of Lostiriel's lips. She shifts, pushing herself slightly closer to the edge so that she can get a better view, and replies, "Well then, Galharth, let us hope that you bounce as safely as that rabbit." She laughs softly, but when the ringing echo of a howl reaches her ears, she instantly falls silent. Her expression instantly changes and she backs away from the edge, shivering slightly. "I don't think you should go..." Her words are low, quietly spoken, but there is something of a mournful plea in them.

"Your teacher is still bleeding in the Field Hospital," Maglind's father says flatly. A howl falls upon his ears, and Norweg shifts slightly: "Go if you still wish, if the need for buttons is that great. My aim will be following you."

Another howl rises, nearer now, crueler, shriller ... and behind it, a cold, soft chorus of howls, more faint, sadder ... O symphony of howls! O chorus of woe! O debauched choir! Something evil comes nearer; it can be smelled on the air.

"Worry not, Lostiriel, I'll be down and back before any harm can come." Moving to the edge, then scampering down the ladder, Galharth shakes his head to the Warden's words. "At least my teacher survived, which speaks highly of his skill," he says as he moves. At the distant howl, the Tailor gives pause. Hanging from the ladder, he peers northwards with a cautious gaze. "It's far to the north," he whispers upwards as he resumes his downward climb.

Nerggish pauses his forward progress. He is quite near enough to make a throw. The dagger slips down into his hand and he watches the elf intently through the harsh daylight. He seems content to do little other than listen more the moment though.

Biting her lower lip, a cautious gaze follows Galharth as he moves to descend. As the howls grow louder, Lostiriel closes her eyes for only a moment, then casts a glance to the Warden. Something ominous begins to press down upon Lostiriel, and though she is unsure if it is only her imagination, a chill moves up her spine. "Hurry Galharth," she whispers, unsure as to why she is whispering.

Dropping to the ground, the Tailors step makes no sound atop the snow. The next howl is heard, and he freezes with caution. Drawing his grey cloak tightly over his shoulders. nervous eyes search for the source of the sound. "I should hurry," Galharth mutters as he drops to his knee beside the shiny object on the ground.

"A broach," he calls forth in a soft tone, that mingles with the breeze. Moving towards the ladder, he pauses and glances around before lifting a foot to the first rung.

A creak, as Norweg fits an arrow to the string and draws back. The aim roves about, searching for a home. "Get up here," he calls crisply in the elven-tongue.

THWIK! A dagger zips through the air, deftly thrown by the hidden black guard. It flies towards the foot that rises towards the ladder. Another dagger swiftly appears in the cloaked orc's hand as he rises. He seems to be bolstered by the sounds of wolves in the distance as he quicksteps underneath the archers and right at the tailor. His smirk is cocky and his voice is rough, "Those heal?" he asks, motioning towards galharth's 'dangly parts'.

Nerggish throws a dagger...
Nerggish's dagger flies wide, doing no harm.

In the west, abominable shapes come crashing into view in the distance, mail and drawn steel flashing in the sun. Dark muzzles, yellow eyes, black mail, red eyes, snarling voices ... but O, no, that is not all, for those sharp of hearing might hear a hymn more distressing than the barbaric sight.

"I don't know but I've been told--
Face the sun and dare the cold!
I don't know but Rashka says--
Ride out by day and take some heads!
I don't know but once I heard--"

Perhaps luckily, the last line is drowned out by the raucous squeaking of a series of black shapes which flutter past the mass of wargs and riders, blot them out for a moment, and wheel around them for another pass.

"Yes, hurry!" Lostiriel repeats, looking down on Galharth with worry-filled eyes. She once more scans the perimeter, and is startled when she hears the sound of something swiftly flying through the air, and she watches in horror as a dagger speeds toward Galharth. A sick feeling washes over her and she looks to Norweg in desperation. As the sound of voices and other evil creatures fill her ears, she turns deathly pale, eyes fastened on Galharth as she waits for him to climb the ladder.

"Crush the sun and kill the moon! Gothshaka is coming soon!"

The sound, not unlike an insect diving towards prey in the summer, mingles with the Couriers shout from above and the sounding of deadly beasts on their song-filled march. Hands upon the ladder let loose as the Tailor turns to escape the bite of the airborn weapon. His mouth opens, almost as if to reply, yet he speaks not. Panic fills his eyes, not so much for the creatures that now seem to rise up from the bowels of the earth, but for the ladder that now hangs damaged from the thrown blade.

"Another Ladder!" he hisses with worry. Reaching over his waist, the crafter draws forth his longsword. "Hurry!"

Nerggish quietly pulls his leather shield to bear and eyes the elf with a glower of hate. He softly states, "No ladders will save you. Perhaps this time, but soon my master will be upon you!" The nimble orc dances forward and stabs hard at Galharth's guts in a fluid, well practiced motion.

Nerggish attacks Galharth with his Dagger!...
...and he misses!

From atop Raugha, Gothshaka comes bursting into view, riding hell-for-leather, warg-mail jangling, fur swishing, tail slashing the air, rider's eyes and Warg's eyes blazing red and red alike, twinned in a volcanic madness that animates their snarling faces and their black bodies. Fur, armor, robes, capes, claws, axe, helmet, muzzle--all surge forward into the clearing, spangled with bat-shadows that go whirling around them, and with wargs and riders hot on their heels.

"By Nahar's tail," curses Norweg softly under his breath. "Lostiriel! Find the spare hidden in the chest. Throw it down to the Tailor."

The song that fills his heart with fear echoes loud in his ears, but he cannot worry yet about the new force. With a practiced, fluid motion born hundreds of years past, the warden shoots at the only visible enemy yet -- Nerggish.

Too late! The chance for a ladder has passed as an Uruk comes forward. "It was clear! Did we not keep the watch!" Galharth calls out in Sindarin as he steps away from the ladder and the attacking knife. Turning as he moves, the Tailor sweeps his blade outwards towards the beasts knife arm. As he strikes out with his longsword, he calls up with the sweet sounds of sindarin, into the trees, "Hurry up! Help or send down the spare ladder!

Sounds alone announce the presence of something more, and yet the Crafter can not turn his attention from the creature he now dances with. "Norweg! Call the archers!" he calls out in his elvish tongue, in a tone of desperation.

Galharth attacks Nerggish with his Longsword...
Nerggish dodges your attack.

Spurred into motion by Norweg's words, Lostiriel instantly turns and begins searching the chest, quickly finding the spare ladder. "Galharth, here!" she calls, throwing it down to him. Wide grey-blue eyes stare down at Galharth, then look beyond him at what evil prowls on the ground below. Her lips part in shock and a slight groan escapes her, and she cries, "Galharth, quick!"

An arrow thumps into the ground right next to Nerggish's feet. He feels the air swish as the dart plummets right by his face. Too busy with the tailor to pay much attention, he sdesteps the incoming sword. The orc listens to the calls of the warg riders and an eyebrow quirks. Not for long though as he attempts to move underneath the elves above and keep their platform between them and him.

"What have you fools been watching? You KNEW!" The orc comes forward in a darting manner, knifing out at the elf's arm and ducking back behind his shield.

Nerggish attacks Galharth with his Dagger!...
...and he misses!

Now the Wargs burst into the clearing and the Gothshaka churns forward, the jaws of his beast snapping and opening, the bats howling and whipping around his head. Gothshaka's Warg gives a serpentine twist and aims its tremendous body at the elf and the orc who seem engaged in mortal combat upon the ground. The Warg's eyes blaze with a maniacal light, and it howls words of violence in its native tongue, as its rider raises his axe and brandishes it at the trees, shouting:

"Minions! Catamites!"
Durbum has connected.

Watching as the ladder falls, Galharth bites his lower lip as he leaps back from the knife sweeping towards his arm. Breathing heavy with fear, he spares only an instant to take note of the position of the ladder. "We draw you out!" he snaps harshly, in a voice that might be insult as much as it could be a hesitant lie.

Taking a step forward, he draws back his sword arm. "Let the arrows rain down upon you all," he growls harshly as he stabs forth at Nerggish's shoulder. "Distract him so I can get to the ladder," the Tailor calls out in Sindarin, before his strike nears it's target.

Galharth attacks Nerggish with his Longsword...
Nerggish dodges Galharth's attack.

Glancing wildly about, Norweg sticks two fingers in his mouth and blows a shrill bird-call thrice. Deep in its heart the forest wakes, and rustles approach the border-line.

"What are they saying?" the warden roars at Lostiriel, bewildered, as a sentinel swings into the talan next to him.

Two grey-fletched arrows hiss from the leaves: two fingers to stop all the tide.

But Nerggish is already dodging. Not the elf, but the warg and his rider. As Gothshaka sweeps in with bats and minions in tow, the black clad orc ducks to the side. Luckily for him it was the correct side to also avoid the sword thrust. He calls out to the orc leader in his own tongue uncertainly, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

From the thick underbrush several other arrows take fly, aimed now for the elve in turn. Not all the Mordain have fled yet. Nerggish himself turns back to Galharth and leaps forward to keep him away from the rope. This time he yells in westron, ''Kill him! Let them have a reason to weep!'' His right hand darts out in an underhanded strike at the leg

Nerggish attacks Galharth with his Dagger!...
...and he misses!

Up rises the deadly weapon of the Orcish rider, this blood-spattered axe; Gothshaka's mouth opens, smeared with red blood so extensively that it resembles the maw of some sort of cannibalistic clown; and the eyes narrow, seeing the rope from the trees and widening with something like glee. Gothshaka plunges into the thick of things, yards from Galharth and Nerggish, and aims an axe-swipe not at either fighter, but at the ladder.

"No interference in a single combat! Didn't you ever learn the rules of etiquette?"

Gothshaka says in Mordain Uruk, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

"I don't know what they are saying!" she cries, watching frantically as the events unfold below. Lostiriel helplessly looks at the ladder, realizing that it shall soon be destroyed and, not knowing what to do, she nearly wails in frustration. "What should I do? What do you want me to do, Norweg?"

Leaping to the side, like the rabbit mentioned in the moment before decending the ladder, the crafter dodges the knife aimed at his leg. "What is it with you beasts and lower parts!" Galharth complains once his leg is past threat. As he calls this out, the firstborn grips his blade and sweeps it in a circle, bringing it downwards aimed at the Uruk's shoulder.

"None shall weep among the fair, for this day I will measure you for a burial cloth." the Tailor says harshly as his blade drops downwards.

Galharth attacks Nerggish with his Longsword...
Nerggish dodges your attack.

The orc shrugs apologetically and snickers, "We're short ya know!" Dodging again to the side on sure feet, Nerggish looks slightly surprised to hear a strange accent speaking his tongue. He replies in the common tongue, "Or the worst!" With a snicker the uruk dives right back in at the tailor with a look of supreme confidence, "I'll use yer blood to decorate it!" The knife flashes in the sunlight. A downward stab at the elf's thigh.

Nerggish attacks Galharth with his Dagger!...
...and he misses!

A few arrows arc into the treetops, clipping the warden's mail; Norweg throws himself flat. In reply, more arrows slice the air, headed blindly toward the undergrowth.

"Stay here," he growls to the elleth, "and stay down." Tossing aside the longbow in favor of a sheathed longsword, the warden runs to the edge of the talan. No ladder? Norweg throws himself from the branches, curled tightly, diving toward the snow.

The arrows continue to fly from the brush, skimming through the trees and among the elves on the talan. From their rate and consistency one could assume that only a few Mordain archers remain on the field.

Laughter, shrill laughter! Gothshaka seems to have severed most of the ladder somehow, perhaps with a savage jerk, perhaps with his axe, and now trails it behind him at top speed like a long whip, bats fluttering through its rungs.

"Beautiful craftsmanship!" he cries. "I am stunned and amazed! I want a ladder like this for my own! Why are my own spinners and weavers so crude, so unremarkable, so incompetent? Oh, give me a ladder like this for my birthday and I will give you a one-year truce, Elves of the Wood! What say you?" Again, shrill, maniacal laughter. But Raugha the Warg seems not to be in on the joke this time. He wheels around, trailing the rope ladder in Gothshaka's hands, and slavers, snarls, glowers at the two fighters. The beast is in a bad mood, oh no! Did somebody forget to feed thee, sweet Raugha? Are thy burn-scars all flaring up? Is thy muzzle, burned clean of fur in a patchwork mange, getting sunburn? Or is the trouble deeper? Well, no matter--all that is clear is that Raugha the Warg seems to be readying itself for a rampage.

Dropping down so that she lies flat, Lostiriel shivers as the arrows arc overhead. She lets out a sharp cry as an arrow flies much too near, but she pushes forward so that she can peer slightly over the edge to watch the activity below. She winces and Norweg flings himself into the midst of the activity, holding her breath as she waits for him to land. Suddenly, though, as she sees the ladder has been severed and is carried by Gothshaka, a cold rage begins to take over her, and a heat sparks into life, blazing in her chest.

The downwards strike goes amiss, the crafter moves in time to save his thigh. No matter! He now nears the second ladder! Turning, he catches sight of a diving elf, and that alone gives him pause. "Norweg?" he studders with confusion clearly evident upon his face. Following the moving elf, the ladder is now found. "Nooooo," he cries out.

"Take the Ladder! Take it and go! And when next you return we'll have something larger!" Galharth calls out over his shoulder as he turns back towards his opponent. "And you? What would you have? A tour? My robe?" Clearly he grows frustrated with the loss of an escape route. "Perhaps I can braid your hair?" He growls out as he swings his longsword upwards and towards the beasts hip.

Galharth attacks Nerggish with his Longsword...
Nerggish dodges Galharth's attack.

Amid falling leaves, amid flying arrows and fluttering bats, Norweg falls through the air, his cloak a billowing tail. But fast feet find the ground, and the warden's longsword is in his hand with a cold ring.

"<Sindarin> Let's run, Galharth," he yells, rushing along the trees, waving the bright sword. "<Sindarin> They won't dare follow us into the deep woods."

Two of them! Gothshaka's eyes narrow to blazing slits of crimson madness. "Didn't I say nobody was to interfere with this honorable single combat?" he bellows in a deep voice. "Shame, shame, what shame! Minion and catamite, away with thee! Let these twain fight!" And he swings his arm down, flinging his axe at the new arrival, Norweg.

Dodging yet again, Nerggish keeps up with his opponent....sort of. He stops for the slightest of instants to recover his thrown dagger, sliding a bit on the cold snowy ground. Being swifter of foot than most of his kin, Nerggish soon finds himself a few steps away from the real action, yet slowly losing ground on the quicker elf. His arm cocks back....

"As you say! Let us run!" Galharth calls out in sindarin, as he steps back and turns. "I'll head west towards my brother-in-laws guard Talan, and head into the wood from there." His words remain in his elvish tongue, and it sounds almost as a song.

In a whirl of grey cloak and silver hair, the first born Tailor turns and darts westwards towards the thickening trees and the mountains beyond. In an instant he off and running towards what he hopes to be safety.

Releasing a sigh of relief as Norweg lands on his feet, Lostiriel calls out, "Yes, go!" Muttering something about buttons, she watches as Galharth flees, breathing again as he heads to safety. And still, she sits above the scene, watching. Her eyes fasten upon Norweg, waiting for him to also make his escape.

The deft Nerggish throws one dagger at the elfs back as he pursues. The picked up weapon quickly replaces the other in his hand. The orc doesn't stop his run, heading deeper into the silent and deadly forest in hot pursuit. His shorter legs pump hard, but the tailor still puts somedistance between them as they disapear from the scene.

Nerggish throws a dagger...
Nerggish's dagger flies wide, doing no harm.

And the thrown axe very nearly slices Norweg in half, for he is too absorbed in finding a way to distract and rescue his companion. A flash catches his eye.

Moments later the warden is on the ground, and the weapon is stuck in a mallorn, oozing blood and sap -- for it has not missed, and the Elf scrambles to his feet with a large cut in the side of his armor.

From atop Raugha, Gothshaka bursts into shrill laughter, drawing his war-axe in a single swift motion. But something stays his hand ...

Perhaps it is Raugha's restlessness. The Warg surges uneasily under its master, earning a snarl and a few growled remonstrances from Gothshaka. He narrows his eyes, then sneers. "Run away, little elf. I don't want to kill you for a fool's mistake, only prevent your immoral and ungainly meddling in a duel of honor! See, am I not a friend to you?" He widens his eyes and roars, "Am I not neighborly?"

From above, Lostiriel watches the scene in dismay, then cries, "Run!" Her eyes turn to the direction in which Galharth fled, and then return to the injured Elf below. "Norweg, run!" she yells again, hoping to spur him into movement.

Slumping next to the bleeding trunk, Norweg eyes this fearsome beast and his rider with blank, dumb bewilderment.

This Elf speaks no Westron. But danger transcends all language, and this warden is no fool of honor. Without another move, he leaves this fight at break-neck speed, feet pounding the snow into bloody footprints.

"Minions," Rashka Gothshaka bellows carelessly, waving his axe at the thrown dagger, "fetch that trinket for me. The elves have been robbed and they're fleeing into the woods. No need to pursue them, let's just be on our way. We shall return to deal with the Mordain when the time arrives! Oh, and somebody take this ladder -- it is my personal prize."

Raugha bearing Gothshaka picks up a Dagger.