================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Mid Afternoon < About 4:58 PM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 33 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: New <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: Thu Sep 13 09:59:39 2007
=====================================================================
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
Shakolbag
Grong
Cloaked Figure (Galadriel in Disguise)
Arahisie
Gothshaka
Maalduf (Warg Beast)
Angelien
=====================================================================

The mid afternoon sun trickles through the Jailer's tent in few spaces, and yet it still manages to intrude upon the
darkness of the creature's haven. The scent is of rot, filth, and musky sweat, is strong and almost overpowering to a
slender figure curled up upon the floor. Wiggling slightly in his bonds, Galharth turns his face towards the light.

Something moves within.... a rat perhaps? Impropertly stacked items? Nothing is revealed in the darkness, save for the small
pinholes that allow for light. A soft hum comes from behind the gag, and the sound rises up almost in muted song. Defiance?
Or a search for hope?

Add to the foetid scent of the tent one off-gassing, vapor-breathing, hung-over orc. Shakolbag lays face down on a rough
scrap of carpet that is his travel-bed, left hand twitching lightly. He's muttering something...incomprehensible at first,
but gradually, more coherent. Grossly so.

"...fggdab,

"...nggggh, yhaaaahh...

"...'at's it, Mo'nakh. Juuuust like 'e likes it...."

Just to the left of him is a massive puddle of vomit. Undigested...well, more accurately _unchewed_ hunks of flesh stand
like islands in a lake of bile and rancid ale.

Outside the tent, the guard posted to duty cannot be seen. It's brightest day. Poison to orcs. Perhaps he has gone to seek
shelter. Perhaps he hasn't.

Shakolbag is in his armor, and in Galharth's fine clothing. His helmet has tipped off his head, and his scimitar lies beyond
his reach, on the far side of him from the prisoner.

Within the tent are sparse items. A small chest, a sack with unknown contents, some warg-riding ecoutrements (bridle,
pommel-style quarter-saddle), a dirty pillow, a wooden bowl and a two-tined iron fork.

Galharth pauses as movement is heard, and he winces in disgust as his captor vomits. His eyes narrow as the scent drifts
along the floor, and he wiggles again, shifting his body near the side of the tent. Holding his gaze upon the pinholes of
light, his humming begins again, louder from behind the gag, and his wiggles grow consistent against the tent side. Does he
scratch his back? Is there vermin in the filthy rags he's force to wear? In the dark it is hard to tell, and yet, a few
clanking sounds are heard as if metal is being set against metal.

"Mooooooh'nakh. C'mere, Moooooooooh'nakh. 'as my lickle piggy..."

Shakolbag's left hand (the one which is visible to the prisoner) is now mimicking more and more unsavory actions. His head,
which has been turned away, suddenly is craned up by his ropy neck, and he bursts once again as reverse-parastalsis does him
the favor of pumping his stomach. When his head crashes back to the earth, his head is turned to Galharth, and his eyes are
open - but each looks in a slightly different direction from the other.

"'ey. Why don't you sleep. Always wigglin'. I'll call you wiggler."

The orc brings a corner of Galharth's robe to his mouth, and wipes at the dripping mess ineffectively.

Suddenly, the firstborn's movement stops, and a soft thud is heard. Worry flashes in the Tailor's eyes as he falls silent
and for a moment as the Jailor speaks. Crystal blue eyes blink and he mumbles something into his gag. The result is much
like that of a cow munching upon it's chud. Defeat sweeps over his face and he takes a deep breath and sighs.

Closing his eyes, he opens one slightly to watch the Uruk. When stillness returns, he wiggles once more. As he moves against
the tent wall, Galharth's humming begins again, and so too does the strange scraping noise.

Morian iron. Forged in the deeps, by craftsmen who are expert in things which further suffering. Such are the shackles which
bind Galharth's hands and feet. But they are not without defect....probably.

Shakolbag is still looking at Galharth, still not quite seeing. He struggles a bit to move, perhaps to rise, but soon gives
up.

A soft *snap* sounds, and the Tailor grows still. Both eyes open he watches for movement. The humming softens slightly as
Galharth moves, curling tighter. Pain fills his eyes as he pulls his left leg tightly against his chest, and in doing so,
dragging his injured right leg with the left.

Pausing a moment to catch his breath, his hands slip down towards his ankles, and somethingn black slips between the links
of the chain. The firstborns humming grows a little louder, and the scrapping of metal against metal can be once more heard.

A shout rings out outside the tent, from the camp. It isn't clear what was said, or whether there is cause for alarm, but
the sudden noise does have the effect of bringing Shakolbag just slightly more-to. He manages to get to his hands and knees,
and sways upon them unsteadily. He now sees the puddle of vomit in which he more-or-less lay, and frowns. A staggering crawl
moves him further away from the puddle as well as Galharth, and he settles heavily into a side-lying position - with his
rear-end atop the end-portion of his discarded weapon.

Perhaps not noticed before, lying atop the dirty pillow near the back of the tent is a red armband. My, what a colorful
snippet of cloth.

At the shout, the firstborn grows quiet and still. Crystal blue eyes flicker towards the Jailor, and he watches the beasts
reactions and movements. As the Uruk settles on his side, Galharth quickly moves and a snap is heard. Freedom is gained!
Gently and as silent as his injury allows, the Tailor rolls over. In the darkness his hands feel for one of the Uruk knife
that had falled from his clothing the night before, and had thankfully falled against the tent wall. The corner of his mouth
rises as his hand grips the handle.

Looking to his hand and then then Uruk, anger flashes. A quick shake of his head, and it seems his decision is made. As
quickly and quietly as he can, he makes his way towards the exit with knife in hand.

The bright lights glare off any surface they can, causing the discomfort of the creatures of the deep, and also those of
Moria, for soon, the ground shuffles softly as a small contingent of Mordain Uruk's crest the field towards the Morian camp,
Grong in their lead, the Metal helm he wears protecting his eyes for the most part, displayed easily as he walks with more
ease in the sunlight. Turning his head, he mutters something in Mordain before turning back to face the camp as he reaches
the perimeter guards "You's move, or Is cut yers head off." Grong says simply, almost bored.

The snap alarms the slightly-more aware Shakolbag. His eyes are working just a bit better now, well enough to discern that a
figure moves near the bright gap at the tent-opening.

"I'se not sleeping!" he barks, shuffling haphazardly, rocking up onto his knees and then swaying precipitously as he gains
his feet. His world spinning a bit, he looks down at the ground and sees his scimitar. Reaching to pick it up, he stumbles
back to his knees. His eyes move to the laying figure of the prisoner. To the empty ground where the lying figure of the
prisoner is no longer...

"Hey! Waittaminute!"

At the edge of the Morian camp, more shouting. A guard has been raised, and commotion is occurring throughout the camp. A
small contingent is in place to meet the Mordain. A burly-looking Morghash guard is covered in a heavy robe, and gruffly
denies Grong access to the camp.

"Bugger off! You ain't got permission fer entry, southy."

"I seen dat elf first, and I dun care what Yer boss says, Ima gunna take him, ifn we's gotta kill alls of yous." Grong says
to the Morghash guard, as the grip on his Battleaxe tightens. "Dis cruncher...get it?" grong adds, as if introducing his axe
to the guard, the Uruk Behind Grong snickering.

The morian guard grips tightly his spear. "I'se follows you. And I sees cruncher, dere. But you ain't gettin' in th' camp,
wifout proper clearance from tha chief or tha gof'shaka. So...git!" He prods his spear-tip towards Grong.

A good deal more morian warriors are now coming out of their tents, brandishing their weapons, cramming on their helmets,
whistling for the handful of wargs who are milling about near the rear (north) end of the camp.

The opening in the tent grows, and then falls back into place. Warmed by the light of day, and encouraged by the freedom of
movement, Galharth is free! Half hopping, half limping, the Tailor ignores all else and heads south. Looking over his
shoulder, as the alarms rise up in the camp, the crafter catches sight of Morian and Mordain. Relief flickers over his
expression. As he continues to move, a hand reaches up and pulls aside the gag, as noise in the camp grows. But the sound
released from his lips is no call, nay, but a whistle of alert.

A loud whistle sounds through the wood!

'South' still means through the camp. A pair of riders (unmounted) see the elf's flight, and run at him, screaming bloody
murder. They may be half-blind, but the sight of an elf running through an orc-camp while dressed in a burlap sack would
make a mole fall over laughing. One dives for Galharth's feet. The other is still running, hoping to slash down across his
back with his scimitar.

Staggering through the tent-opening is Shakolbag, shoving his helmet on his head (discarding the boot he had shoved on it in
the height of his drunkeness), roaring with anger. On unsteady feet he begins to make chase.

At the back of the camp, Maalduf and another warg have heard the cries, and are already loping around the camp's perimeter,
cutting from 12 o'clock (north) to 3 o'clock as they arc southward.

Footsteps pad toward the Morian camp, drowned out by the loud sounds of pursuit. Two sets of footsteps--clawed paws, four of
them, moving in a one-two step, and two iron-shod boots performing the idle clack-clack-clack across the brush. Out of the
trees emerges the shadowy shape of Raugha the Warg, monster from the north, that fanged and cruel beast--and beside it,
strolling with his axe slung over his shoulder and a dreamy smile stretching wide his blood-smeared mouth, the Gothshaka.

"Live in the light of certain selves' cruel bindings," he says mysteriously to the Warg. "The -servants- have the power."

Raugha softly growls, distracted from Gothshaka's meditations by the commotion. He makes a low, deadly sound.

"--Dog men and their mean women--what? You say there's trouble, Raugha? Dear me, you smell Easterners? Oh, that's just bad
manners."

"I sez move.. ifn you's like yer head where its at.." Grong says, but his eyes watch the scene behind him, scrambling Uruk,
a walking Burlap sack, and a whole bunch of Yelling and screaming. "Lookin like you's having trouble." Grong says, the Uruk
behind him laughing, as they start to fan out, perhaps into a battle formation.

Gothshaka grips Raugha's chest-harness in one hand and lightly vaults onto the Warg's back, red and black robes fluttering
around his armored form. His red eyes glow with a malevolent, cunning glow. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" he says in a voice
that is not loud but somehow carries. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

While not the best laid plan, escape was close, "If you let me go, no one gets hurt." Galharth threatens both warg and Uruk
alike. Brandishing the knife before him as he would his precious longsword, he continues to hobble south. "I'm not stopping
so you'd better just get out of my way!"

Clearly the edhel is determined, and ignoring the shouts and confusion all round. His step faulters as a mighty voice rings
out. Turning a moment, he catches sight of Gothshaka, and recognition flickers in his eyes. With that one sight, the crafter
runs harder, pressing his injured leg to move faster.

Daylight-chaos is rippling through the gathered knot of orcs like a wave. The brightness is cause for much cursing, but the
thought of sudden bloodshed brings war-whoops and blood-curdling screams to the lips of many. Somewhere, still in a tent, a
morian thinks to start beating a drum. Loudly! BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

Maalduf is without rider, but still has an interest in skirting the action. He dashes alongside his litter-mate, Trukk, as
the two wargs cut still further south, moving towards cutting off Galharth's escape to the woods, which are about a thousand
or so yards from the camp's edge. The two warg's run in front of Gothshaka by a hundred yards or so, within earshot.

Shakolbag plows through the camp in a rageful stupor, knocking over others in his path, tripping over the guy-lines of a
tent, slashing at anything which seems to slow scamper away before him.

The morian guard confronting Grong can wait no longer. "Look! Stupid elf 's runnin' way, anyhow!" He gesticulates, non-spear
hand waving wildly. "You want day elf, you better go git 'im!"

Gothshaka slides his throwing-axe into a loop on his Warg's saddle with a squinting sneer, and pulls out his longer-handled
war axe, licking the blood-spattered blade with absent-minded relish. Then he roars, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

Coming to a halt before the wargs, fear flickers in the Tailor's eyes. A quick glance over his shoulder towards the chasing
Uruk and those that seem set in arguement. Pressing his lips tightly in determination, he turns back to the Wargs. Pushing
forth, clearly in pain from his leg, he swings the dagger at the closest Warg. "Get out of my way!" he shouts as his arm
flies forth to wound the beast.

Galharth attacks Maalduf with his Dagger...
Maalduf dodges Galharth's attack.

Spinning about as the elf makes a sweeping thrust with the dagger, Maalduf lets loose (at long last!) in an effort to snap
that dagger-wielding arm right between the ghastly vice of his gargantuan jaws.

"Nah... I find orc when I done wit yer boss...Dogs...Make a pile..." Grong says with grin as from behind him, four of his
ten uruk pounce at the guard, moving to pin the man down, throwing punches and kicks, perhaps the occasional stab towards
him. "YYYYYeeeeeSSSSSSSS" Comes the warbling roar of the Rakarg as he moves to rush past the Uruk sentry into the camp, the
armed and armored Uruk seeming an unstoppable force as he moves through startled morians. Spotting the drunken Shakolbag, he
grins. "wanna try again stoopid!" He roars as he runs rull force towards Shakolbag, either to knock him aside, or over.

Spinning about as the elf makes a sweeping thrust with the dagger, Maalduf lets loose (at long last!) in an effort to snap
that dagger-wielding arm right between the ghastly vice of his gargantuan jaws...but at the last second, he pulls away, and
cuts further south. Perhaps there, he and his brother will form a more serious defense against flight. (repose)

Gothshaka pulls out a long-handled axe with a blade like a half-moon.

From Up Above,
Though surely it goes unnoticed amidst the action, the trees to the South creak and sigh. A cloud passes over the sun.

Gothshaka smiles grimly from the trees as the small Mordain squad barge into his camp. "What do you think, Raugha?" he says
in a low voice. "Shall we stop them ourselves? Or shall we abandon the jailor to his own devices and hunt down the prisoner?
Do we seek respect, or our prey? Decisions, decisions!" His eyes are very bright, like bloody jewels; his nostrils flare
like tunnels into fire.

Shakolbag turns to face the familiar voice, weaving a bit. His scimitar blade sweeps through the air, describing huge
circles.

"Yoush!" cries he, "Come backsth fer more?? I thougth I gave bo'f you an' yer bitch enough, yesterda-"

His speech halts as the big mordain barrels into him. He crashes backwards, into a tent. Quite possibly the momentum of the
Rakarg has caused him to do the same. Canvas is flying, ropes snaking through the air. Crashing sounds from within.

The attack agains the warg misses, and for his efforts, Galharth is drooled on as the beast attempts to bite the arm that
attacks. Gasping now, as the pain in his leg burns, his arm reverses to stab backwards at the Warg. It is indeed foolish,
but it is either death or escape.

Breathing heavy now, he charges again towards the warg as it moves south. "I'll not be stopped," he growls. "Either you kill
me, or they'll do worse before killing me, either way I'm dead if I stay." Again he pushes forth and stabs at the Warg with
desperate determination.

Galharth attacks Maalduf with his Dagger...
Maalduf dodges Galharth's attack.

Maalduf and Trukk are working together now, seeming to enjoy this as they might have enjoyed an occasional game together as
pups. Maalduf dodges Galharth's next stab, and Trukk barrels at him from the elf's blind side, hoping to knock him off his
feet.

Gothshaka ponders the unfolding spectacle with a sigh. "Oh, it's very beautiful," he says to Raugha, earning a quizzical
grunt from the beast. Gothshaka takes out his helmet from a saddlebag and claps it down over his head, taking a deep breath
and raising his war axe. "Yes, Raugha. Go for the elf."

The words are barely out of Rashka's mouth when Raugha begins to course toward Galharth, snarling softly as it closes the
gap.

Grong a Feral roar, and the momentum does bring Grong into the tent, with Shakolbag, and with the two of them doing their
little deace, the guy wires, and poles soon give out, blanketing them both into darkness. "lucky I canna get you!" Grong
roars, as the splitting of Canvase can be heard as Grong works to cut his way out, splitting the material and pulling
himself free, though the action would give Shakolbag more than ample time to do so himself.

Indeed, Shakolbag does work himself free of the tent's grasp, cut by cut, step by step, curse by curse. A few seconds is all
it takes, and there stand the two rivals, chests heaving, eyes glaring, weapons gleaming in the sun. Only one of them has
puke all over his pretty blue cloak, though. Shakolbag wins the beauty contest.

"Well, then? You wan' a furth'...a furth'....a FURTHER lesson, step right up!" Shakolbag belches, gags, and then throws up
once (quickly) on his own feet.

"No talk...Just die!" Grong snarls as he makes one disgusting look to Shakolbag, before, perhaps out of feeling left out, he
breaks wind, the strong stench billowing about them as Grong rushes in, the axe in his hand working like a mirrior before
Grong brings it to bare on the Morian's midsection

Grong attacks Shakolbag with his Battle Axe and badly wounds him!

With his eyes focused on the nearest beast, Galharth misses the other barreling forth. Impact only adds to the bruises, and
he spins on his good leg, haphazardly holding onto his balance. Certainly something to be said of elven grace and balance!
Stubbonly he hobbles a few steps south, and eyes his situation. Two Warg.... NO WAIT! The Tailor's eyes grow wide as he
catches sight of another moves in.

Frantically searching for a tree, he hobbles south west through the place in which the Warg Trukk had been. Again, he
whistles out in desperation, hoping someone might come to his aid!

A whistle of alarm sounds out along the border.!

The axe bites deep! Shakolbag's hollow gut feels the tear of the axe blade, and his dulled senses cannot match the speed and
skill he showed the day before. He stumbles back, eyes widened in an instant, and manages to swipe at Grong's face
defensively.

Shakolbag attacks Grong with his Scimitar, but Grong parries the attack with his Battle Axe!

"Gahhhhh...." manages Shakolbag, tongue lolling, "GAAAAHHHHHH..."

"You there, O flighty one, O elfling! Tarry a while with me, and we shall all the pleasures prove ..."

Those are Gothshaka's words.

A hiss of steel on wind as he cocks his axe back over his shoulder and starts sighting along Galharth's back, looking for a
good place to start carving.

That is Gothshaka's deed.

"Yous stupid...Yous know I come back fer da elf, and yer head." Grong says, sidetepping suddenly, catching the scimitar off
the flat of his axe, before moving to push it away again, and move to hack at Shakolbag's non sword arm, as if taking this
piece by piece. "I's enjoy this."

Grong attacks Shakolbag with his Battle Axe, but Shakolbag parries the attack with his Scimitar!

From Up above,
The whistles have not gone unheeded. The boughs that spread out from the southern trees seem somehow heavier now, though
there is no visible change. All sounds of birds, bugs, or nature otherwise has stopped.

Shakolbag manages to raise his blade to clatter against the axe, sparing his arm. He stumbles forward into Grong, heaving
again, tossing out whatever else is left in his insides- probably down the Mordain's back. He brings his sword-arm forward,
and tries pulling the blade upwards along Grong's body, a slice from upper thigh across the body, ending near his shoulder.

"I...", he coughs, barf spraying through his teeth, "won't give...", as the blade finishes traveling its course, "...head."

Yikes! An arrow!
The bowshot hits Raugha, moderately wounding it.

Shakolbag attacks Grong with his Scimitar and badly wounds him!

From Up Above,
The trees above creek once more with the a sharp twang can be heard preceeding the whistle of and arrow raining down towards
Raugha.

Yikes! An arrow!
The bowshot hits Raugha, mildly wounding it.

Grong twists his body and howls, suprised that the uruk managed to get through, even in his state. Gasping as he hears the
whistle of an arrow. "Dey come from him." Looking at Shakolbag, Grong lashes out one last time, his eyes already eagerly
looking for an escape.

Grong attacks Shakolbag with his Battle Axe, but he misses by an arm's length.

Raugha lets out a yelp of pain as an arrow nips him in the flank, skimming off the thick hide and barely drawing blood. It
is enough, however, to make the monster angry. He hurls himself closer to Galharth, howling his rage.

Gothshaka's face--what is visible beneath his snarling helmet--has gone perfectly flat, emotionless. His eyes burn with
utter concentration. It is as if he is not there at all.

Under Gothshaka's practiced promptings, Raugha's trajectory curves outward; the Warg's rampaging becomes a smooth, rapid
bound; and the orc's axe extends, aimed with smiling calm for Galharth's knee. "You don't need legs to live a fulfilling
life!"

From up above,
A thread is all...a thin grey thread slips down from one of the trees. This seems like a strange time for the silkworms to
be spinning.

Shakolbag staggers back from his entanglement with Grong, and blinks in the bright sun. "Wha? Where'dee go?" His scimitar
swing around wildly, slashing, thrashing at the Mordain who isn't there. Finally, he trips on the heap of the downed tent,
and collapses onto his hindquarters. Once on the ground, he touches at his gut with his off-hand. It comes up greasy-black,
coated in blood. About one second later, Shakolbag slips from consciousness.

From up Above,
Do two arrows make an attack? The trees shudder at the thought and a few leaves slip loose from their holds above.

From Up Above,
Apon seeing the axe wielding orc swinging his axe for the captured elf, the archer withing the trees takes aim for the
creatures axe wielding arm and loose another flight of arrows.

Gothshaka attacks Galharth with his Axe!...
...and he hits! Ouch! Galharth is badly injured.

Yikes! An arrow!
The bowshot hits Gothshaka, mildly wounding him.

Yikes! An arrow!
Whew...the arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

The sound of song.....wicked Uruk song.... song that drums in the hearts and minds of the firstborn upon the borders who've
had to suffer the sound. It rings out behind him. Turning, there is no other but fear written upon Galharth's face. Catching
sight of an arrow fly, he steps back as the Warg Raugha is hit. "Yes!' He hiss through his teeth.

The joy, however, is lost as Gothshaka speaks, and his threat is one that can not be ignored. Holding the Uruk dagger as his
only defense, he shakes his head. "Nay, there is no need, let me loose, you don't need me. I'm only a Tailor... nothing."

As the axe swings forth, the crafter falls to blinding pain and a scream that sings of agony. Is the leg lost? Nay, cut to
the bone, with the bone showing fractured. Alas, it would have been less cruel perhaps had it been fully taken. For now it
only serves to hinder. No response comes from the firstborn who now lies in a growing pool of his own blood.

Snap. An arrow strikes Gothshaka in the shoulder, and sticks--in his robes. He looks at it with a frown of annoyance, then
bats it away with a careless swipe of his axe. The point is clean.

"You fools!" Gothshaka roars at the trees, slamming his gauntleted left hand against the side of his helmet to demonstrate
his invulnerability. "I am immune to your mosquito-bites! I am the King of the Misty Mountains! Show some respect, or this
elf loses an arm and a leg, and it is all your fault!"

From Up Above,
All of a sudden a thousand birds lift from the trees and gather, darting this way and that, fleet of wing and full of song.
These are not subject to any King, armored, axe-wielding or otherwise. It would be a rather awesome sight if their shadow
were not cast upon such a grim scene. Beneath their noise, the sound of bowstrings is inaudible.

Yikes! An arrow!
The bowshot hits Gothshaka, mildly wounding him.

Yikes! An arrow!
The bowshot hits Gothshaka, mildly wounding him.

Another arrow strikes Gothshaka, causing him to grunt as it bounces off his armor; and another clips his axe-hand where the
gauntlet meets the sleeve of his hauberk, resulting in a drip of black blood. He lets out a roar of rage.

"Idiots! You want him to die!" he cries. "You're all murderers, hateful murderers--all I ask for is respect, but no! You
give me arrows. I give you my reply!"

He raises his axe, kicks Raugha forward a half-pace, and chops at the bare fractured bone of Galharth's wounded leg, aiming
to sever it like so much meat.

Gothshaka attacks Galharth with his Axe!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Shakolbag has regained himself - barely - in the collapsed mess of the tent. He knows enough to know he is hurt, he knows
enough to dig blindly in the pouch at his side, searching for a bandage.

The Morian camp is largely not -in- the camp anymore. Rallying to chase after Rashka the Gothshakh, orcs charge largely on
feet, with a handful of them on warg-back. They scream and jeer at the trees, holding their hands up before their faces,
anguished by the light and their ineffectiveness. Here and there, an arrow-shot thunks home, and an orc staggers or falls.
But they are here, until they are called off...fight, fight, die trying.

From Up Above,
A cry of agony splits through the trees, bouncing off their trunks, making its origin impossible to decipher. It is not
Galharth that screams.

The sight of arrows, the bellows of the dark beasts pass almost unnoticed as the firstborn is caught in blinding pain. His
body jerks as the axe strikes his leg once more. The aim is not as it was on the first shot, as it strikes lower and deeply
into the calf of the leg. Strangely, the wound seeps as adds to the growing pull of blood. "I do not wish to ..... die." he
whimpers softly in sindarin just as he falls into darkness. Alas, his life is left to the Galadhrim to pass or keep.

With a squint and a sneer Gothshaka stares down at the fallen elf. "This leg won't cut," he calls out to the trees. "It
keeps wiggling. I think I'm in danger of turning it to mash if we're not careful. Be reasonable! Talk sense! Make a deal!
I'm a very reasonable neighbor!" He raises the axe again, coldly considering the elf's hands--will they come off
easier?--before resuming his contemplation of Galharth's knee. The axe rises, pauses ... waits ... "We must be precise."

From the trees a single figure drops to the ground. And Ancient elven warrior, sword in hand. His eyes blazing with fury he
levels his blade towards the axe wielding orc in what appears to be a challenge. The Runes apon the blade begining to glow.

The line of half-blind orcs senses something, though they can't see well enough to make the warrior out, longsword in hand.
A few dozen they are, on foot, with four warg-riders besides. Maalduf is still alongside Trukk, his brother-dog, and Trukk's
master has managed to locate him and haul himself bodily aboard.

Where the group of ten Mordain have gone, it is a mystery. It seems that 'dog' in the tongue of the south means coward...for
from the camp of the black banners, there is no sign.

Shakolbag, meanwhile, has managed to pull his ring-mail up over his belly, and has begun to bind the wide cut wrought by
Grong. There is no time for further healing, now...

Stumbling yet, the quickly-sobering Jailor rises from the tent's wreckage, and begins to stagger purposefully towards the
edge of the camp, towards the witches' wood.

Gothshaka seems intrigued. "For the leg?" he says aloud in Westron, axe still hovering over Galharth. "You will duel me,
with his leg the price of our wager?" His eyes glow bright and deadly; his hand, on Raugha's bridle, tightens ever so
slightly. "If you win, I set him free; if I win, I chop him in bits?"

Arahisie speaks in a low deadly voice, "You think yourself a great warrior, attacking a cloth weaver." in heavily accented
westron "Lets see how you fare against a train warrior."

From Up Above,
The woods towards which the jailer is wandering seem to darken and deepen the closer one gets. Start and end become
confused. Strange sounds and shadows flit within.

From Up Above,
Strange winds begin to whip here and there from behind the Southern trees toying at the cloaks and furs of those closest to
the trees. There is some sound from the south, but it sounds like neither nature nor man though it does grow closer.

"Maaaaaalduf!" shouts Shakolbag from the edge of the camp. "MAAAA-AAAA-AAAL-DUF!" He's quite bent-forward, more than usual.
His off-hand holds his gut, and his face shows clear signs of pain. The Jailor continues to stagger forth.

Near the front of the line, Maalduf's ears perk up, and he looks back over his shoulder at the familiar figure of Shakolbag.
With a snort and a grumble to Trukk, he wheels about and begins to trot back towards his rider.

The orc stares at the elven warrior through the eye-sockets of his dark helmet. A curious light enters them.

The Warg says something--soft, soft growl, hint of teeth.

The orc says, "Yes, Raugha. You are right."

He lifts his head. "Sorry, 'trained warrior,' but I have no time to spare for duels. Contact my lieutenant and we can set
something up, but in the mean time I have villages to burn, orc-holds to subdue, wargs to ride, breeding pits to
populate--in short, I'm just too busy."

With a gesture of great delicacy, Gothshaka slides the axe away from the injured knee, poises it over the ankle, and
attempts to sever Galharth's foot in one quick stroke.

Gothshaka attacks Galharth with his Axe!...
...and he hits! Ouch! Galharth is critically wounded, and will die soon without a healers attention.

As the orcs axe falls Arahisie rushes forward, to attempt to drive the orc back even if just for a moment. His shield held
at the ready before him.

From Up Above,
The sound rises and falls, but is always there. Soon, it can be told that there is a definite beat to it, like a marching
rhythm. It is a battle song! But whether it is a dozen or a hundred dozen cannot be told as the sound bounces off the trees
and gets caught up in the winds. It reaches a peak though and suddenly, a stag bursts forth from the treeline, the song
spurring him on. He swings his huge antlers this way and that, scattering orcs in his panic. Then, he is running straight
for Shakolbag. He is a giant of his species.

Galloping in full-lope, Maalduf careens close to Shakolbag. Slowing just a hair as he readies to pass, the Jailor poises,
anticipates, and then leaps for the warg's back. His free hand catches it around the neck, and his body swings up through
the air to land, grasping and snarling, askew on the creature's back.

"Skai! Wish I'd not a removed yer saddle, Maalduf! This will be a feat...my guts feel ready to pop out!"

The warg and rider are now headed back towards the action, full-speed ahead.

The stag breaks through the line, and barrels in on Maalduf. The warg can hardly believe it's eyes. It veers towards the
stag, trying to gain a side-ward attack and avoid being impaled on its antlers.

CRAAAAASH!

Fur flies through the air! The warg howls, the stag rears! Shakolbag is thrown forward, far forward, and hits the ground in
a rolling-tumble. Miraculously, his blade is still in his hand, but his helmet has fallen from him.

As the axe falls against the Tailor's foot a loud crack is heard. Bone crunches against bone. In the pool of blood it is
hard to tell what has happend. The only thing that is assured is that Galharth's leg is critically, if not forever, damaged
beyond use. His life hangs upon a thread, his fea burning less bright and it too is in danger. He moves not, and his breath
is shallow.

Gothshaka is ready for Arahisie's charge. Raugha wheels about beneath him, taking a long, loping leap away from the fallen
elf, while the mounted Orc raises his visor to reveal a blood-smeared grin full of twisted fangs. Wicked eyes blaze from
beneath the visor; Gothshaka sneers at the elven lord as Raugha opens up the distance between them. "I said I was too busy!
Help your comrade, you fool--don't you know how a severed foot bleeds? Gushers and fountains, my dear, gushers and
fountains!"

From the trees behind Arahisie a chorus of bowstrings can be heard. Raining arrows over the Elven lord and towards the
orcish forces. Arahisie slides to a halt as he nears to Galharth fallen form. Keeping his weapon and the ready preparing to
hold the orcs back as others rush in from behind to attempt retrieve the fallen elf.

From Up Above,
The arrows come swiftly, from too many trees to count, upon the battle line of the orcs. Spearmen too, separate themselves
from the trees, leading the melee. The cries of an ancient tongue fill the unhappy glade and continue the battle song,
punctuated by the stacatto of steel upon steel and arrow upon flesh.

The orcs raise their shields as the dreaded whir of falling arrows picks up. Here, there, there, here, injuries are taken.
The line slowly begins to step back, in unison, upon the command of their dark lieutennant, clothed in chain armor of
midnight hue. The archers, few that there are, return fire to the trees. The small orcish force shows signs that it may
break, and run...but still they hold, out of training, out of fear.

One pair of thoughtful orcish warriors up on the forward line run out to try and drag the wounded and still Galharth back to
their ranks.

Maalduf and Shakolbag reach the line, finally, and the wounded orc is among the first to lead the charge. Arahisie is the
first elven soldier Maaduf sighted, and it is toward him he runs.

Cloaked_Figure pages: Dang, I really thought your exit pose was totally valid. I can't stay longer than like 30 more minutes
and it would really be good if I could get a +heal on you before I leave.

Ultimate contempt twists Gothshaka's face. He turns away, riding Raugha at a slow, easy pace away from the Golden Wood. "Now
is not the time to fight," he growls. "I suppose some of my snaga may die, Raugha, old friend, cunning Warg ... but that is
the way of things. You and I are wise. We take the long view. We know when it is good to fight ... and good to retreat and
toughten up. Shall we sound the retreat? Or shall we watch Shakolbag fall?--He did lose our prisoner."

"You!" screams the Morian Jailor to Arahisie, "I have waited to fight a real warrior! Come now, and taste your doom!"

Shakolbag has now reached the line, finally, and the wounded orc is among the first to lead the charge. Arahisie is the
first elven soldier Maaduf sighted, and it is toward him he runs.

"You!" screams the Morian Jailor to Arahisie, "I have waited to fight a real warrior! Come now, and taste your doom!"

Maalduf is involved in an amazing standoff with the giant stag. Both have endured wounds to this point, and the battle looks
far from over. The stag's eyes burn wildly as it keeps the warg in front of it. One opponent makes a start, is
countered....then backs off. The two beasts trade attempts while searching for an opening, the stag to gore and trample the
warg, the warg to slip through it's defense and grapple its way onto the stag's back.

The Gothshakh's leader shouts a command, and the line of orcs charges to meet the onrushing footsoldiers of the wood. Still
more fall as they run, but at least soon the arrow fire must cease, else the elves risk striking their own kin.

Arahisie turns to face the jailor bracing from the charge the ancient warrior await his opening , "You will not take him
beast. Come now. Placing himself in between his wounded friend and the orc. Hoping to hold out long enough for the
reinforcement to reach him first.

No resistance is given as the Tailor is dragged, though his leg swings strangely as would a streamer trailed upon the earth.
Where he goes, Galharth knows not. His trust in the first born of his home has been given, and there is remains. Will he be
rescued? This now seems to be unanswered but the effort is given.

Half-blind is the charge, but full of hate. The drummer from the camp is running across the gap now, striking the big thing
strapped to his chest, BOOM, BOOM, BOOMBOOMBOOM!

From Up Above,
The arrows continue, but in no haphazard fashion. Each is obviously meant for a very specific target. The spearmen, however,
grow in their intensity, in response to the advancing orcs. They call out their targets and, leaping forward, engage!

Shakolbag runs to face Arahisie, the two lesser orcs having been frightened off by the fierce elf for the moment. They drop
Galharth roughly, and stand back. The Jailor, meanwhile, is left to deal with this. His mess. Damn the ale, and damn that
Mordain wench! Had they not tussled so deliciously, imbibed so thoroughly...none of this may have happened.

"They are all fully committed," Gothshaka observes. "Well, it can't hurt to let them have their chance. Either they'll win
or they'll lose. Dush," he says, speaking in a slightly louder voice to a set of dark eyes hidden in the brush behind him.
"Stay out of sight. If our forces flee ... oh, let them all die, there are only thirty of them. If they are winning, charge
in and help them rout the foe--steal their glory. Otherwise, keep under the shadow of the sparse trees and the underbrush --
and well out of sight."

"I'll have his head, elf...though it be the end of me!" Shakolbag retorts. He staggers a bit, but seems ready to take
Arahisie's attack, should it come. He reaches down for Galharth's hair, planning to use it to drag him backwards. An arrow
thunks into the ground at his feet, and the orc just laughs!

Yikes! An arrow!
The bowshot hits Shakolbag, moderately wounding him.

"Yes, Master," whisper the low voices of the Dush. A glimpse of red robes -- a flash of red eyes -- a growl from wargish
steeds -- and nothing more. Gothshaka settles atop Raugha, and King and Warg Chieftain watch the carnage unfold.

From Up Above,
Not all elven arrows strike the ground.

THUNK! Another fluted bolt from the trees, this time striking Shakolbag full in the shoulder. He staggers still more, and
seems to be reconsidering his position. Galharth is forgotten, for the second. Confusion. Consideration. Then....

"MAAAAALDUUUUUF!"

As the jailor reaches fr Galharth, Arahisie lunges forward swiping forth with his blade in and attempt to knock the orcs
reaching arm aside, "You shall not have him."

Hearing the cry of Shakolbag - /again/- the embattled warg pauses, eyes the stag, and then turns to head full-speed back
toward the line. An arrow finds it's side, but does not slow it down.

From Up Above,
The bloodied stag has no stake here. He takes the opportunity to bound away, out of sight.

And with Arahisie's words, comes forth the Galadhrim. At the head of the growing numbers is the Guard Tolur. He moves forth
with his longsword drawn. "Flank to the left! Circle round to traps them on the right!" he calls forth in Sindarin motioning
in both directions. Swords flash in the light and bows send forth arrows of warning. "Bring him death, Arahisie!" The guard
calls out in anger as he sprints forward to take position behind the senior ellon.

Shakolbag staggers back still more, his off-arm cut open, a dark crease widening on his exposed flesh. The Jailor narrowly
avoids being hit by another arrow. Orcs are falling to elves left and right, the awful light of day being too much for the
poor eyes of the creatures to handle. Shakolbag makes his decision - for the moment - and tries to backpedal as quickly as
his feet will carry him.

Among any of those still fighting, the feeling is the same. Orcs break from the line, and begin to run back towards the
camp, towards the north, away. Their running is haphazard. Only those on warg-back seem to have much of a chance at
outrunning the fleet elves.

Shakolbag tries to flee from Arahisie, but he fails!

Maalduf continues his approach, determined, deadly. His eyes are on Shakolbag, on Arahisie.

Arahisie continues his advance determinded to to keep the orcs back long enough for his fellow elves to retrieve his fallen
commerade. "I think not, you and yours will pay for this." as he lunges forth with his blade attempting to drive it though
the jailors chest.

Arahisie attacks Shakolbag with his Longsword and badly wounds him!

Trukk and his rider are gone. As Trukk passes Maadulf, heading the wrong direction, a look of wargish chagrin is passed
between them. A fool's errand. Maalduf is probably no fool, but he has certainly had some unbelievable training!

From Up Above,
Galharth is not the only elven casualty. Wounded spearmen fall back, some helped by their comrades. This only serves to
enrage and fuel the others however.

Hidden within the shadows of the trees, up high and well out of reach is a tall cloaked elf. When the calls comes, Angelien
knocks back the hood of the cloak to get it out of her eyesight, and then bounds effortlessly out of the tree, agile as a
monkey. As the maiden drops to the ground, it only takes her a moment to get into position where she can clearly fire again,
and so she does - repeatedly, and effortlessly, at anything that moves that doesn't /appear/ to be one of her brethren.

Pointing the tip of his sword towards the downed and bleeding Tailor, Tolur calls out. "Get him out of here!" With that, two
Sentinel's come forth, rushing towards the fallen Galharth. In that instant, it seems as if the firstborn outnumber the vile
Uruk and Wargs.

Arahisie's blade plunges into the side of Shakolbag, not skewering him fatally, but robbing the Jailor of yet more of his
already diminished vital force. A gasp is heard as the orc pulls himself backward off the blade. He again attempts to run,
turning full-about this time. Maalduf is near! So near! But will he make it? The same fortune which seemed to favor the orc
recently has certainly run dry. His odds seems poor, given recent events.

Shakolbag dodges aside Arahisie, and manages to escape!

A leap! A miraculous leap! The Demon may yet have some further use for Shakolbag. But my, my, how the mighty have fallen!
Hanging from Maalduf's neck, Shakolbag is being drug through the grasses at top speed. His scimitar, he has dropped. No more
time for fighting. Now is the time to LIVE...or die.

Arahisie knowing that he will be unable to catch the warg pulled orc turns to assist the spearmen, trusting the archers to
take down the fleeing orcs.

The Jailor struggles to gain a better grip. At least his precarious position is affording him a degree of protection - he is
hanging on the far-side of the beast's body. Grunt by grunt, cry by anguished cry, the orc dressed in elf-clothes pulls
himself up to Maalduf's back.

Breaking into a frantic run, the young Sentinel eats up the ground between her and the fleeing stinking masses. Once within
range, she comes to a abrupt halt and quickly knocks in an arrow and lets it flee, her aim ranging toward Shakolbag.

Angelien launches an arrow...
Angelien's bowshot hits Shakolbag, badly wounding him.

As the Uruk flees, the Tailor is gathered up in the care of gentle hands and he is taken towards the ladder. In what seems a
talented juggling act, Galharth is slowly passed up the ladder to hopefully the waiting arms of the healers who might save
his life. The moment now is at end, and while victorious this day has seen blood flow....

If no elf had yet noticed, beneath the drape of the stolen cloak Shakolbag possesses a HUGE rear-end. It's probably
something of a joke among his peers, and unfortunately, it's something of a sweet target for an elf. Angelien's shot finds
that big bubble, and pins it neatly to the warg's back. Rider and steed share a forlorn howl. At least...well, al LEAST
Shakolbag will have a harder time falling out of the proverbial saddle on the ride north.

Unless. Unless, of course, a Galadrian sniper can sight in one last parting shot...

A cloaked figure waits alone in the talan. Upon the arrival of the wounded, a muffled cry escapes from the hood and suddenly
the cloak is off. The light of Galadriel is sudden and bright and terrible, but then becomes muted so that the whole talan
is encased in a golden glow. She hurriedly drapes the cloak over Galharth, all the while chanting in an ancient and
forgotten tongue. Her hands trace his body, but do not touch it. With moist eyes, she scans his most heinous wounds. At
last, she leans forward, her golden tresses spilling over his chest. Her voice drops to a whisper, and then stops completely
as she lingers over him perfectly still. Her lips part and she exhales a single sweet breath upon his closed eyelids.

"Peace. Peace brother."

There is no visible celebration as Angelien's last arrow hits its proverbial target. Straightening, she knocks back in
another arrow, but this time just watches as they struggle away, well out of range at this point.

Sighing and shaking her head, the sentinel cannot help but take one last shot, even if it is a rather 'long shot'. Pulling
back with every ounce of her strange, Angelien holds until the last second, and then lets the arrow fly, attempting to
actually hit the last arrow she landed.

Angelien launches an arrow...
Angelien's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

A frown of disappointment darkens Angelien's pale features and with one last sigh, she makes an angry motion with her hands
in some mute language, frustratedly telling the beasts off as they scurry away. Bow still tight in her hand, though her
quiver is empty, the maiden makes quick work of the ground, hurrying toward the trees seeking her wounded brethren.

Arahisie begins to fall back with his fellows, he glances to Angelien as he sing her disapointed frown he says softly, "You
did well today mellon. That one may well not survive the beating he was given." he looks up into the trees, "We have to
trust the healers to there craft now."

With the Uruk sent fleeing, and the Tailor rescued, the Galadhrim fade into the shadow of the trees. All hint of their
existence goes with them, save for the speckles of deep red blood from those who were injured. Overhead dark clouds gather
and a cold wind blows down from the mountains. A cold winter snow begins to fall, erasing the red upon the ground with a
thickening icey cover.