8/26/2008
================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Nighttime < About 10:10 PM >
IC day is: Orgaladhad <Trees-day>
IC date is: 6 Firith <Fading>
Moon phase: First Quarter <HIDDEN>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 20 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3044>
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RL time: Tue Aug 26 20:23:35 2008
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Mountain Pass Ascent
The footing on this cold and windblown slope continues to be treacherous. The mists that give these mountains their name are
biting and nippy in the murky night.

The pass splits into three directions here, one climbing higher, one leading down the western slope, and one which cuts
straight through a divide in the peaks before you. The upper path leads up through the clouds, almost to the fringe of the
mountains snowy caps. Heading west will take you down into the mist enshrouded lower reaches of the pass, and southwest
leads around a jumble of rocks and along the foothills adjacent to the mountains.

Between the western and southwestern passes a steep mountain with sheer faces rises, split in the middle as if by a giant's
ax. The rising slopes of the mountain overlook this deep bay between high cliffs, and close it off from view. Only a narrow
trail penetrates the cliff face where the two halves of the mountain join, passing between two upraised crags through a
crack only thirty feet wide.

Lighting flashes brutally across the sky, followed by a rumbling thunder, shaking the very foundations of the Misty
Mountains. Perhaps it would be wise to look for shelter, for this will be a long and stormy night. The nighttime autumn air
is refreshing and brisk. The moon is above the horizon and in its first quarter phase.

Contents:
Galharth
Gollum
Mobeorn
Tirilalaith
Cecilia
Gothrotool
Mavwyn
Oisin
=====================================================================

Night....while beautiful with its setting of stars within the sky and the gentle curves and angles of the blueish black
shadows, is a danger that all good people know to be wary. Rocks take on forms most vile, and trees though dearly loved by
the firstborn take on strange shapes that inspire fear. Add to this a cool autumn breeze that shrills as it moves through
rocks and the beginnings of caves. For a party of Bards, who are known for creativity and imagination, the sights and sounds
are on this eve, unwelcome.

Moving with the leading humans and firstborn, the Tailor Galharth frowns as he pauses his step to look upwards to the coming
of a storm. "Thunder? Lovely....." he mutters sarcastically.

The elves do not travel alone: Along with them, their tents earthen-colored and low-slung, are a group of Beornings--about a
dozen men plus a few women. Some are wearing bandages--reminders of their passage over these very mountains not a few weeks
ago. But all seem hale and fit for the journey, and as the night comes on a watch is set on the camp.

Near to the Beorning tents stands a rather tall, broad man, different in looks than the rest of the humans here. He is
unarmed as well, unlike the other Beornings. And now Mobeorn moves toward the tailor Galharth as the elf looks to the sky.

"Aye. Storms in the mountains are something to behold. Just hope that we don't have a week of rain, as we did last time. It
made for poor traveling."

Tirilalaith emerges from the Galadhrim camp, her hands brushing over her clothing. The elleth's head lifts, eyes regarding
the sky. A fair brow lifts and then returns to its proper place before she permits her gaze to sweep her surroundings.
Spying Galharth, she makes her way towards him and his companions, quiet in her approach though making no true effort to
hide it.

Cecilia sits quietly, snacking on some berries that she packed before the group left the valley, humming softly. The young
woman is wearing armor, but her longbow is resting with the rest of her gear, off a bit from where she's sitting.

In the darkness there is perhaps one or two shapes moving, a deadly figure amongst them. Like scuttering cockroaches, the
uruk's of Moria stray from the light using the darkness to move in the shadow of the mountain.

A warm mist gives a strange sense of foreboding for not just the storm but a new uruk. Released from the bowels of Moria,
Gothrotool makes his prescence known quietly with a vicious sneer.

The thin and wandering path of the High Pass is the only patch of ground in these parts that offers any hospitable footing.
On each side are only steep stone faces and jagged spires of rock. Even a mountain goat would find the ground on each side
of the path daunting...but perhaps some creatures can bear it. Although the moon does not light the sky this night, there is
still just enough starlight to betray a strange silhouette navigating the rough terrain above the pass. A figure like a
small boy, but skeletal, virtually dances from stone to stone. The lone traveler's passage is a noisy one given its
difficulty.

Turning to look at Mobeorn, the Craftmaster shakes his head. "A storm can be a thing of beauty, but mingled with a steep
pass and dirt, it results in entirely too much mud and muck for my own piece of mind." Drawing back his cloak, he reaches
under his clothing to check his armor to be sure it is firmly in place. "Better to assure all is in place now rather than to
wait for rain soaked hands to do the deed." he mutters aloud as he firmly secures his armor. As he looks up, he catches
sight of Tirilalaith and smiles. "Well met, he says softly. I hope you like the rain, for it seems we're in for some this
night." Glancing around the camp, he looks to see that all have heard the hint of the coming storm.

Opening his mouth to speak, he catches movement in the shadows and frowns. "What animals are native in this area?" he asks
of Mobeorn as he points to the rocks and the shadows. "I'd swear something moves up there."

"Rain or just thunder and lightning to crack the very ground you stand on, make you dig a hole in the ground for cover if
you have to...." Yet even as Mobeorn answers the tailor Galharth, he turns sharply at the noise on the path above them. His
brown eyes peer into the darkness, trying to discern what is there, and slowly he shakes his head. 'I know not what is
there...but likely there is orc. And orc coming down from the other direction, I think, trying to trap us...'

Tirilalaith smiles gently at the tailor, shaking her head. "Rain does not worry me overly," she assures though that
certainty fades some as the discussion continues. Her eyes find where the males study, trying to perceive if there is
anything that she can make out on her own. "Should we alert the guard?" she inquires, not wishing ot stir up fear for
nothing.

Gothrotool slips his blade from the folds of his wisping cloak. Orcs begin to make way swarming like an unseen insect before
the signal is given. Heads, from the last battle many weeks ago, still rotting and caked with blood begin to rain down on
the semi-suspecting mix of humans and elves below.

Cecilia is only mildly paying attention to the talk, for the young woman is watching Galharth, still admiring of the
handsome elf and having a hard time concentrating on much else. When a storm is mentioned, the Beorning wrinkles her nose up
and leans over for her pack, making certain all her medicines and herbs are as secure as they can be against the rain.

Whatever it is that awkwardly navigates the treacherous ground above the pass, it pays no mind to the ongoing discussion.
The creature, now and again clearly outlined against the dim horizon, uses hands and feet with equal aplomb as it hops,
scrabbles, and crawls across the treacherous ground. Like a spider, the creature moves westward slowly, but steadily.
Occasionally a stone rolls down toward the path below as the creature missteps, then corrects himself. Once, a rasping voice
cries out as the creature nearly falls: "Bless us and splash us!"

Disappearing from the horizon, the creature clings to a spire of rock as fetid missiles travel through the air. "Don't hurts
us," it cries out in a voice that is at once monstrous and childish.

"Orc?" Galharth says quickly as he reaches for his weapon, drawing it nervously. "Lovely, perfect, wonderful timing for our
guards to be in and around the area running a patrol." Shaking his head and looking to the elleth Tirilalaith, his frown is
clearly etched upon his lips. "It would be better for the Guard to alert us, but I suspect if an Orc has breeched their
lines then they have their hands full enough."

Looking past the elleth to Cecilia, he offers a smile. "Perhaps you might wish to raise your bow....." he says, letting his
words slip into silence as he quickly turns to the strange voice in the mountain. "It speaks as.... what is that." Pausing a
moment, he calls out. "Show yourself!"

"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" a voice rings out. The owner comes running down a hill, long youthful legs trailing beneath him.
His dark green Woodman's cloak flies behind him like a shadow in the sun. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" he cries again. Breasal
continues to run, heading for Mobeorn and then comes to a full stop, as the evidence of the enemy's presence has already
been made known. 'AAAHHHG!' he cries, face paling. What he had assumed were large rocks are from anything of the kind. The
face of his good friend Alrind lays on the ground just before him, battered and beaten. And bodiless. The boy begins to rock
back and forth, echoing the movement of his chest and lets out a loud battle cry, that seems to come from the ground beneath
him.

Cecilia hears Galharth's suggestion and nods, standing. She reaches to pick up her bow just as one of the rotting, bloated
heads splatters on the ground in front of her. She gives a small shriek in surprise and disgust, but holds onto the bow as
she quickly backs up.

Mobeorn is -still- peering up into the path above them when...severed orc heads begin to rain down on the group, a gruesome
bloody attack. "ORCS!" he roars, so that the Beorning men in the camp spring into action, drawing their weapons.

Mobeorn's words end in a growl, though, and in the dark of the night, there is a shimmering of the air as the flesh of the
man shifts and melds--and suddenly there is in the man's place a huge bear. But the attack is from above, and the bear, try
as he may, can't scramble up the rock face.

Galharth's pointed query goes unanswered, as whatever was clambering from precipice to precipice above is now motionless and
quiet below the horizon, lurking somewhere among the heights.

One of the heads is particularly aimed as the bear changes. The head of slain chieftain Squee, eye sockets leaking the
remains of the rotting orc brains is thrown towards the bear.

A sharp ring clears the mountain's heavy air as Gothrotool slams his blade between two rocks with a *CLANG*.

"SLAUGHTER THEM!" Comes a the mutanious command from the orc in black, who pulls from his back a lithe orc hunter's bow. An
arrow is called from the depths of the darkness and Gothrotool begins to ready his attack his most hated enemies.....elves.

Jumping as Cecilia shrieks, Galharth turns and catches sight of the head as yet another spats the ground to his right. "Get
to the camp interior Tirilalaith, alert the others and keep down..." Looking to Mobeorn, the Tailor's voice goes low, and
filled with concern. "The camp is mostly Bards, Crafters, and Healers, few of which are able to ......." His words fall
suddenly silent as he looks at the instant a man becomes a bear. Surprise? Whatever he might have said is lost to never
return, and only the sound of the hideous command to attack draws the Craftmaster from his startled state.

Bringing his weapon up the firstborn rolls his shoulders and steadies himself for attack, all the while looking into the
shadows with clearly a hope to see the return of the elven guards.

Startled by the cries and thuds of rotting heads, Maglind is roused from his post. Longbow already strung, he darts over to
the side of a standing stone, peeking over the side.

Crawling out of one of the tents, the bearded hungover face of Oisin glances at those gathered. "Can't a man get any sleep
with this bloody noise going on?" The woodsman sneers at the head of an orc sinking softly in the mud and growls as he
straightens up and looks around.

The boy, Breasal, finally comes to his somewhat lacking sense and reaches for his bow. Which, of course, he still doesn't
have. He curses himself, aloud, for the incident with elves before (still blaming Lady Arwen for "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>")
and looks to the Bear. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" In the meantime, the boy grabs a handful of dirt and rocks and starts
carelessly tossing the handful towards the offending mass before him. 'Someone, give me a bow!' he calls, figuring the elves
may at least be THAT considerate. The rocks don't make it more than a few yards in front of him, but the effort seems to be
somehow gratifying, and he smiles defiantly with pride.

SPLOOSH. The head of Squee comes squashing down, missing the brown bear only because it dodges at the very last second, the
bloody rotten thing glancing off the bear's shoulder. The bear pauses for an instant, eyes full of rage, narrowed, before it
bellows, a noise that thunders through the mountains. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" With that the bear takes off, rushing toward
what seem to be orc attackers in the night, trying to reach their leader.

Cecilia pulls an arrow from her cloth quiver, obviously nervous but not too afraid to fight. She nocks it to her bowstring
and looks around now, trying to suppress her revulsion at the severed heads. The young beorning woman searches for a clear
target, lifting the bow and picking out a target. She's never shot in combat before and it's exhilerating! Really! All her
brother's talk makes sense finally.
Cecilia launches an arrow...
Cecilia's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

Grasping the hilt of his axe, Oisin brings the feared daisy-cutter from behind his back and takes a very fetching stance
with it held defty in both hands. "Right then, who wants orc-nuggets?" he grins looking around and nothing in particular.

As a small flood of orcs scrambles down the hill(falling with style). The first group lands and death meets them as they pad
the way for their kin to land. Several orcs come face to face with the Morghash slayer Mobeorn, but do not sway from their
path as if something else scared them more.

At the top, Grothrotool watches the female, Cecilia, launch an arrow at him. No words merit the rage that comes from the
malicious how of Gothrotool before he releases the orc arrow with a *PANG*.

Gothrotool launches an arrow...
Gothrotool's bowshot hits Cecilia, lightly wounding her.

As arrows fly to and fro, another raspy squeal emerges from the darkness. A silhouetted fist pokes up in the starlight as
the coughing, rasping voice barks once more: "Leave us alone! We'll not fight you!"

Cecilia frowns as the arrow flies wide. The healer looks around, nervous as she lowers the bow to her side. Perhaps it will
be better if her kin do the fighting. That's when the arrow hits her, cutting across her arm and leaving a line of searing
pain and blood. She gives a cry of pain, or maybe startlement, then quickly backs up away from the direction that the orc
fired from.

"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" the bear roars, a word-like cadence to its growl, jerking its head to the top of the rock face
where the orc leader might be found. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" This time the bear jerks its head toward the beast squeaking
words at the group, silhouetted in the starlight. Then wiht a snarl of rage, the bear plunges into the orcs tumbling down
the rock face, tearing through goblin after goblin, crushing them. Still, there are plenty left for the Beornings to fight,
for the orcs keep coming. The bear disappears into the mass of the enemy, and it's not clear who will be teh victor in this
battle.

Looking over his shoulder as a demand for a bow sounds through the camp, the Tailor looks for one of his own to bring aid to
the unarmed youth. His gaze does not linger on the youth, for starlight flickering over the surface of an axe brings
attention back to defense. Ducking as arrows fly overhead. "Begone!" he calls out in reply as the strange voice in the
mountains claim what amounts to innocence. Galharths voice rings out only a moment before Cecilia calls out in pain. "Lies!"
he calls out on the tail of the womans cry, though what sound he makes is likely lost in the snarl of rage from the bear who
charges forth seeking to silence the stange voice high above.

As the woodsman lowers his head and begins to slowly tramp his way forward towards the cascade of Orcies, a flashback of
summer days and dandelion petals floating in the wind caress through his mind. "Ahh " he muses, "I must remember to plant
strawberrys this spring." With a shake of his head, he continues forward towards the melee.

Breasal watches Mobeorn's figure dissapear into the darkness, his dark fur mirroring the night, and acting as a healthy
camoflauge. He begins looking around for something else to throw and notices a figure, blocking out the stars. His fear,
combined with the facts that he has no weapon and the figure seems pretty small, makes the target seem perfect. The boy
drops what's in his hands and begins making his way through the trees and towards the rocks. "Ye'll no' leave alive!" he
cries to the small figure, whose cries are naught but screeches to his ears.

"Hold!" Comes a vivacious chide in common as the cloaked figure commands the onslaught of orcs to cease. One or two of the
uruks look on very confused as the uruk stops the attack.

"Who in the name of the fire and flame are you?" One of the orcs asks before he succumbs to an arrow through the throat. "Do
not contest the will of the Balrog's choosen Master Shaman." Gothrotool sneers and looks back at the dumb-struck uruks.

Below, the contingent of orcs continues to plague the mountains however slowly their numbers thin.

Ducking heads, although mud and gore already stain the Elf's boots and trousers, Maglind splashes towards the exchange of
arrows. Coming towards the angry man Breasal, he calls out, "Wait!" ere the youth is gone.

Looking around, the cloaked Elf searches vainly ere an orc gets too close -- and then he puts an arrow through it.

Cecilia continues to draw back from the battle, too absorbed in the blood on her arm now to fight back unless directly
threatened. Her kin and traveling companions are doing a splending job, so the girl tucks the bow under her arm and reaches
down in her pack that's still on the ground, digging for a bandage to bind the wound, pain still on her face.

Perched in the high rocky cliffs above the pass like a nesting bird, the creature moans a loud and inhuman moan in response
to the continued goading he receives from all sides. "Nassty orcsess, nassty elvsess, nassty treemenss...leave uss alone! A
bony fist is raised again before the starlight, shaking in the air helplessly at the antagonists below.

As the slaughtered orc falls to the ground the newly announced Master Shaman turns his hide on the orcs leaving them to
their death. "Come we return to the camp, we have much to discuss before the next attack." The orcs listen, half frightened
at the idea of a new Master Shaman, half fearing the wrath of this new orc.

Picking up speed, Oisin breaks into a run. Swinging the Daisy-cutter above his head and with a fearsome war-cry of "My Pines
! ", he breaches into the nearest orc tumbling from the rock face.
Thunder adds a darkening ambience to the battle at the foot of the Pass. Breasal jumps as another roaring CRASH echoes above
and around him, but he continues on. Each step gets slower and slower as he battles with the trecherous ground beneath, the
grade of the mountside almost to the point that he can reach the ground by reaching forward. However, closer and closer he
comes towards the rocks upon which sits the small figure he has pinpointed. "Ye kinna lose me, foul beast!" he cries, fist
in the air. He loses his footing and hits the ground, dirt and rock embedding itself in his teeth, skin, and hair. The boy
coughs and spits out the foul-tasting ground, wiping dirt from his face with an even dirtier hand, making a bad situation
worse. Yet, on he continues, his fare coming closer and closer in range.

Cecilia focuses on wrapping her arm, staunching the wound as she tightly winds the bandage around it. Once satisfied with
that, the young woman watches the battle, trying to see if any others are hurt and staying back out of harm's way.

Arrows come forth, downing shadows in the night, though unseen from the circle of defesnse within the camp. Either the elven
Guard in their stealth are ever watchful and protecting, or the trees themselves bring protection, though from the sounds in
night hint of firstborn arrows. "Stay down!" Galharth calls out protectively. Finding no just cause to rush forth as the
bear, the Crafter stays within the camp, holding as a last line of defense. "Leave, and the battle ends.... "

From his vantage, the Tailor only sees shadows moving in the night, and for the moment it seems they withdraw. A moment of
silence fills the air, and he calls out, "Are they leaving? Did we scare them off?"

"No," another elven voice calls back, searching in the stormy dark. "They ... left."

Coming below the faint starlight and stark lightning, Maglind looks pale as he glances to Galharth. "Are there any left? Any
injured?"

Although one of the travelers continued a dogged pursuit of the perched creature, the quarry sees an opportunity to escape
in the withdrawal of the orcs. Leaping like a cat in the direction of the ground abandoned by the foul patrol, the little
mysterious wretch scampers through crannies and across spires of stone to keep its distance from the pursuer. Snarling as it
flits into the darkness, the creature offers a last word: "Leaves us alone, precious! We didn't hurts it!"

No matter how he tries, the woodsman can't get a clear hit at the vanishing orcs. Rather annoyed that they scampered so soon
before he could get a good swipe at them he turns to head back tp the camp mumbling something about " In my day....."

Reaching up, the Craftmaster runs his fingers through his silver hair as the surrounding area grows quiet. Certainly
Galharth appears frazzled by the heads and the sounds of fighting and threat in the night. Movement continues high above but
it seems to be growing distant as if moving away. "I think for the moment it is done....." he replies outloud in the common
tongue, "Though a few haven't returned back to the camp from their charge into the night."

Turning he looks into the camp, and catching sight of Cecelia, he releases a frustrates sigh. "A few injuries have been
taken." he says moving to the woman's side.

"I will watch for them," Maglind replies in the like tongue, and fades into the craggy stone, bow held ready, eyes gleaming.

Cecilia is perfectly capable of tending to her own injury. It's a deep cut, but certainly nothing she can't handle. But then
Galharth is approaching her and the young woman gives him a brave smile, completely forgetting the wound. "Is someone hurt?
I can tend to them." She says, trying to pull her eyes from his face to look around and failing miserably.

Shaking his head, Oisin meanders towards his tend, shouldering his axe. Glancing at a couple of flirting elves he whispers
to himself with a grin. "All back to normal"

"I'll be hurtin' you, ye rat!" Breasal calls to the monkey-like creature scampering away. "Slow down, blast ye!" he mutters
loudly as a tree branch smacks him in the face. There is so little illumination outside, that the poor boy is having to feel
his way up the side of the pass. Trees grab his clothing with pincer-grip, and blood soon oozes out of slices in his left
cheek and forehead, gifts from the woods. He finally reaches close to the top of the pass, panting and wheezing. "Ye be
bloody fast, ye varmint!" he growls out to the night sky, as he has lost sight of his prey, who has smartly chosen to use
its surroundings and darkness for natural invisibility. "Speak! Speak, ye foul child o' darkness! I'll send ye back t' the
dark womb from whence ye came!" He hollers. His strong chin is jutted forward and he stands firmly still, cloaking billowing
about him, as he reaches the rock-ridden tip of the pass.

"Come out, I say!" he cries and begins up a cranny, then turns and starts back, attempting to draw the figure out from his
hiding place.

"Tend yourself, or should I call forth our healers to see to your needs." Galharth says as he nears the woman and kneels at
her side. "You did well for one among the second born." he says with a smile. "You make your people proud."

Falling silent as someone calls out from the riges above, the Tailor shakes his head. "The moment is done."

Although the little enigmatic monster had offered retorts before, he offers none now as he continues to leap and scrabble
atop the foreboding high ground above the pass. Only coughing breaths are offered while the creature's hands and feet alike
find precarious purchase among the jagged stones as its retreat continues in earnest.

As Oisin nears the two flirting, he realises that one is a Beorning, "Beh, get a tent you two ! " he growls.

'I wrapped it, but I can look at it.. if none are in more immediate need of help.' Cecilia gives a quick glance around, to
make sure. Oison draws her gaze and she flushes in embarrasment, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Then dismisses him entirely and
looks back to the elf. 'Your people fight so differently from mine.' She says, reaching to carefully unwrap the quick
bandage that she wound about her arm early.

Peering into the shadows at the odd words called out, Galharth shakes his head and turns his attention back to the wounded
woman as she sees to her wounds. "Do not take my own participation as example. I am but a crafter who might rush forth to
defend, but when the tally is given I have little skill in the way of war."

Oisin puts on a female Beorning voice as he passes the two love birds "Oh, you fight sooo differently. Gosh we're really
impressed down here in the excrement of civilisation, I can tell you. Please, whoosh me away to your 100 foot tree. " The
Woodsman lifts up his left armpit, "Get a wiff of a real man and stop yer yaking ! "

Cecilia groans softly as the Beornings tease her, shaking her head as she tries to ignore it. Her face is red, "Well, thank
you for the help.." She murmurs, focusing on tending to the cut on her arm as she resists rushing off to throttle the men.

Peering at Oisin as he speaks, Galharth is clearly riddled with confusion. "Do the humans not know they smell bad...." he
mutters as he turns to Cecilia, only to find her running off. Shaking his head, the Tailor rises to his full height and
heads back to the elven tents. As he moves away, he can be heard muttering words to match his confusion. "Long though life
might be, I can not say I'll ever understand the oddities....."

Bending over as he enters his tent, Oisin lets out a loud fart in reply. "Oddity that you, son of a ......"

Crashing and tumpling stones send echoes through the pass where the little creature last darted. From teh sound of it, the
beast miht have gotten away, and it might have fallen to its death. For now, none can be sure, but one day all will know the
name of the monster who roamed Middle-Earth in search of a precious posession...

"AHA! Cries Beasal, announcing his win. Even if it may not have happened and he had nothing to do with it. The tale of the
defeat of the evil creature- which he defeated himself- would win him a few mugs of mead, and maybe a lass or two when he
returned. The boy triumphantly raises his right fist and offers another battle cry to the night sky before dissapearing back
into the mist below returning to camp.