================== Eldarin Calendar <in Sindarin> ===================
IC time is: Early Afternoon < About 2:24 PM >
IC day is: Oranor <Sun-day>
IC date is: 6 Rhiw <Winter>
Moon phase: Waning Gibbous <VISIBLE>
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: Loa 16 o Yen 22, Nelandran o Endor <TA 3040>
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RL time: Thu May 03 13:48:18 2007
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Foothills of the Misties
Amid the vast range of the southern foothills of the Misty Mountains, near where the great north/south range begins to tower upward. The rolling hills are heavily wooded, with multitude varieties of trees. About you, the trees are bare, and the undergrowth brown and dead. Only a light layer of snow sits on the ground, however, as this part of the foothills is far enough up to feel the cold, but far enough south to be somewhat warmer than most of the northern countries.

Blizzard rages the mountains, producing a white wall in front of you. It is unsafe to travel on the narrow trails in the mountains today, during this dreadful weather. The early afternoon the trees are bare, and the undergrowth brown and dead. Only a light layer of snow sits on the ground, however, as this part of the foothills is far enough up to feel the cold, but far enough south to be somewhat warmer than most of the northern countries. air is frigid and bone-chilling.

Participants:
Galharth
Haldir
Grot
Maglind

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A cold wind whips over the lands, swirling the snow that lay upon the ground, giving the appearance of an icy mist dancing over the ground. To the west a wall of white exists as a distant blizzard rages, blocking a clear view of the mountains. The trees, standing as skeletons in a cemetery of wintry death, sway slightly in time with the winds. High above, the light of early afternoon shines down over the cold land, bringing with it no warmth.

Settled upon one of the rolling foothills, a hooded figure stoops over a long wooden frame. The frame appears to be as long as the figure is tall, and its width as long as an arm. Tied down in the center of the frame is a long slender pole that looks like a large spoon. Deep within the bowl of the "spoon" sits a jumble of slender white rope.

Seemingly satisfied with his efforts, the figure stands up and peers around him.

From the north, another figure can be seen. Gargantuan in stature, the behemoth is easily thrice the height of any man or elf. Clad in simple leather breecs, no shirt resting upon it's muscled, stone hide, the creature which approaches is most definately one of the Dark Lord's creations.

A wicked, gleaming battle axe rests easily within it's right hand, and distorted features peer ever onward, and about himself, ever attentive. Massive footfalls land loudly, shaking the very foundation of the earth with his every step. Darkness permeates this being, even beneath the light of day, though it be hidden behind clouds, and the snow descend mercilessly from the heavens above.

Grot, Overlord of Dol Guldur, marches upon Lorien.

A blanket of snow covers the land, though at places it is marred by the stains of dirt and wear. A cloak of white hides the vigils of one of the Galadhrim: a little over a bow-shot west and north from that peculiar "frame" and figure.

Haldir hurries towards Galharth, leather-clad feet effortlessly skimming the surface of the snow. Sea-grey gaze flicks over the landscape, swiftly discerning the wooden contraption.

"What madness is this?"

The Sindarin shout of the marchwarden is swallowed in the whistle of the trees.

Something moves upon the horizon, or so it seems to the Clothier. Reaching up, he rubs his eyes, before looking again. Narrowing his eyes and leaning forward, the ellon opens and closes his mouth several times. Fear flickers over Galharth's expression and he takes two steps back as if considering a swift retreat.

Suddenly a voice behind him causes the Crafter to jump, and squeek. "You scared me!" he hisses out as he turns and catches sight of Haldir.

Pointing towards the troll, he stares back at the Marchwarden. "Did you see that thing?! I think I'm going to need a bigger net!" He adds in a low and urgent voice.

Seemingly oblivious at present to the company of two standing beside a contraption both strange and peculiar, the heavy footfalls continue their rhythmic beating of the earth beneath. With each step, snow is dislodged from nearby tree branches, spilling to the earth to form small mounds, coating their roots in a blanket of white.

Yet even so, Grot continues his approach, eyes shifting this way and that, watching, searching almost. For what he searches, none can rightly say. Though his vigil is constant, and his malice complete.

Haldir slows his rapid pace only as he draws abreast of Galharth and net -- the wind whips wildly at cloak and snow, and soon even the faint traces of the passing of the Silvan are swept away.

"What madness is this, Galharth? What are you doing so far from Lothlorien? And what shall you do?"

Tempered ire and chill ring in the voice of the marchwarden. He looks northward, to the approaching Olog-Hai, and drops a hand to the pommel of blade.

"I hope your project is not dear to your heart."

As the ground moves beneath his feet, Galharth turns fully to watch the approaching beast. "It is as a mountain," he mutters softly into the wind, "And as I was told, it walks unaffected in the light." Tightening his jaw, though fear remains in his eyes, the clothier drops to his knees and adjusts the catapult carefully. "I mean to test the catapult and net Haldir. If it works then it is to our benefit." He glances out at the creature once more, narrowing his gaze slightly as if taking measurements. "If it fails, then there is no loss."

Looking over his shoulder, Galharth takes a deep breath. "This will draw his attention," he warns."

Heavy footfalls cease in their approach. Silence and stillness descends upon the countryside, and the Olog-Hai's eyes shift about craftily. A smirk rests upon his disfigured lips, and he seems to glance everywhere all at once. Finally, however, his voice raises.

"Anyone there?" he calls, a taunt upon the lips, words drifting powerfully over the afternoon air, sending more snow spiralling downwards from thin branches. Silence is all that greets his call; the silence of a wood devoid of beasts, for all manner of woodland creature had fled before his very approach.

Nonetheless, Grot grins wider, and his axe is hefted. Not another word is spared potential silent observers. Instead, the axe is brought swiftly about, and cleaves through a single tree, snapping it in twain like one might break a branch of deadwood. Effortlessly, the tree topples, and Grot's deep voice laughs in triumph, footfalls beginning anew, carrying him away from the destruction ere the fallen even strikes the earth towards which it descends.

"If it does not slow him or do aught," says Haldir grimly, gripping and fully drawing the blade at his side, "then you will need bid farewell to it. Seldom does a troll allow anything to attack it without retribution."

He begins walking forward and to the left, towards the troll and away from the catapult, retrieving shield from shoulder. He waits. A glance over his shoulder, and he calls:

"If it fails. Be quick."

It has drawn the attention of another.

At the lightest touch, a branch quivers and shakes snow from its depths. It bends, as if stirred by a wind, or by a step as light as air.

As another voice calls out, Galharth's hand falls upon the lever, and the center pole of the catapult snaps forward as the tension is released. The rope, settled within the bowl spreads as it launches airborn. Appearing as a spiders web as it stretches outwards, it begins its decent.

"Here," the clothier calls out in response, looking back for a quick glance to the source of the voice. Turning his head back, he continues to kneel upon the ground. "Please, please, please, hit... no rocks, no trees, please hit the beast," the crafter mutters in an almost prayer-like manner. As the troll strikes out, he squeeks in fear, and he scoots back upon his knees, ready to run should the net not find its target.

Haldir wields a longsword.
Haldir puts on Studded Leather Shield.

Up goes the net.

Down goes the tree.

Up goes snow in the wake of the crashing wood.

And down comes the net upon an unsuspecting Olog-Hai.

For, as Grot begins to stride away from the tree, laughing his contempt at all things good in the world, the net, spread out above, descends, casting a shadow over the ground nearby. So it is, at the last instant, the behemoth looks upwards, and recieves the net to the face as it drapes over him, wrapping him in it's foils, snagging him in it's terrible folds. Roaring out a challenge to his captors, the great beast does something utterly unexpected of one of his ilk.

He ceases moving, and begins to examine the net with something resembling intelligence in his gaze.

Haldir watches: vigilant gaze traces every motion of net, every step of Olog-Hai, and the success -- as it stands now. Bending down, he drops to a knee, rests an elbow upon the other, and observes. The marchwarden raises a hand, palm forward and fingers pointing upwards: a signal to halt.

From the wispy trees there is a creaking and groaning of wood. It sounds very much unlike the normal swaying of branches, but whatever caused it is still unseen.

Maglind wields a longbow.

Shock flickers over the clothiers expression, and he shifts around upon his knees, "It worked," he mutters softly. Snapping his gaze towards the Guard, he lifts a brow as he catches the hand signal. Frowning, he looks towards the beast. Confused by Haldir's signal, Galharth carefully slips his hand under his cloak and quietly withdraws his longsword.

Galharth wields a Longsword

Studiously, intelligently, the Olog-Hai examines the ropes which now bind him. Crouching slowly, as not to tangle the ropes further, Grot's hand, tucked near to him as the net descended, reaches downward. Touching upon the earth below, hand pressing through snow, ere he begins meticulously sliding his hand beneath the snow covered ground, upon which the net remains mostly.In this manner, carefully, slowly, Grot slips his hand in an attempt to gain the exterior with his left hand.

Though gaze still rests on the Olog-Hai and net, Haldir rises and backpedals, again quickly covering the distance between Galharth and himself. Question springs from lips, laced with curiosity and faint bemusement:

"Now that you have caught it, what do you intend to do with it? It would be a most uncooperative pet. Lorien has no where to store it."

Galharth clenches his teeth as he watches the beast. Clearly he's not happy with what he sees. "Annaiel didn't say they were intelligent, Rhibi said it was stupid," he hisses. Waving his sword towards the creature like a stick, he says, "It's going to free itself."

Lowering his blade, he turns towards Haldir. "I'm a Crafter, I make things, Haldir. I expected to help tangle the beast up while the Guard did their thing with it." He replies. Lifting up a hand and brushing the hood of his cloak back, he lets out a frustrated breath. "Shouldn't we at least /try/ to take advantage and try to kill it before it tosses off the net like it were a blanket."

"That might take a while," offers a whisper behind them, light as breath. "What do you think, Marchwarden?" Maglind has been watching this -- he now stands between elves and trees, grey cloak but a shadow on the snow.

Slowly, carefully, the beast continues his work. After some moments, the hand breaches, and turns upsidedown, grasping the folds of the net. Some more moments pass, more careful work, and more folds are grasped within the same hand, clutching them together in an attempt to raise the one side of the net as he works. However, thus far, he is only to the knee in his efforts.

The mirthless laugh of the marchwarden rings harsh against the cruel, cold cry of the wind.

"Three things to consider, Galharth: First, this troll is no ordinary troll. All others would be turned to stone right now. Second, we do not have enough to take on the troll. Even were it held capture for another five minutes, it would not be enough time. And third: Consider this a success. Other trolls will not have a similar response."

A gust of wind catches Haldir off-guard, rudely interrupting his speech:

"But, I will go and distract it. How long do you need to remove the ... equipment?"

Barely even waiting for an answer, Haldir sets off towards Grot.

"He's going to get free, and then we'll never know if the net is a help or a hinderance." Galharth hisses out in frustration. Growling he rises to his feet and starts after Haldir. "The equipment is expendable and not welcomed to return to the city." Pausing to look upon the catapult, the clothiers frown deepens, "I'm going to face the Lady, or Mia, without some results to lay claim to sucess or failure. Surely, faced with tempers such as theirs, there is nothing an Olog-Hai can do that is worse." Taking several steps forward at a quickened pace, the ellon lifts his sword to strike. With a grunt of  effort, he brings his longsword down as if to smack the beast's hand. "Stay!" he shouts.

Galharth attacks Grot with his Longsword...
Grot parries the attack with his Battle Axe!

"And what would happen after you remove it?" calls out Maglind, an arrow nocked on groaning strings: pins and needles.

Hand now at waist height, and rising, Galharth arrives just then with a sword stroke. Something passes his lips, unknown to the mighty behemoth, but with a faint shifting of his right hand, the axe falls between the blade and his body. Yet, this does not cease his drawing upwards of the net. Swiftly, it gains shoulder, and then head, as he slides the folds over him, soon grasping the axe shaft with his left hand.

With little care for the nuisance next to him now, Grot's right hand goes to work, methodically removing the net from his shoulder, then his weapon. It would appear that this creature means to fight, and fight with an axe that is not yet tangled. "<Sindarin> Ai ai! Fire when you have the shot, Maglind. Do not put him in danger."

Haldir quickens his pace as he charges after the Clothier, determination and consternation drawing thin lines of worry across a fair, Silvan face.

"<Sindarin> Fool! The troll is more than your match. You will face them upon a cot, if at all!"

The marchwarden draws close enough: blade swings forward in a hasty attack, aimed for the Overlord's knee.

"<Sindarin> Flee. I will hinder him."

Haldir attacks Grot with his Longsword and mildly wounds him!

As the net is removed, the sizes up the beast with wide eyes and an open mouth. As freedom is gained by one, confidence is lost by another, and though his sword is held up, the clothier screams.

Sliding his feet through the snow, Galharth moves westward towards the raging blizzard. "<Sindarin> We should have moved sooner!" he finally calls out as Haldir attacks.

"<Sindarin> Tauron's stirrups," mutters Maglind as he draws close, crouching upon the snow. He pulls back upon the string, Grot's hand within his aim, and releases the shaft. Hiss.

Maglind launches an arrow...
Maglind's bowshot hits Grot, mildly wounding him.

Two assaults come in again, but the Olog-Hai, too involved in his task, does not deem to recognize them. In turn, both strike true. For Haldir's sword bites at his knee, chipping some stoneflesh from his leg, and Maglind's arrow strikes off the back of his hand, skidding across, and skipping to the snow not far away.

Neither wound seem to cause the massive creature undue harm, and soon, his axe is free. Grinning to himself, he looks about, spotting Haldir nearby, and he chuckles viciously. "Ah. We meet again." he states calmly, kicking free of the last of the net. "Don't say I didn't warn you." he says calmly, and with little effort, the axe is sent in a sweeping descent, aimed to lop the Marchwarden in twain at the hip where he stands.

Grot attacks Haldir with his Battle Axe and mildly wounds him!

The marchwarden is made of sterner stuff than the trees, apparently: for though the axe has cleaved the latter in two, it does not do so for the former. This is not to say that it has no effect, whatsoever.

White-grey cloak is torn, and the cruel edge of the axe meets the icy steel of mithril underneath -- as the sheer force of the strike breaks upon the Silvan, Haldir stumbles.

"Be gone. I will not let you escape again."

Defiance rings in westron speech, even as longsword is swung again: less force, more cautious, and aimed for the leg, again.

Haldir attacks Grot with his Longsword and mildly wounds him!

With his sword held before him, the clothier stands immobile, mesmerized by the battle unfolding. Neither sword, nor arrow, appear to hinder the actions of the mighty Olog-Hai. "How little I know," mutters Galharth as a strike is taken against Haldir. The clothier visibly cringes as the axe falls upon the marchwarden.

Dropping his gaze to the longsword in his hand, he lowers the blade as an expression of embarrassment takes hold upon his face. Still, he does not move, clearly choosing to continue to watch.

"<Sindarin> How little I am," grates Maglind, running ever so close to the behemoth to aim another arrow. Yet he is cautious, and he stays on the side of the arm without an axe, and fires up at it.

Maglind launches an arrow...
Maglind's bowshot hits Grot, mildly wounding him.

Embattled he is indeed, for Grot is a terror to behold merely in prescence. Yet in battle, the creature is an absolute horror, bringing naught but dread to those of weaker constitution.

Before him, however, stands at least one with a stronger constitution than most. Haldir, Marchwarden and watcher over Lorien now stands toe to toe with the beast, locked in a battle both epic and dire. It is at this moment that Haldir's sword strikes his knee, causing Grot to stumble backwards a little. Another arrow sweeps in, catching the Olog-Hai upon the left side, afore skittering off to disappear in another bank of snow.

As the battle rages on, eyes catch sight of the clothier, and a wicked grin creases the creature's lips. "You have little fear for yourself..." comments the monstrosity to Haldir, though soon, a step is taken towards Galharth. "Let us see if you respect another's life more than your own."

With these words upon his lips, Grot's axe raises once again, descending with terrible force, aimed in a diagonal downstroke at Galharth's left shoulder, meaning to cleave him in twain from shoulder to opposite hip.

Grot attacks Galharth with his Battle Axe and Seriously wounds him!

Galharth's eyes grow wide with fear as the beast turns his attention from Haldir. Lifting his blade meekly and back-pedaling to put distance between himself and the Olog-Hai, the clothier slips in the snow.

Unable to retreat, and yet moving in the direction of the swing, the blow sends the crafter flying within a reddish spray that could only be blood. Upwards and then over a hill, out of sight he goes. Along the ellon's flight path, a tree shutters, almost as if it brought the injured observer to a halt.

Forgotten, Maglind merely stands there, stiff and cold as a statue in midwinter. He shakes himself, whipped in wind. And then he runs after.

"<Sindarin> Stars burn you, though the sun may not!" he cries, raising the longbow and sending an arrow before him, at the nearest target possible: the troll's rear.

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

A cry sounds from the lips of the marchwarden as the axe strikes the clothier: frustration, despair, and anger.

"Fiend! You fight those who cannot. Even the sun has pity on your lesser cousins."

Haldir sprints after the massive behemoth, feet kicking snow up and tossing it to the wind; swift stride quickly catches the
troll.

The marchwarden is fell: ire gleams in gaze and cloak and cowl have fallen useless in camouflage, revealing armor in full: helm laughs in the crisp sunlight, brighter than even the snow, and armor glimmers, a stream of silver.

"<Sindarin> Maglind: Find Galharth. Take him to safety."

Even as those words lift into the air, the longsword descends: aimed just above the heel of leg.


Haldir attacks Grot with his Longsword and lightly wounds him!

Sword strikes true, and this time it is noticed by the fell beast. Grunting in pain, Grot's leg rises a moment, easing the pain before planting firmly upon the ground once more. Eyes fall upon the Elf, and Grot chuckles. "I see I hit a sore spot." he says after a moment. "That's it. Fight me. Let the anger rise in you."

His foul words reverberating through the air, the Olog-Hai shifts about once again, facing Haldir. Snow sprays upwards as feet descend, creating a small cascade of the white pouder as it flees from him. Once again, his axe strikes forth, yet this time, it is the spike atop the axehead which leads, thrust for the very chest of the opponent who stands before him to fight.

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

Neither witty repartee nor question for Overlord spring in reply, for Haldir lapses into a stony, grim silence: gaze regains its determination, feet their agility. The marchwarden side-steps, narrowly avoiding the thrust of the spike; twists, bringing body parallel with the axe; and strikes, sending longsword towards the wrist of the troll.

Haldir attacks Grot with his Longsword, but Grot parries the attack with his Battle Axe!

"<Sindarin> Fool and folly," snaps Maglind, ere throwing caution and snow to the wind in his flight. Elven feet are swift, and they follow the trail of red.

Laying at the bottom of a tree, out of sight of the ongoing battle, Galharth watches the snow turn from white, to pink, and then melting into a red stain upon the ground. "Stupid," he mutters with a painful slur as he hears someone approach.

Chuckling to himself, watching the Elf as he grows in anger, and apparent clumsiness. For even as he assails the Olog-Hai, Grot shifts, and the steel brand whisks by. No blood is spilt upon this stroke, nor is his stoneskin clefted once more. However, the monstrosity seems to grin all the more as he reverses momentum upon his axe, hoisting back with all his strength, the bearded point of the axe blade aimed for the center of Haldir's back.

Grot attacks Haldir with his Battle Axe and mildly wounds him!

But Haldir ducks and again steps to the side, allowing the blade to connect but slightly with the armor that protects its bearer -- a slight nick, is all. "Be gone before the day turns ill. I will take your axe as recompense for the blood you spilt."

Springing from his duck in a flurry of snow, the marchwarden again strikes with his longsword, a flick of wrist and movement of arm direct the cold steel towards the back of the Olog-hai's knee.

Haldir attacks Grot with his Longsword and mildly wounds him!

"You were ordered to flee," says the warden simply, kneeling by the tree. Quick hands drop the longbow, unclasp his cloak. "Do not move," Maglind orders, bending his yellow head to the clothier's wounds. In vain, for he has no bandages. "Forget the net."

Laughing in contempt at the puny being, Grot rises to his full height, easily thrice that of his opponent. Looking down upon him, he calls out, "I gift you your life this day. Go, look after your man, if he can be saved." Grinning, he raises his axe to his lips, lapping up some of the blood from the brutal weapon. "Our blades will cross another day. Of that, you can be sure."

The Elf, not to be out-done in courtesy, quips: "And I gift you your peace. Beware the next time we meet."

And with that, the marchwarden turns and sprints, loosely following the blood-stains upon the ground and favouring his right leg.

"Did," the clothier replies, pausing as it seems the single word has taken a great toll. Turning his head slightly, glassy eyes peer up at Maglind. "No fish?" he mutters at the mention of the net. Takinig a deep breath, Galharth rolls his head back against the tree. "Mia's gonna be mad," he whispers as he seems to drift off.

"Maglind," calls Haldir as he reaches the top of the hill, careless of any who should hear, "how is he?" One last look is cast over a shoulder, to the troll, before the marchwarden continues rushing towards the two.

"Don't leave," replies Maglind anxiously, "or I shall be madder."

Gently, the warden wraps the cloak about Galharth and strains to lift him, calling, "He bleeds."

"Wait! I will staunch the wounds, long enough for him to be taken to the healers," intones Haldir as he finally draws closer to clothier and warden, slowing and limping the last few steps, a thin grimace overcoming face.

As the Warden makes to move him, Galharth gasps as broken ribs and a shoulder, protest the movement. From his back, and shoulder blood flows freely from the wound laid open by the axe. There is little question that the Clothier is a mess.

"Sorry," is all Maglind says, hands wet and bloody from the reddened snow, "sorry." He steps back and away, looking down the hill with lowered gaze -- though every now and often a wary glance twitches in their direction.

Dropping shield and sword to the side, Haldir kneels down aside the bloodied clothier. One hand drops to waist and a small pouch thereat, retrieving something (or another) from it; then, and only then, do deft hands begin a work, staunching blood-flow with herb rather than causing it with sword.

Fade to Black