Bend in the river
The pathway meanders along the eastern bank of the Sirion, following it as it curves southeasterly. To the east are flatlands, somewhat barren, though small patches of gorse and a few purplish blooms of heather brighten the greyish-brown landscape, beyond which tower the snow-capped peaks of the Crissaegrim. On the other banks, rolling plains of dark green grasses stretch far into the distance.

With the sun still hidden beneath the earth, grey light blankets the morning. The river Sirion runs swiftly beside the path that follows it on its east bank where the flatlands stretch in to the distance and far to the south the edge of Brethil's forests lie dark and silent. Appearing on the path, travelling northward, a grey figure moves swift and steady toward the place where the river curves to the west.

Half hidden by the deep shadows of the pre-dawn morning dim, rests the snuffler, Shaazgut. His scrawny, stooped figure squats amidst the tall reeds and brambly brush that grows at the edge of the great Sirion's muddy, dipping banks, perhaps fifty paces north of where the edain stealthily approaches. The orchish scout stoops low upon the ground, his head bowed down as he scoops handfuls of the river's cool water to his thirsty, gaping, fang-brimmed mouth. The great scimitar's heavy, curved blade rests unsheathed near his side, its blackened iron half buried in the moist mud. The orchish creature drinks swiftly, grimacing distastefully and narrowing his eyes in the dim, cold grey light that bathes the Sirion's banks.

Along the line of the river a noisy band comes, heavy shod feet trampling the earth flat beneath. Though no shouting or noise comes from there mouths, the vulgar noisome movements of orcs are all but unmasked. The group numbers perhaps a score, a few slaves and a pair to goad them, some folk of the Hand and robed figures move in the ranks too. They move east with the river yet keep some way from the foul water.

Near the head of the group a bulbous figure moves along, his stomach is layered with fat and then a tight coat of mail of por crafting. His breath hisses out over crooked yellow fangs, spittle rattling in his mouth. The beady eyes of the creature dart hither and thither and his crooked skull is capped with a blackened helm of iron. His voice hisses low, "Keep your noise down maggots." The words addressed to the slaves he marches, the bow grasped in his hand still hangs on his shoulder and his scimitar at his back.

Following some ways behind the main group, a small band of six or eight black-clad orcish figures move in the pre-dawn light. Their movments are not anywhere near as noisy as the other orcs, behind hardly audible, were they alone. Torghaal, the First Prophet, leads them. No weapons do they yet show, but each of the Prophets keep on hand near the concealed hilt of mace or blade.

With grey-green eyes glittering despite the pre-dawn dim, Eristen's gaze shifts like the windblown birch leaves as he surveys the banks along the river and follows along the same trail Finnabair does, but slightly to the left. His steps are swift and silent as he weaves his way along, slowing every now and then to check the way behind him.

Alerted by the audible ruckus caused by the approach of the orchish band, Shaazgut draws a pace back into the concealing reeds, away from the Sirion's flowing waters. His left hand darts quickly out to snatch the scimitar from where it rests upon the muddy ground, and he lifts the weapon quickly to his right before turning on his booted heel and gazing suspiciously towards the west along the river's curving bank. A low hiss escapes the squat creature, and his sloped brow furrows momentarily, before the orchish patrol at last comes into his view. Seeing and recognizing them as his own, Shaazgut slips through the rees and scampers up the sloping riverbank, rising to stand visibly in their path and awaiting their approach.

Though the orcish scout did not attract the attention of the second figure coming down the path towards the river, the approach of the noisy band certainly does. Hurrying forward to catch the attention of the first grey figure, the Haladin Corrin gestures, then slips silently off the path, heading for a dip in the ground that offers as much concealment as is possible in this area.

Near the brute beast of seems to be in command of the small band, moves a tall, for his race, figure. Studs of pulished metal gleam slightly, inspite of the gloom. In his grasp rest a mace, but it is as if he where not aware of it. Red eyes level with the surroundings, and any whom he would see within; but none seem to have catched his gaze, yet.

But so the figure of the snuffler arise, and the figure, amongst his kin know as Ruzgul, Lieutennant of the Black Hand, pick up his pace -- slightly faster than the other orcs, and halfly strides, half runs toward the snuffler afore him...

Finnabair's steps slow on the path as she turns an ear to the north, frowning into the grey shadows and finally calling her steps to a halt as the sound of the band sounds out clearly through the morning. Turning away to look to Corrin, she nods silently and then moves her gaze to where the other of their small party follows. "Yrch, no doubt.", she whispers, motioning for the man to follow as she leaves the path after the Haladin warden, moving without sound, away from the river to the rolling hills that lie to the east.

The steps of the grouo fall loud as ever until the voice of Skragat hisses in a loud whisper, "Get off the path and seek cover there is someone ahead." The Fat beast stoops low and slides away from the path, his pace belies his girth. His eyes mark the figure in the gloom and note his person, he turns his head to the fleeing orc folk, "He's one of ours, keep down though, I'll wave him here." A clawed hand rises aloft, the squatting orch offering naught more.

Eristen, too, is alerted to the din from the one orchish band--which carries as an odd, dulled clatter of sound in the still predawn air. The scout's eye widen and his head snaps to the direction of his warden, Corrin, whom he follows suit in finding better concealment than the scrub brush and gorse allow. Half-crouched in his movements, the Haladin approaches the others off of the main trail and nods as Finnabair speaks. "No doubt yrch" he says of his own tongue, then amends it in a very broken Beorian. With a glance to Corrin, the scout follows away from the river towards the rolling hills as well, his carefully placed and weighted steps in all attempt to keep him unnoticed.

As Skragat calls for cover, the Prophet band splits in two, each quickly fading into the shadows on either side of the road. They all watch with open eyes, taking in every detail of the scene around them. Torghaal leaves the others, moving slowing through the shadows to where Skragat hides, saying nothing, waiting for the newcoming orc to arrive.

Shaazgut stands unmoving upon the soft, grassy soil just beyond where the grounds bank downwards into the great river's rushing waters. There, with scimitar gripped firmly in his right hand, he awaits the approaching Ruzgul at first, though his sharp-eyed gaze strays past the orchish lieutenant and towards the others of the patrol, who head off the path to seek cover at their leader's command. Noting the large, bloated orch's signal, the snuffler lifts his blade to one shoulder and trudges hurriedly off to approach them. "Hola, Skragat." He calls out in a low, hissing tone as he nears the huge, fat orchish slaver, "What is this, then? Come for the exercise?"

As he settles down just beyond the rise of the rolling ground on the far side of the path from the river, Corrin keeps a low profile with one hand and knee on the ground as he waits for the other two to join him. When they are near enough to whisper to, he murmurs softly, "It seems approaching unnoticed will be difficult. Should we wait and try to continue when they are gone, or turn back?" Speaking in the common tongue, he glances at Eristen to see if his fellow Haladin has understood.

Swiftly so, with but a nod toward the snuffler, the Lieutennant of the Hand sinks to his one knee, Where the snuffler appeared. His gaze lie upon the path, even as he move backwards... And stops, a few paces from that which his gaze is locked on.

From time to time the red gaze drift towards the main group of the orcs, but soon return to glance through the surroundings oncce more.

Hand sinks to his one knee, Where the snuffler appeared. His gaze lie upon the path, even as he move backwards... And stops, a few paces from that which his gaze is locked on.

The Slave master grimaces, no humour is set upon his crooked jaw, only running spittle an flaking skin. "Get yerself here. Whats about? Is there any man folk hereabouts, I marked you as one. If my bow had been in my habds you would have been shot as one too." His voice is cold and full of malice, annoyed by the scare the scout caused. As the beast talks about it, he lifts his bow from his shoulder. "Right I want you all to shut yer gobs you sound like a gale. Get yer blades drawn and ready, we arent out for a walk. You lot, will you take off the road and watch these fools." The last was directed to the robed folk, the quiet ones and with that they slink off North and some towards the river. The rest of the group draw blades or bar the chests wioth spears,

"I do not wish to be cut off from all help so far out, myself," Eristen says in a low grumble--not even attempting to speak other than his own language. "But there are other approaches as well." And he grins wryly, nodding to Finnabair. "Moving west, as ye've said, may be the best option," he whispers, raising a hand to scrub quickly at his bearded chin. This last he does speak in the common, thickly-accented though still discernable; his gaze shifts warily about the rolling reaches of hills as he speaks.

Only a few paces behind the warden, Finnabair crouches behind the cover of the hill, peering back to the river path they have left behind, waiting for sight of the yrch that move upon it. Shaking her head at Corrin's question and adding to Eristen's answer, she says "No, we shall not turn back, but go westward to the road that runs north into the pass. It leads to Minas Tirith and in fact joins the river at it.", she explains, "I would rather we not pause to make conversation with the enemy.", she adds, grinning and pushing herself up to her feet again. "The sooner there, the sooner back."

The orchish snuffler's thin lips twist distastefully at the slaver's words, though he holds his silence a moment, dropping to a restful crouch upon the grassy ground. "Bah!" He spits out, as he looks over one shoulder and back towards the river's dipping banks, "Your lot moves about as quietly as a rock slide, slaver. You may as well have the lads yell out 'Yrch coming!' with each step they take." The scout's heavy, curved blade turns idly upon his right shoulder, and he trudges several steps further down towards the waters once more, before turning back and adding, "I'll be around." Without awaiting the other's reply, Shaazgut scampers off down the muddy banks, once more seeking better cover amidst the brambles and reeds that grow at the edge of the Sirion's flowing waters.

Corrin nods to the other two, then murmurs, "West it is, then. Let us give this lot as wide a berth as we can before they start searching the area. Back to the bridge." He straightens as well, though not completely, and begins moving stealthily southwards trying to keep the hill between himself and the orcs.

Answering the Beorian woman's grin with a smirk of his own, Eristen narrows his gaze and turns to the warden next, nodding sharply with Corrin's agreement. "Aye. That'll keep the vermin far enough away for my likin'," he says, and turns his head to the side to spit among the brambles of prickling brush to his left. "Let them wade knee-deep in that," he mutters almost as curse as he grins once more, rising sharply to follow after Finnabair.

At the words of the scout the Slaver grows restless and he watches the creature skulk off into the shadows. He tursn his crooked skull to the warrior of the hand, Ruzgul, speaking to him and of that their can be no mistake he hisses in a whisper. "We walk into an ambush thus. Your lads and my slave shall stay, keep their gobs shut and take their rest. You and I will go with the river rat and seak news of the road, thither lies a bend and for all we know ten dozen bowmen, Let us see and not let these maggots stir them unduely." To the rest he calls a little louder, "Take your break and keep yer gobs shut." With that the clawed hand beckons the 'Hand' warrior to follow and the fat orch stands to half his height and scuttles across the path. His apeish body sways as he goes along, overlong arms tralining near the floor. Yet again the pace of the beast beleis huis stature and he follows the snuffler into the rough brush, "Scout, get here now." The voice is a hissing whisper, pitched to where he can only guess the scout lies.

Finnabair turns with Eristen and grins back at him, "For my liking as well.", she answers as they begin to move southward, returning the way they first came. The morning grows lighter with the sun now just below the eastern horizon and the stretch of the flatlands show themselves to the west. "This is time wasted and we will need to go all the more swiftly.", she comments, her fast strides falling into a jogging pace, her bow bounces against her back and the weight of her axe at her side.

The slaver's harsh, hissing whisper draws Shaazgut's attention even where he crouches, hidden amidst the brownish brush at the edge of the river's cool waters. The snuffler scuttles a few paces up the muddy bank, his twisted figure slipping past the dry brambles and emerging into the grey light of the pre-dawn skies. His sloped brow furrows irritably as he gazes up towards where the bloated slaver stands. With a low grunt, the scout trots up the muddy banks and drops to a crouch near the larger orch, his head tilting back to seek the other's gaze. "What now, slaver?" He questions, the scimitar's blade still resting atop his right shoulder, "Had enough? Going back to camp? It'll be best this way. Your lads aren't helping me."

As the Beorian scout hastens her pace to a faster clip, Eristen does not follow at first, opting to stay back a moment and utter an aside to Corrin. "If all those of Beor are as steadfast as that one, they may make good Haladin, yet." His laughter is subdued, indeed approaching grim, but no sooner this is spoken than the man gives a curt nod. "Best we be about it!" he whispers with another scratch to his chin, then sets his paces to longer strides--careful as the first though quickened.

Easily the 'Hand' lieutennant follow the Slave Master Skragat; delayed only by repeating the Masters words to those under his command, 'Stay still, and be silent'. Muttering he follows, the lank, black hair that frames his brute visage flow and flutter lightly as he moves.

"Quiet!" Even though it is a whisper, nay, the shadow of a whisper, the tone is harsh. Ruzgul has stopped from one reason or another, inclinging his head. The red gaze seems lost; beyond the realms of Beleriand...

"Do you two hear anything? Anything at all?"

As the Slave Master sees the skulking orc appear from the brush, he is suprised at where he was found, marking him notably nearer. The Warrior following calls to the pair, Skragat turns to Ruzgul growling low, "Perhaps we would if you kept yer gob shut. Get here and listen." He then turns to the scout, hiss hissing voice spraying from behind yellowed fangs, " Right get you gone to the river bend and tell me what you see. I dont want to turn that corner and feel a bunch of darts stinging at me. Me an this one'll follow, we'll give you ten paces. Get thee gone snuffler and we are at your backs." He turns again to Ruzgul, "You first."

His pace now not quite so fast as Finnabair's, Corrin nods but does not answer Eristen. He has not straightened entirely and runs with his back bent, still trying to minimize his otherwise tall profile against the sloping ground. With one hand he steadies his axe against his side as he moves, mostly to keep it from knocking against the bottom of his bow and making any sort of noise that might give him away. Nevertheless, no running can be entirely silent, though to stay in this place might be more dangerous.

The orchish snuffler looks quickly to Ruzgul, his narrowed eyes glittering with seeming suspicion. "I heard nothing but these louts." He utters gruffly, while sweeping a hand in gesture to the slaves that stand a short distance away. His gaze is drawn to Skragat as the large orchish slave speaks, and he frowns with obvious disapproval. "You want me to go where?" He asks with a low hiss, "What's the matter with you, eh? I've sniffed nothing yet, and nothing ever gets past me." The orchish snuffler gazes along the river's curving banks, towards the south and east. "But aye, I'll go, if only to show you the way is clear yet..." He adds then, shrugging lightly and lowering the scimitar to his side, "I'll go some ways and come back with report. If the cursed humans have set up ambush, I'll smell their filthy hides long before they can lay dart or blade upon mine." Without a further word, Shaazgut turns upon his bootd heel and scurries back down the muddy banks, slipping once more into cover amidst the scattered brush and brambles as he makes his way towards the southeast along the Sirion's banks.

Following the river, Finnbair continues to move at a running gait for the bridge that lies not far to the south of them. Behind she can hear the two following and glancing over her shoulder she gives them a curt nod to hurry with her. The waters of the Sirion seem to run still and dark as the dawn approaches, the sound of its passage carrying quietly on the air. Ahead the bridge comes into sight, spanning the distance across the two banks where to the west lies the Brithiach.

"Me first?", the 'Hand' warrior inquire in reply, when close enough to the Slave Master. The swart, dry lips are slightly parted, and in the breaths which leap from them lie the horrible stench that follow any orc; decay -- The only difference is that with this orc it is mostly limited to his fanged mouth.

Slowly Ruzgul shake his head, as if about to argue with Skragat about it. But then, he close his eyes for a brief moment, and then he snarls; "I'll keep an eye on you."

Swiftly, and yet silent as few of his kin, the 'Hand' follow the snuffler, thus following, even if grudgingly, the Slave Masters order. And somehow, it seems as if he has done this before, for his moves are much like Shaazgut's; even as he move within the snufflers wake.

Falling to silence and set to the task, Eristen moves swiftly in the dully-greyed shadows of the brimming dawn along the river southward and towards the wooden bridge, hidden by the rise of the hill. Yet speed of foot makes the way safer in this instance, and following what little foliage, sparse and struggling which grows along the banks, the Haladin scout treks in tandem with the shadows as his pace increases with sight of the bridge.

As the scout moves and then the warrior, so does the Slave Master. Ten paces does he give the snuffler and some, he follows quietly enough and indeed next to the water is passage is masked. He keeps the warrior in sight yet the scout moves differently to the others, his trade and position clear earned. The sound of the orc on the road dies too, the more paces taken the less can be heard and indeed the river masks that noise too.

"It looks unguarded, at least for now," says Corrin quietly to the other two as the bridge comes into view,"I'm going to try crossing it. Cover me in case there are any orcs we cannot see from here." With a glance at the other two to see if they concur, he prepares to cross the somewhat more open ground near the bridge, moving swiftly, but quietly.

Finnabair answers the Haladin with a nod, reaching behind her for the bow that is set on her back. Holding it down at her side, as yet unstrung, she slows a step and glances back momentarily to the northward path where the yrch had been heard coming. Seeing nothing upon it, she turns away and carries along south, aside the river.

Quick, muffled steps carry the orchish snuffler alongside the Sirion's flowing waters. His twisted figure is crouched low, one hand at times brushing the muddy ground as he weaves and slips between the tall reeds and brownish shrubs he seeks for cover. The orchish scout's hastened pace soon carries him from sight, beyond the grassy slope of the hill behind where the edain had moments ago been hidden.