Brethil's Roleplaying Logs

Brethil Forest
The track narrows, the trees closing around as it wanders through the deepening shadows. Thick trunks support the trees, which reach higher upwards, blocking most of the light from the path. A faint cracking of a branch to the east and a blurred vision of something small and furry catchs your eye. Brown leaves are scattered over the ground, nearly covering up the track, which leads southeasterly, further into the forest.

The narrow track winds south and eastwards, into the deepening woods at the tip of Brethil's sprawling forest lands. The cold, dreary winter skies overhead glow with a pale and warmthless grey light, which barely serves to dispel the clustering of inky shadows that shroud the trail and lands surrounding. Beyond the tangled, intertwined canopy of mostly leafless branches to the east, the first signs of dawn are visible: A vibrant, fiery splash of crimson sunlight thrown across the horizon by the as-of-yet invisible sun. The soft, distant gurgling of a nearby stream drifts through the trees here, audible only when the biting winds' cold gusts quiet down.

Some dozen paces from a steep, abrupt northwards turn in the trail, and well concealed by the surrounding branches and trunks of birch and pine, stands Haradir. The Haladin man leans heavily against the spear he carries at his side, occasionally squinting in the gloom of the early morning to watch the path towards the west.

Mere paces from the other Haladin stands another--similar in features and build. Fishing a small container from one of the pouches at his side, he unstops the lid and dabs a bit of the beeswax within upon his finger and starts to work it absently into the string upon his bow. He sniffs, scratching at his neck after he has closed and put the container away. "I don't see anythin' yet, brother. You?" he whispers to the other glancing to the dreary and greyed skies overhead.

Finnabair rides at the lead of the party, stooped forward in the saddle with a dull look in her eyes, fixed upon the path that winds off through the trees. The horse takes its own course, hardly needing to be lead along with trees fencing it in on either side, and so her arms rest crossed upon the high pommel, the reins draped loosely over. The pace is slow, and idly she reaches up to scratch beneath the scarf that is wrapped several times round her neck and continuing down along one arm. Saddle leather creaks as she leas back to look down the line of riders behind her, the longbow and case of arrows set upon her back shifting when she faces forward again.

A ringing of bells sounds in the air, faint yet fair, and soft clear voices raised in song. A sound of harping, and the merry sound of gentle laughter. For though the world is not safe, and though shadows grow longer day by day, still the Sun rises bright and hope cannot ever fade in the hearts and thoughts of the elves. Two mail-girt knights ride behind Finnabair upon strong-limbed horses of grey, yet though alert they seem at ease. Behind them a lady rides upon a golden stallion; it is she who sings, her voice lilting upon the wind.

Haradir's beady, icy blue eyes narrow to mere slits as he watches the gloomy trail through the tangled branches and past a pair of thick birch trunks ahead. "Nay, I see nothing." He utters in hushed Halethian, without sparing his nearby companion even a sidelong glance. The ruffian frowns irritably, and lifts a hand to wipe at the side of his bearded jaw. "Certain they come down this road, are you?" He questions, only to trail off at the faint, distant sounds of laughter and ringing bells.

The approaching party of riders can not yet be seen beyond the abrupt turn in the trail, though the soft hooffalls and ringing of reins sound clearly over the cold winds' whispery rustle. Haradir lifts two fingers to his mouth and lets out a cheery birdcall, only to duck quickly behind the nearest trunk. The trees upon the opposite side of the trail stir suddenly, as several figures weave and slip into the concealing brush at the edge of the road.

Harnard lightly twangs the string of his bow , frowning either at the words of his brother or the tautness of the string. Slipping the bow back over his shoulder he takes a couple silent paces closer to Haradir, reaching to scratch irritably at the back of his head. "Aye. I'm certain. This is where they'll come." The reply is almost defensive, spoken in a gruff whisper, though next he, too, hears the faint jingling and lilt of voices. The weathered lips crack to a smile. "Eh...and what did I tell ye? Elves!" Again it is whispered, though this time the brother reaches up to slap the other upon the shoulder as Haradir raises a call to their fellow brigands. Shrugging the bow from his shoulder, he fingers one of his arrow's fletching. "Soon, then," he says, intently looking towards the road again.

The red orb of the sun breaks through the trees, sending out long shadows that criss-cross the way ahead, and at length, Finnabair is the first to round the bend in the path, a little ahead of the two mail-clad knights the ride behind. She rides bent far forward over the pommel of the saddle, swaying slightly with each jolting stride of the mount with her hood cast back and head lowered, her face hidden behind the hang of unkempt hair. The path straightens and a note of harp or song or forest sound has Finnabair sitting up in the saddle, grey eyes without luster searching over this new turn of the path.

The knights look to thje right and left, their keen gaze sweeping the trees, yet the glances are cursory, as if the elves fear naught within the shelter of the trees. Behind them the party from Mithrim rides unwarily, reassured by the attitude of the guards.

Heedless of his brother's words, Haradir edges another cautious step forward. His head dips beneath a low hanging branch, though he quickly scurries off behind another pine trunk just as the first of the approaching riders emerges from beyond the turn in the narrow path. The Haladin brigand clutches the spear close to his side, and he remains motionless behind the concealing tree, able to hear but not see the passing of riders. There he waits another short while, listening for the tell-tale ringing of bell-clad reins and the cheery, musical elven voices that accompany the horses' thudding hoof falls.

All is still at the other end of the narrow trail, and though the sun's fiery rays are at last shed across the great woods of Brethil, the trees and canopy of intertwined branches here still shrouds the undergrowth in inky gloom.

Heedless of his brother's words, Haradir edges another cautious step forward. His head dips beneath a low hanging branch, though he quickly scurries off behind another pine trunk just as the first of the approaching riders emerges from beyond the turn in the narrow path. The Haladin brigand clutches the spear close to his side, and he remains motionless behind the concealing tree, able to hear but not see the passing of riders. There he waits another short while, listening for the tell-tale ringing of bell-clad reins and the cheery, musical elven voices that accompany the horses' thudding hoof falls.

All is still at the other end of the narrow trail, and though the sun's fiery rays are at last shed across the great woods of Brethil, the trees and canopy of intertwined branches here still shrouds the undergrowth in inky gloom.

Clutching the bow to his grip more firmly, Harnard draws one of the arrows from his quiver and nocks it to the bow's string. Holding both in place with his left hand, he casts a disgruntled look to his brother as the other moves away wordlessly through the concealing trees. Nodding to another of his compatriots nearby, he makes the first of their moves to announce their presence, straightening from his slouch and stepping forward onto the path. "Well met again, friends," he offers with a smirk, rooting his gaze upon Finnabair. "Thought ye might need some help transporting some of yer belongings..."

The Haladin ruffian's words have hardly left his mouth when his companions begin to approach from the woods along each side of the path. Their approach becomes suddenly obvious, as figures emerge from the deep shadows, their footfalls heard more clearly now that they have little need for stealth. Some dozen men, at least, most cloaked and hooded, slip from between the trees and concealing brush to stand near the edge of the trail. At least half of them bear bows, arrows knocked, readied, and aimed at the elven knights and their mounted companions. Their hard stares are unwavering, if fearful, and desperate.

The trail is covered with a deep and fresh fall of snow bearing evidence of deer and fox tracks that cross from one side and disappear off through the dark trees upon the other. Finnabair's horse cuts a path through the snow easily, snorting white billows of frozen breath every few steps, tossing its head and tugging at the loose reins restlessly. Its ears prick up, alert to some presence, as, unbeknownst to its rider, they enter into the place where the rugged men lie in wait amongst the silent, gloomy trees. But Finnabair ignores the beast and only urges it forward with a nudge of her heel, riding deeper into the hidden trap until suddenly a man steps out before her on the path, arrow set to bow. Quickly grabbing for the reins as the horse suddenly sidesteps, Finnabair's eyes widen and then narrow upon the man, "Fair journey, indeed!", she answers bitterly back, gaining control of the horse and bringing it to a standstill, "We did not need your help before, we do not need it now.", she says and without looking to the party behind her, "Will your arrow take us all, or are there--", and she cuts herself off, watching as men emerge from the trees, "--others.", she finishes, nodding and making no move but to tighten her grip upon the reins.

Harnard sniffs at Finnabair, his blue eyes glaring. "As you can see, we not as cheerful a lot as them," and he nods towards the Elves behind the ranger. "Best ye do what is asked, lass, for there are others." Drawing a pace aside, but keeping the bow wielded, the brother calls out, "Anything of gold or silver or precious stone we'll gladly lift from yer burdens!" He looks to the back of the train. "Hurry now! we are not a patient lot, either." His jaw clenches amidst his frown, and he glances quickly to Haradir. "What about the horses?" he hollers to no one in particular.

At the appearance of the edain, the knights begin to call a greeting, then draw their weapons as arrows are strung on bows. The morning sun glints cold upon their wrought and graven elven-swords, and their horses neigh and stamp in anger. "You shall have naught," states one of the knights, his eyes flashing..

Upon the back of her horse, Elwen falls silent, her song fading. "What is the meaning of this, edain of Brethil?" she asks softly. "We have no quarrel with you. Begone, and leave us to our path..."

At his brother's call, Haradir emerges from behind the thick pine trunk where he has hidden himself. Hurried steps bear him towards the edge of the trail, and to where the two elven knights ride just in front of the elf-maid Elwen. The spear he clutches firmly in hand, lifting its iron-shod tip high as he comes to stand just beyond reach of the armed riders. His icy eyes lift, seeking those of the nearest knight. "We shall have what we take!" He spits out in his thickly accented Sindarin "Be silver, gold, or blood."

With a hungry stare at Elwen and he horse, he gestures beckons, "Now, lady, be swift and let us relieve you of whatever trinkets you may carry. Is it worth bloodshed, to resist?"

The other brigands stay put just beyond the edge of the trail, none daring to step any closer to the riders and their armed escorts. Bows are raised and strings drawn readily, however, as they await word or signal to fire.

Finnabair's eyes fix upon the first man, listening to the words the Eldar call back at the men, adding her own words, "I am not of good cheer, myself." Sitting there stubbornly in the saddle, making no move to offer what is asked for, she glances back to the other who levels his spear at Elwen, "Is it worth it?", she retorts, "A blast of a horn will bring us aid and you will not have a coin spent before they find you."

Harnard smiles at Elwen; a cheerless gesture. "You see? My brother is impatient. And 'tis he who will tell the others to release their arrows." He looks to one of the knights with a another smirk given of the weather-chapped lips. "And if ye've no gold or silver to give....then we would be happy to take your weapons and a horse or two it its stead." Finnabair's protest leads the Haladin to draw a pace towards her, yet keeping a distance all the same. "Aid, m'lady?" he wonders. "From where? You are in the midst of the forest here, and ye know not how many be hidden with their arrows trained upon ye." It seems the man's patience grows thin as well with the next. "So will ye comply, or not?" he shouts in a raised voice.

Elwen freezes, biting at her lip. "This is not necessary," she says, her voice soft. She looks down at the ring upon her finger, and then at the brooch pinned to her cloak. "Yet there is nothing that I shall give you, now or ever."

Haradir's gloved hands tighten around the sturdy haft of the spear he has raised threateningly towards the nearest of the armed knights. Puffy swirls of breath are spewed through his lips with each word uttered, as he replies to Finnabair. "A horn call? Ha!" He spits out mockingly, falling quiet only at the words of his bow-bearing brother, Harnard. The Haladin brigand's narrowed eyes shift nervously from armed elven rider to Elwen, and back, and his booted feet stamp impatiently at the ground as he awaits their reply. With a quick step forward as Elwen speaks, he draws nearer to her horse and lifts the spear's tip to point at her chest. "You'll give nothing?" He snarls, peering eagerly at the bright gem that graces her throat. "I shall take that pretty bauble meself, then. If not from your hand, then from your bloodied throat."

Finnabair simply shakes her head, "I will not yield.", her refusal joining Elwen's, a fell and fevered look in her eyes as she watches unwaveringly upon the man even hearing the threat given by the other. "Do you think the Haladin leave their forests unguarded?", she asks them, leaning forward slightly in the saddle with her gaze following coldly upon the first as he takes a single step toward her. The heavy cloak she wears drapes around her, covering the saddle and down past her knees and as her horse moves about restlessly, she holds him back with one hand grasped upon the reins, "Do you think elven swords will stay sheathed?", she asks, struggling with the troubled beast.

Elven warriors draw their weapons, their movements almost swifter than thought, and keen eyes burn with a fierce fire. Few make any answer to the edain, and those that do speak scornfully, haughtily.

Elwen sits up straight, her head held high. "Would you harm my chid, then?" Fury kindles in her eyes, fury like a white flame cold and fell. "If you shed blood here today, wrath and darkness shall come upon you, and ill to you and all you care for. Do you truly wish that?"

Harnard stomps his foot and utters an oath, red creeping into his face as the muscles in his throat strain. His next motion is to kick up dirt and snow at the Beor ranger's already nervous mount, though his next words are to the Elven lady . "Mind ye well," the voice is level and gives no quarter, "Yield as we've asked or they'll be a bloody price for your stubborness." So said, he matches the draw of his arrow to the aim of one of the knights at the fore of the group.

Haradir spares a nervous glance at his own brother as the other brigand speak, though his cold stare is quickly directed back upon Elwen and the child she bears with her. "I ask, lady, if you would let your child be endangered." He growls, his patience at last vanishing as he draws a sudden step forward. "Shoot them!" He spits out, just as he reaches up for the gem at the elf-maid's throat with his left hand.

The remaining bandits hesitate a short moment, only, before stepping forward and loosing their arrows at the armed elves who stand nearest upon the narrow path. Nearly a dozen shafts are fired at the foremost riders of the column, most directed at the mailed and armed warriors, though two are fired directly at Finabair from just beyond the edge of the trees.

Harnard is the last to release his own shaft, sending it in its course towards the knight already targeted. The arrow released, the Haladin's voice is raised one more. "The price ye pay!" he growls, motioning the others forward as the dark gaze goes to Finnabair and the knights in scathing glare.

Finnabair looks sharply back when the second man gives the order for the others to loose their arrows upon the travellers and sees him reach for Elwen's throat, "RIDE!", the Beorian ranger cries, kicking her heels hard into the sides of her horse as arrows begin to hiss through the air. The horse carries her swiftly down the trail but not swifter than the deadly darts and both that are aimed upon her find a mark on her left side as she hesitates in her flight, reining in the horse to look for the others. One feathered shaft sinks into her thigh and the other high on her shoulder, sending her forward, slumping over the saddle, still trying to keep hold on the reins as the horse nearly rears up and then lurches forward, bearing her unwillingly away down the narrow forest trail.

As the adan reaches for her throat, Elwen draws back her hand and slaps it hard at his face, her eyes blazing. Her baby, resting in a carrying-sling againstv her chest, begins to wail, and with her free hand the Noldo lady draws her long dagger. "Get you gone,' she says, her voice soft, yet fierce.

Having watched the episode from the rear of the column, the Chieftain's blood begins to boil, though the narrow path has restrained his ability to make progress to the forfront of the column. As he sees that the tension has mounted, all hope for a peaceful resolve having vanished, he slowly dismounts from his horse and makes his way to the front. His progress is agonizingly slow, and he is still some distance from the front of the company when the arrows begin to find their marks. All thoughts of stealth now gone, Fingalad loosens his sword from its' scabbard and begins to push his way forward. Dart and arrow fall among the company, and his speed is not great, causing him much frustration.

Haradir hisses with frustration as the gem upon Elwen's throat is jerked out of reach of his hand. The elf-maid's slap catches him quite solidly across the cheek, and he reels back a full step, stunned by the unexpected blow. The spear remains clutched in hand, however, and his icy blue eyes lift to gaze down the trail which now stirs with commotion. "Aye, then we go, witch!" He spits out, grasping the weapon's shaft in both hands and calling out words in the Halethian tongue to his brethren. With a quick lunge upon his booted left foot, the brigand swings the haft of his spear in a vicious arch, aimed not for Elwen, but for the rear flank of the horse that bears her.

Watching as Finnabair's spooked mount rushes from the fray, Harnard takes a step to follow, though with a grimace turns back to the others that remain. Some of the Haladin have left their perches from the trees to join their comrades on the ground, but as Haradir seems set to escape the unfruitful ambush, and others of the elves surge forward to combat, he huffs an angry sigh and glares at his brother. "We go, then," he agrees, smirking at the final insult of Haradir's spear thrust at the proud Elven lady's mount. Gripping his bow tightly, his own steps carry him towards the deeper concealing vegetation of the forest and away from the group. The golden elven-horse neighs shrilly as he is hit with the spear, and rears on his hind legs, dancing and then lashing out with front hooves, then hind. Elwen slides off his back into the snow, twisting in mid-air so that she receives any impact and the baby is cushioned. She curls around the babe protectively, waiting.

Surging forward, Fingalad sees the Lady Elwen fall with her child to the ground. Pushing his way through the horses of the company, he comes up just as the one of Adan rushes quickly into the forest. Quickly kneeling next to the fallen Lady, Fingalad quickly takes his shield and crouches to cover both Lady and child from any further shaft that might find a mark. One knight is slumped across his horse's neck, limp, his sword falling from his hand and into the snow. Blood drips down the grey warhorse's neck and drips steaming into the snow. Bright elven-blood, draining from the stricken knight.

The Haladin brigand lets out a satisfied grunt as he feels the spear's shaft connect with the horse's rear flank. A quick and cautious step back carries him well out of reach of the great beast's hooves, and again his gaze is drawn down along the column from where Fingalad hurriedly approaches. Pressed to escape by the elven chieftain, Haradir turns on his booted heel and rushes into the trees, paying little heed to Elwen as she is thrown from her bucking mount.

The edain brigands all rush wordlessly into the trees from where they had come, soon vanishing into the deep gloom that shrouds the grounds between the thickly-clustered birch and pine trees. Their passing is heard as hurried, frantic rustling through the undergrowth, while occasion shouts ring out from the darkened woods off the path. Eventually, the bandits are vanished, swallowed by the immense forest of southern Brethil.