August 20, 2001

Old Road, Northwest Corner of Forest Brethil

The trail leads into the forest, the silvery trees growing closer together as it winds among them. The birchs here are not as tall as those deeper within the woods, so there is some light slanting down between the branches. The forest floor is covered with dried leaves and twigs, the packed earth of the path kept cleared. A few wild flowers poke their heads up from between the leaves and debris, and the trunks of some of the older trees are covered by a soft, dark green moss.

The spring day's dawning lies only a scant few hours away, and already the cloudless skies overhead herald the soon-to-be-rising sun with a pale, warmthless grey glow. The air is crisp and chilly, and here at the edge of Brethil's forests, the grassy grounds are blanketed by slowly creeping mist and fog. No wind blows tonight, and the overhanging canopy of leafy, intertwined branches and boughs is eerily silent. The shadows are still deep and impenetrable beneath the cover of the woods' eaves, and the trees themselves stand like giant, imposing sentinels in the pre-dawn darkness.

Not far to the north, where the trees grow in fewer numbers and less closely, move a handful of dark, twisted creatures from the north. Their bowed figures are bent and at times hidden from sight beneath the growing grasses and the shadows cast by the few trees that stand in solitary vigil over the southbound road they follow.

Travelling north along the road, under the bare, tall birch trees walks a brown clad figure alone through the low fog of the dark morning. A slow pace she sets for herself, halting now and then to gaze off through the grey, misty trees or else up into their still branches, then to carry on again with a bow slung across her back along with the sturdy length of an straight bladed axe. A mist of rain begins to blanket the forest around her and after a small rise in the road she veers off it and steps onto the softer soil of the forest floor, continuing alongside the road under the shelter of trees.

Having just neared the edge of the forest proper, the small group of armour-clad figures come to a halt beneath the inky, concealing shade of a tall, silvery birch tree. The creatures huddle around there--still perhaps some two dozen yards north of where the Beorian ranger approaches--under the tree's drooping branches, and exchange hushed, urgent words. The soft, serene sound of the drizzling rainfull muffles any stray sound or utterance the beasts may make, and their muddled masses are well hidden in the darkness.

A short moment later, however, one of their number rises suddenly from where his fellows huddle and begins to creep cautiously southwards. The burly, black-clad creature slinks somewhat stealthily along a row of shrubs that grow just off the road. His quiet, booted steps bear him south, and unknowingly towards the unseen ranger's path.

Nearing the point where the road leaves the forest behind, Finnabair hops over a few rocks scattered ahead of her and then turns back onto the road, heading for the place where it forks in two directions: north and east. The cloak she wears hangs heavy with the damp weather, swinging wide with each long stride that brings her closer to the place where the group of orcs that lie hidden just a few yards ahead. Walking directly down the middle of the road, her steps quicken as the sky opens through the trees and the lands spreads out to the north.

A mere dozen yards or so from where the old road forks, the concealing row of entangled shrubs and prickly bushes ends. It is here, then, that the orchish warrior Troglaaz also comes to a halt, still somewhat hidden by the brambles and deep shadows. His beady, coal eyes are slitted in the near blackness of the night as he rises upon his haunches to inspect the road south of where he hides. No sound does he utter, yet his shoulders and arms tense visibly at his sides at the sight of the approaching human, Finnabair. With slow, deliberate movements, the orchish creature slinks backwards and in behind the shrubs once again, this time while reaching for the pommel of the scimitar at his side. The long, curved weapon's worn sheath shifts with his firm grip, its tip lifting behind him to rustle faintly against the bushy brambles just by his side.

Walking blithely along, Finnabair comes toward the fork in the road where the forest to the east falls away and the road carries on, following its borders all the way to the fords. Coming to halt where the roads meet, the forest close behind her, she stands there simply surveying the land to the stretch of road to the north as a thin light spreads faintly along the eastern horizon, dulled considerably the overcast sky. A rustle in the brush behind has her turn and face back toward the forest, peering through the grey shadows and cocking an ear to where the noise came from, but after only a few short seconds already she is looking away to the east this time, as though considering her course.

In the huddled group behind the Warrior Captain, his own dull, dark-brown eyes shifting under a heavy-boned brow, is Grokmuk. A scowl sets upon his face as he notices the clan leader's shoulders tense and strains to see what ahead is reason for the other's deliberate movements. As Troglaaz grips the scimitar at his side, Grokmuk also instinctively reaches for his own weapon, the clawed hand closing about the stained and worn leather-wrapped handle. He sniffs soundlessly and raises his nose to the faint breeze that shuffles the new growth of leaves about them.

The burly orchish captain crouches motionlessly another short moment, venturing only a brief glance over his shoulder and to where his soldiers wait huddled in the darkness beneath a towering tree's low-hanging branches. Grokmuk's actions are lost to him in the shadows, and yet his clawed left hand rises to beckon the others forward to the shrubs where he hides. The beastly creature edges over and stoops far forward to look once again upon the road, and his coal black eyes focus intently on Finnabair's tall figure. Only then does he truly move, this time springing quite suddenly out of his place of hiding and at once sliding the heavy scimitar's curved blade from the sheath at his side. With a low snarl, Troglaaz rushes to where the ranger stands, his booted feet carrying him swiftly over the worn road.

At the crossroads, about to turn and take the road that leads east, Finnabair starts as she first hears the snarl and then looks to see the hideous figure of an orch suddenly coming out of the dark hang of the forest, racing for her with its deadly blade held menancingly in hand. Locking on its small, coal black eyes for only a second, the Beorian ranger has no time to think and only enough time to turn heel and begin racing east along the road ahead of it while awkwardly reaching behind her to draw off the long handled axe that rests there under her bow.

The sudden aggressive attack of the orchish captain spurs Grokmuk, too, to action. As a coiled wire contained and abruptly released, the thick-girthed orc sets his legs to move his squat body with less grace but just as much force over the impeding brambles and undergrowth--brown eyes widening as he does--to follow his taller captain after the human. A low growl sounds in his throat, more of a gurgle than else, as the scimitar slides from its sheath and he lengthens his loping strides in pursuit.

With the heavy, curved blade of his scimitar raised high overhead and tilted downwards behind him, the orchish captain Troglaaz breaks into a hurried sprint after his retreating would-be victim. The twisted creature heeds not the sudden sound of orchish growls and grunts some distance behind him, where the half dozen men who accompanied him--including Grokmuk--rise from the shadows where they had huddled to join in the pursuit. His oily, greasy locks of hair are whipped to either side of his gruesome face, and his armour-clad body stoops low as he runs heavily down the dirt road. Crooked bow-legs can only carry him so swiftly, however, and he finds himself left quickly behind by the much faster human before him. Still, the orchish beast persists in the chase, his beady eyes intent upon potential prey.

Hearing more feet pounding over the road behind her, Finnabair glances over her shoulder and is spurred on faster when she sees not just one but now at least half a dozen yrch pursuing her along the road. With a final yank she frees the axe from off her back and grabs it high up beneath the head of the axe so as not to slow herself. Fleeing swiftly ahead of the pack of yrch, she glances behind again and then suddenly veers off the road and dashes into the trees, wildly batting aside the thick brush that reaches out to drag and scratch across bare skin with long jagged and needled branches.

The dark eyes are no longer dulled and rather brightened by the chase as Grokmuk urges his pace to longer strides. The human's widening distance only presses the loping gait for now as the orch's clammy palm tightens about the weapon's handle even more. Dirt and rotted leaves are kicked up from the road in his pursuit as the heavy boots thud dully on the packed ground. The gurgle in the orch's throat sounds again as the woman darts towards the heavy foliage and brush off of the road, his displeasure audible as a snarl parts his grey lips.

Little discouraged by the other's swiftness, Troglaaz presses on in his seemingly relentless pursuit until Finnabair veers suddenly off the road and into the darkness of the great silvery trees. The orchish beast slows to a halt a scant few yards away from where the ranger has disappeared, and there at last lowers the scimitar to his side. His slitted eyes gaze suspiciously into the trees, as he hurriedly works to unsling the heavy metal and wood shield from where it hangs upon his back. "Fan out and find'er, maggots!" He growls over one shoulder, to Grokmuk and the others who now approach not far behind him. The twisted creatures quickly disperse and head off the road after Finnabair--more cautious and fearful now as the press of trees around them grows thicker and visibility worsens. Their captain, meanwhile, adjusts the shield at his arm and is soon following suit by entering into the trees where last Finnabair was seen, his own steps seeming reluctant.

Crashing noisily through the bracken, Finnabair makes it through at last and comes out under the heavy hang of the forest, hearing the call of the orch captain ringing through the woods behind her. Silver birches vault up and block out the grey sky over head, casting the forest floor into a gloom dark and deep and strangely quiet. Without slowing she slips amongst them, taking herself further into the safety of their seemingly endless stretch until finally she dives behind a grouping of birches and crouches down at their base, trying to quiet her breathlessness and listen for the pursuit of the yrch band.

The snarl still given to Grokmuk's hapless face, the coal-skinned orch comes to a stop a mere three paces from Troglaaz, dull eyes narrowed behind the thick lids. His deep breaths are as bellows, his breath visible in the chill pre-dawn. "She won't be easy to find in that, I say," he grumbles, though the broad feet are already carrying the stout orch in the direction of the densely-grown trees. With a grimace, Grokmuk slaps experimentally at the thick brush before him with the scimitar's blade, though soon squints the dark eyes and scans for signs of the human's passing.

Already a couple of short paces into the trees, Troglaaz halts midstep at hearing his underlings words and half turns to cast the other an irritable glare. "Shut it, and move in." He growls softly, before lifting the blade of his scimitar in a threatening manner to 'encourage' the other forward, "Sniff the woodrat out, and me and the other lads'll take it down." The other twisted creatures trudge cautiously between the silvery trunks, each keeping to the shadows while at the same time gazing fearfully into the tangle of branches and undergrowth that presses in all around them. The low, blanketing mist creeps eerily here between the tree trunks, and Troglaaz' metal-shod boots are at times entirely hidden by it as he himself follows deeper into the trees. His bead eyes widen slightly, strained in the gloom as he searches the grounds ahead, seemingly unaware of where his prey has hidden herself behind the clustered birches some dozen yards ahead of where he now walks amidst his fellows.

Though the mist spreads through the trees blurring sight of the yrch, Finnabair can hear them approach by the noise their steps and the clear sound of their voices. With her breath and heartbeat slowing, she glances south through the trees behind her and sees them stretch on and then lose themselves in the cover of their own darkness. Looking back toward the sound of the yrch, she reaches down and lifts a rock half the size of her fist, one hand still grabbing on to her axe, and tosses it west of the group of trees she kneels behind. Watching it sail through the trees, thump heavily onto the ground twice and then roll a few feet till it lies still a few feet beyond she holds her breath, looking and listening attentively in the direction of the yrch.

Grokmuk, for his part, shrinks away from the 'encouraging' blade of his superior--once more uttering a growl--and delves deeper into the crowding forest. At first he hears the sounds of the human's retreat in the snap of branch and twigs, though faintly, and soon it is lost in the whisper of leaves and creak of branches. The dull eyed gaze darts nervously about the shadowed and leafy gloom, though the orch continues forward, steps audible beneath his awkward bulk. As the woodland is consumed in silence, Grokmuk halts and the scimitar is lowered, though his grip is not relaxed. The sudden and discernible sound of scuffling or footsteps tugs the orch's gaze in the direction of sound, and with a grunt and wave of his left hand, he utters to those of his comrades nearby. "There..."

The orchish captain's slow, cautious steps bear him deeper into the shadowed woods, though several paces behind the other soldiers who have dispersed among the trunks and branches. The rounded shield he holds upraised and readied, while the scimitar trails low at his side with the blade pointed downwards. The faint sound of a disturbance in the darkness ahead--as well as Grokmuk's call--draws his attention to the shadows just west of the clustered birches, and it is towards here where he begins to approach, now with more urgent steps. The other creatures, meanwhile, all begin to converge upon that same spot, eager seemingly for the conclusion of the dangerous pursuit. With a low grunt, Troglaaz draws to a halt just a few paces short of Grokmuk, and slips off to stand beneath the shadow cast by a leafy, overhanging pine bough. From there he watches as the others quickly converge upon the trees near where the ranger's thrown stone landed.

Reaching down for another stone, Finnabair rises slowly from off her knee and stands half bent behind the crop of trees, listening as the yrch grunt and scurry toward the place where the first rock landed. Seeing their shapes only dimly through the mist and gloom of the forest and as they centre upon the 'noise' she reaches back and aims the next one over and past them, back toward the north edge of the forest and still a little to the west. Hearing it break through the branches of a tree with a considerable amount of noise and knocking against the trunk of another, she slowly starts to retreat with backward steps away from the yrch that lie through the trees ahead of her.

With Troglaaz's approach, Grokmuk turns a narrowed glance towards his superior, sniffing at the remnant of a breeze all but lost in the crowded forest. Turning to follow the others as they make their way west of the copse of trees, Grokmuk stiffens with another sudden collection of rustling noises. Veering farther westward, he grunts impatiently at his fellow orchs, making long strides in the direction of the sounds, his dark eyes widening as he makes a slow, scoping glance of the area.

Troglaaz remains unmoving and silent amidst the deep shadows and half hidden by the trunk of the evergreen he stands beside. The burly orchish captain watches through strained, narrowed eyes as his fellows scour the brush and trees just west of where the ranger has managed to keep herself concealed. The second disturbance from even further west soon has his attention, and yet, though the others scramble quickly towards it, he remains put a moment longer to scan the trees around him. It is only then that the faintest trace of a moving shadow is revealed to him--not west from where the sound has come, but near at hand in the copse of trees just ahead. His sloped brow furrows suspiciously, and still without sound or warning to the others, Troglaaz darts ahead into the birch trees and, unknowingly, right towards where Finnabair attempts her retreat.

Hearing the yrch drawn off again by the rouse of the thrown rock, Finnabair's backward steps carry her faster now, but when she is about to turn and disappear without their notice, she spies a dark shape looming out of the mist directly for her. With a pinched look of annoyance, she picks up and turns southward, quickening her pace until she is again running and slipping through the pressing trees as though daring the orch to follow her into the dark heart of the forest.

Leading ahead of the others in their search westward of the copse, Grokmuk waves them along with his clawed hand before he reaches up to scrub at an itch upon his brow. Dissatisfaction darkens the scowl upon his face when he cannot see the human upon further searching, and he turns around to survey the area direcly behind him. It is then that he sees the distant and blurred movement of Troglaaz as the latter darts into the cover of the birches, and with a grunt and scuffing of his heavy-booted feet, he lumbers back towards the direction the warrior chieftain has gone, gaining attention as well from the others nearby.

A low, angry hiss escapces Troglaaz as he at last makes out the familiar form of the human ranger, Finnabair. The scimitar rises swiftly at his side, and though he springs forward to give chase, the burly creature's bulky body and shield slow him as he attempts to slip through the clustered trees behind which the other had hid moments ago. "This way, maggots!" He growls, flinching as his own gruff voice shatters the woods' stillness. With a curse and a spit, the orchish captain forces his way through the brambly growth and at last comes to stand at the far end of the press of silvery birches. There he halts once again, however, only to watch as Finnabair disappears into the deep shadows and the great trees further ahead. "Blasted tree rats!" He utters, the scimitar's blade dipping disappointedly at his side.

Finnabair slips through the trees, glancing over her shoulder now and again to see if the orch gains on her but never slackening her pace when she no longer catches sight of him. Thunder rumbles though the air and the patter of heavy rain sounds through the trees as deeper inside Brethil the Beorian ranger goes, leaving far behind the band of yrch.