August 23, 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.

Broken, irregular clusters of clingy, billowy gray clouds hang scattered high overhead, across the rapidly darkening spring skies. The sun's fiery orb is all but lost from sight, yet remnants of the earlier day's light are visible in the glowing streaks of scarlet and orange that paint the western horizon. Though the winds are still today, and the ground is dry despite threats of rain, the coming night promises to be a chilly one. Already the eaves of the forest of Brethil are shrouded and veiled in deep, impenetrable gloom, and the old dusty road winds south and out of sight into obscuring depths of the woods.

There near the edge of this road, where it winds through the gradually thinning birch and evergreen trees near the northern edge of the forest, travels Istadris. The Beorian woodsman's cloaked figure is burdened by a heavy pack, as well as the bow and quiver at his side and the sheathed longsword at his back. His booted feet carry him quietly northward, and his narrowed grey eyes strain to search the shadows which shroud the ground beneath the press of trees at each side of the road.

A few paces east, further into the woods from where Istadris walks goes another garbed and girded in similar manner; a long handled axe and tall bow afixed upon her back, arrows at her side. Keeping stride with the woodsman, Finnabair gestures north up the road, saying, "Twas ahead, at the meeting of the roads. In the trees behind.", she adds, nodding to the place where the forest nearly reaches the spot.

Too the North, far distant shadows loom, the rumour of the mountains that rise there, and from the North too comes a road. The way is clear though as far as the eye can see, yet disquiet comes, no beast troubles the air with its call and the eve seems all the codler for it. Yet beasts move, not just creatures of ther wild, for at the western edge of the road, perhaps a score of yards from its edge dark shapes moves through the trees, there passage is quiet enough, yet once or twice the slight snap of a crushed twig sounds, as iron shod boots walk there.

The company that passes is not great in number maybe numbering a dozen, they walk in no firm company, infact as separate bands, knots of dark twisted shapes all apart from the rest.

In once such group a lumbering beast moves, his loping strides seems apeish for his vast back is bent beneath his weight and over long arms hang low, yet the creatures moves with some speed and in his hand a bow is grasped, held tight between clawed fingers. Coaly eyes peer out through a hood, blocking the last streaks of day out. A crooked skull bobs ever as trhe beast moves scanning to the left and to the right, more oft to the road though on the beasts left hand side.

In tandem with the woodsman's steps walks Aldawin, whose idle surveying of the road has left her lagging slightly behind Istadris, though the grey eyes are surely observant as they seek to see details in the growing gloom of cloud and darkening skies. She carries a lighter pack than the other--left hand raised to steady the strap that holds it upon her left shoulder. And at her right side--held of an aged and well-worn sheath--is a longsword, of which gleam is half-hidden by the curling edge of her cloak as she walks. Looking to the road ahead once again, Aldawin takes several long strides to catch up with the tracker, and asks in a voice that matches the hush of the coming evening, "So where has this trail taken us, after all? More eastward, as you supposed?"

Beneath the concealing shade of a tall evergreen stops Istadris, his cloaked figure hidden from sight there just a few yards to the east of the old road. The Beorian tracker reaches out to tug idly at one of the tall tree's drooping branches, at length glancing over his shoulder and through the trees, to where Finnabair's sillhoutted shape moves--hardly discernable against the gloom of evening. "We are hardly east now, Aldawin..." Comes his reply, once he looks back to the healer who walks a few paces behind him, "You recognize this road, do you not? It skirts Brethil's woods, along the--" The woodsman's words break off abruptly at the distant sounds of snapping twigs, and though he holds his ground there by the sheltering pine's branches, his left hand drops immediately to grasp at the haft of the bow at his left shoulder.

One of the tangle of groups that move southward appear as living shadows. Black robed they are, numbering only two, moving in darkness of their own making. In the front comes the one known as Torghaal, the First Prophet of Melkor. He moves in among the trees to the right side of the road, walking softer and perhaps more silent than many of the other warriors that this grouping contains. As the others continue on, Torghaal halts, holding up a hand to stop his companion as he crouches down, touching the dirt before him and clearing a small circle of debris.

Just as Istadris cuts off his own words Finnabair immediately halts, eyes flinting through the darkening trees from which the snapping of twigs sound. Holding still and listening intently for a moment, she cautiously begins to edge forward, one hand reaching back to unslip her bow and the other to take up an arrow. Halting again, she glances back over her shoulder to the other two, frowning as the the forest falls silent again.

As the Giant orc at the head of the party jogs along his pace slackesn remarkably. Indeed his breath begins to hiss lightly, audibly and his snout twitches. A dark flaking hand rises to the hod of the ragged cloak and casts back the cloaks hood, revealing a malformed skull capped with and iron helm, blackened with filth. Instead of dropping the hand rises slowly, wofting in the air signalling the company to slow or stop, as does this beast. The bulbous frame of the oprc slides and weaves to the side back of a slender tree, as if its thin trunk could cover more than a fraxction of his vast mail clad gut. A few swift movements begin, hand reaching to its back, grabbing and pulling at bonds, in a moment a shield hangs is slid upon the thick forearm of the beast, yet the bow he still holds. A slight his comes, little more than the sound of wimnd to any listners sundered by more than a few paces, yet this sound calls for quiet, with great earnest.

To the left of the other black robed Orc, a considerably more smaller Orc also clad in a large robe follows. The robe just barely clears the ground, occasioanlly dragging, if he happens to bend his body in the wrong direction. A grin lies heavy on this little ones face, as his eyes quickly look from side to side from beneath a hood which covers his head and most of the face nearly completely. When his companion gestures for him to stop, he does so immeadiatly, without hesitation. Walking slightly closer, he bows his head, to look down on whatever the other robed one is drawing...

The healer's brows furrow as she looks also in the direction of Finnabair for a moment, returning to follow the curve of the road as it winds in rutted fashion among the tall and covering trees. Though as Istadris' words are silenced by the distant sounds of rustling, she turns a sharp gaze to the woodsman, though it is given a moment later to the other who readies her bow. Remaining silent, Aldawin allows the pack's shoulder strap to slip down to the bend of her arm, and the grey gaze once again looks to the woodsman.

The Beorian woodsman lifts his right hand briefly, beckoning for Aldawin to take her place behind the evergreen's lush, drooping boughs. With quick, efficient movements, the weathered tracker struggles off the heavy, biting straps of his pack and lets the encumbering load drop quietly to the grassy ground behind him. The longbow is raised in his scarred left hand, then, and he edges a pace off to his left to have a look past the pine's branches and to the road, which remains deserted under the gloomy skies' pale glow. A brief look only is spared in Finnabair's direction, and Istadris too reaches aside to slide a black-fletched arrow from the quiver at his hip. Without leaving the tree's cover, the former ranger stoops aside and begins to scan the darkened press of brambles and tree trunks at either side of the road to the north.

On the small patch of dirt that Torghaal has cleared away lies the remains of a small rodent, perhaps about the size of his fist. Under the shadow of his hood, a look of worry crosses the aged orc's face. He points to the small skeleton, looking up to Gralnak behind him, his voice a harsh wisper, "Bad Omen..." He says nothing more, standing up and looking southwards through the forrest.

Stalking along at the back of the small band Rah walks, bow in hand and arrow notched, her dark glowing eyes watching out behind the small group, as she occasionally spins around for a few seconds, just to make sure that if any ambushes were to be set off, it wouldn't be them caught in one. Her long heavy leather apron, today traded for a simple set of leather armor and helmet, and her normal heavy blacksmiths hammer traded for a bow and quiver of arrows, along with a scimitar belted to her side, though the way it bangs against her leg it's easy to see Rah isn't used to such things.

The small Orc leans in a bit closer towards whatever it is that Torghaal had discovered. The lids of his eyes spread slowly, till they are completely hidden. He stares down at it for a few moments before he lifts his head slightly, his eyes now darting from side to side. Then he stands to his full height, following Torghaals gaze. Putting his arms to his side, his left hand dissapears within the arm of the cloak. He whispers back to Torghaal, "What do you suggest we..."

Finnabair remains within the edge of the forest while Istadris takes a pace aside to view the road and Aldawin holds behind them. With the veil of night falling fast, the forest loses shape and form, but still the irregular, unnatural sound of things moving in the trees ahead reaches the three and so Finnabair sets arrow to bowstring, creeping forward a few steps where the white gleam of birches mark the way ahead.

The thick left fore arm of the orcen beast, shielded with iron rises; ragged hands lift to the creatures open mouth, a dark tongue slithers out serpentine, wetting the flaking tips of fingers with rank spittle. Then the shielded arm drops, in a similarly silent manner, falling to a quiver of hide fast buckled at the orcs side. Twitching fingers draw forth and arrow and knock it to the sinous bow string in a slick spidery movement. With that the bow is lifted to the orc wide chest and it begins to plod off again, slowly, creeping towards the road, ever shadowing the bows of trees, and despite the creatures frame, he moves with animal surity, breking not one twig.

Following the other's caution, Aldawin slips quietly into the deep green cover of the bordering forest, taking three paces off of the road before coming to stand among the drooping boughs of darkest green. The backpack is set silently to the ground--next to the weathered and rough-barked trunk of the great tree--and while the Beor healer says not a word, the vigilance of her eyes is betrayal of her thoughts as her gaze shifts from ranger to woodsman, and her right hand settles to rest upon the pommel of her sheathed sword.

"They don't know. We do. Protect them." Short words issue from Torghaal's mouth, all he is currently willing to spare. As he sees Skragat rise, he begins to weave his way through the trees, staying well to one side and slightly behind the other orc. Signalling for Gralnak to carefully follow, Torghaal simply watches. The knowledge of danger lays heavy upon him as he watches for signs of activity in the woods.

The outreaching tangle of leafy branches high overhead along the forest's eaves is almost utterly still with the absence of an evening breeze, and so an oppressive hush has fallen over this part of woods. Not a sound seems willing to disrupt the stillness, and yet Istadris waits patiently behind the cover of his towering pine just near the edge of the road he cautiously watches. The longbow is lifted in hand now, and his arrow knocked and readied--not yet drawn. A deep frown mars his tanned brow as he looks over his shoulder through slitted eyes and to where he had last seen Finnabair. Finding her no longer there, the tracker purses his lips disapprovingly and looks briefly in question to Aldawin before returning his full attention to the road and the trees that line either side of it.

Held in utter silence in the eventide's gloom, Aldawin catches the soundless question given across the way as Istadris glances towards her briefly. The healer, too looks about for the now-hidden ranger, Finnabair, though at last turns her attention as well to the road, crouching slightly to avoid the tall pine's prickly lower boughs. The pack rests at the base of the tree--slightly to Aldawin's left, and the Beor's hand rests upon the gnarled, grey and weathered trunk.

Nodding lightly as Torghaal speaks, the small Orc takes a look backwords, to the ever darkening forest. His eyes looking to attempt to penetrate it. He follows a few yards behind Torghaal, his head tilted up, and the hood nearly falling, as his twitchy eyes watch the forest carefully. The hand which dissapeared into the arm of his cloak peeks out, a handle revealed grasped in between his small fingers. He turns his attention back to Torghaal, though as his gaze shifts, he just barely steps over a lone root, stumbling slightly and making a small bit of noise. He quickly recovers, his eyes burdened with anger and fright...

The forest floor rises steep and rocky to the east of Finnabair and climbing halfway up the rise she then half kneels, half leans against the outcropping. Through the trees she can see the road running through, grey and empty in the twilight and the forest dark about her. Scuffling noise again has her searching through the trees for sight for its maker, trying to judge its approach or retreat.

Crouching down, bow at the ready Rah waits for a signal, obviously some movement had been sighted or some noice detected, but her time in the forge and done some damage to her hearing, and lying in at the back of the party, she was more watching behind them then infront of them. But when everybody stopped moving and people crouch down she had quickly followed suit.

The back of Skragat again has dropped low, the figures lopes over the ground, head wheeling and snout sniffing. Yet the trees begin tot hin afore him and a line, grey in the light rolls out infront of the beast, like a might channel hewn in the earth by some huge blade. Yet the swaggering orc holds his approach, keeping three or four trees away from the roads edge, coaly eyes flitting hither and thither, seekign some manner of traveler or beast to target with the bow grasped firmly in his bestial hands.

Though the evening is a cool one, small beads of sweat begin to gather upon Istadris' brow as he strains to remain unmoving and utterly silent beneath the shadow of the tall pine tree. His grey eyes--wide now, and quite alert--are drawn to the trees all the way across the road where the unseen Gralnak's soft stumble temporarily disturbs the woods' silence. A softly uttered curse escapes the Beorian woodsman's lips, the sound hardly carrying past his own mouth. With long-practiced stealth, the tracker slips aside and around the evergreen that conceals him, moving further away from the road's edge and keeping to the cover of Brethil's brambly undergrowth and silvery birch trunks. Unseen ahead walks Skragat, perhaps only a dozen yards away, and the woodsman's stealthy steps carry him gradually towards the fat orch.

Keeping to silence, Aldawin remains crouched at the base of the great pine tree, though with each passing moment the fingers of her left hand begin to dig at a gnarled and sap-bled knot in the pine's trunk. The curse uttered by Istadris nearby is barely audible to her, and though Aldawin is quick to seek out the other's gaze--alarm crowding her expression--the woodsman is already moving away from the road's edge. Swallowing hard, the healer alters her crouch into a kneel, tugging at the neck of her cloak as she strains forward to catch any sign of movement in the shadows, and slowly easing the blade of the longsword from its sheath.

From the skies can be heard far-off the cry of a hunting bird, high and clear and wild. Far, and yet approaching, and from the darkening east a shape wheels amidst the clouds, a great bird golden in the fading light. A great Eagle, far from the Crissaegrim, rides the blowing winds, soaring in eager flight.

As the Slave Master stoops, he glances over the slight rise of land on the western road side. The slitty dark orbs dart left and right, the orcs hand begins to shudder ever so slightly, returning arrow to quiver and bow to shoulder, a soft ringing comes; nought to alarm all but the keenest of ears; as a blade, blackened and curved is drawn. The beast moves forward a step and a step more, not yet forsaking quiet, iron shod feet padding as softly as they might. Yet in another moment the huge orc tears up and out through the dark twisted bows of trees, disturbing some roosting bird with a screech and a flutter as he goes. Bow still grasped in the orcs hand, he hoys towards the middle of the road, squat legs powering the orc along at speed belieing his girth, with curved blade still grasped in the clawed right hand. The creatures face warps in a foul twisted manner, yellow fangs on a crooked jaw parted wide as the orc hisses out in the manner of a ferrel beast.

When the loud cry of the great eagle sounds Rah grin quiet nastily and starts to look to the sky then looks around for suitable cover. Getting up just enough to scurry over to a tree which she counches down beside, her bow and notched arrow pointed to the sky and she begins to search for the nasty birdy with the intend to put a few arrows though her wings and body.

Torghaal grunts as Skragat charges, having foreseen ill events for this day. But he cannot allow the attack to go unaided. A louder ring is heard, as Torghaal's scimitar is drawn and not quieted. "Gralnak, attack." His voice is harsh, venomous...though wether at the charging orc or the opponents, one cannot say. With that, he springs forwards, shadows mingling with shadows as his black form races out onto the road.

The Beorian woodsman has crossed only a few scant yards of undergrowth near the eastern edge of the old road when he once again pauses, this time to crouch low behind the cover afforded by a tangle of spiny brambles. His sharp grey eyes are drawn momentarily skywards by the clear--if distant--call of the yet unseen eagle, yet the overhanging canopy of branches obscures much of his view, and he soon returns his attention to watching the shadowy press of trees across the road. Skragat's abrupt and explosive appearance draws Istadris' eyes immediately, the heavy bow is raised at once before him, the arrow knocked and swiftly drawn to the corner of his mouth. The weapon's haft is tilted, and he rises slightly to bent knees only to aim over the tangle of brush before releasing his first shaft. The arrow spirals expertly through the evening air and towards the fat orch slaver's mailclad chest.

Still poised upon the rocky hill on the east side of the road with bow and arrow readied, Finnabair moves slightly to allow herself room to draw the weapon at need. The wind picks up, sighing through the trees and overhead a sharp cry breaks the silence of the hushed forest, followed by crashing noise through the forest and harsh voices. Wide-eyed, Finnabair hunches down and presses herself close against the rock, searching wildly from sky to forest floor in the seconds it takes before she hears the snap of a bow released. At that she half rises, sliding down the embankment until she stands on the forest floor again, unknowingly less than a dozen yards from where Istadris lies hid.

Following behind Torghaal the small Orc does not seem surprised as signs of danger and battle continue. Though as he hears the eagle from above, he looks alarmed. He nods to Torghaal, his head still slightly tilted upwards towards the eagle. A fairly long dagger is pulled from Gralnaks sleeve, as he holds it like a knife, the blade pointed downward. He follows towards Torghaal, a wicked grin on his face as he looks about for something to dig his dagger into. The sound of arrows catches the small Orc's attention. Ducking slightly, he walks quickly in that direction...

As the Slave Master runs the width of the road his eyes seek, cover or a target, afore his course can be changed thoug an arrow hisses out towards the beast. Too much weight and speed had been given to the legs of Skragat to turn, thus as he pumps hard across the smooth road the arrow flies truely at his chest; yet the pumping arms of the orc flayed with fortune in the path of the arrow, a clang loud and metallic cuts the air as the arrow pelts against the shield on the orc arm. A curse and scream of pain comes loud, finally breaking what is left of the deathly silence in the woods. The scream stems from the shaft, for the longbows flight was too great even to be broken by iron, its distorted tip driving even into the orcs sickly flesh on the other side, punching cleanly through the shield and there the arrow bristles. Yet the same speed that carried the orc into the arrow carried him onward, streaking straight towards the woodsman who shout him. THe screm of pain on his lips rolls into words of manner guttaral and furious, one word is discernable, it is "DIE" And thus with blade raise high the orc powers right to the very hiding place of the other turning to attack. Eyes fell and wild.

Istadris' thin lips curl with an alarmed grimace, and his frown deepens as he watches the fat orchish warrior charge on despite the shaft which has just plunged through shield and arm at his side. The Beorian tracker wastes no time, however, and quickly springs to his feet while throwing the bow aside and looking further down the road to where Torghaal and Gralnak have emerged. A hurried backstep carries him further into the trees' sheltering gloom, and at once he reaches for the pommel of the longsword that hangs at his back. The heavy sword is pulled free of its sheath with a soft, hissing ring, and still the former ranger backpedals to buy himself time before Skragat's eventual attack. "Into the trees!" He calls aloud to his two companions, before at last bracing himself between two widely spaced silvery trunks and lifting the sword defensively before him to await the oncoming beast's attack.

Gifted by the will of Manwe to hear the slightest cry for help, the Eagle now catches the unmistakable sound of orcs about their foul work as it carries into the skies. Another cry is given, this one piercing and filled with hot anger. Still high up the bird turns, the great wings sweeping upon the wind. A streak of gold from out the east instead of the west, the bird swoops lower, keen bright eyes looking upon the road.

Down along the road, a small distance from the main gathering of the Brethil warriors, another cluster of soldiers gathers. Dark blacks and greys mingle with the freshly buffed leather of the Amon Obel Guard as they wait, silently -- watching the stirrings of combat at the fore of the road. A strange mish-mash of weapons, spears and axes and bows, sprout themselves from amongst this group. And upon their faces, a grim visage exudes, from fresh faced youth to grizzled veteran.

At their lead, the Warden of Amon Obel, Reynulf watches the battle as it unfolds before him. Impassively, stonely, his gaze slips along the ragtag army of Brethil. It won't be long before his boys will be in this fight.

The hunting bird's clarion cry sends a shudder through the healer's hunched form, and though Aldawin's grey eyes lift towards the darkening veil of branch and leaf overhead, naught can be seen of the avian's flight. Instead, the singing retreat of the arrow next released by Istadris commands Aldawin's attention, and as the missile's point finds its mark upon the angered Skragat, and the scream of the cursed beast rends the even's quiet, the younger Beor scrambles backwards--longsword gripped in her right hand as she swats away the encumbering cloak with her left--and heeds Istadris' warning to find cover in the trees, though takes no more than a pace or two before she halts in watch as the injured orch approaches.

Swerving past the last tree between the woodsman the orc breaks not for pause. Yet his run slackens perfectly, his right boot falling heavily to stop just as his blade rains down from high upon his right side, seeking to rake down the chest of the human with the tip, the tip smeared with devilry. The arm left arm drips with blood and the arrows barbs the square metal plate, yet shield and froearm rise to cover the chest and most of the orcs left face, his right side covered by the arcing blade. A screm tears from the orcs lung even as the blade falls down, despite the frenzy with which it was delt, the blade falls squarely with pace and seems well placed to strike the chest or abdoman of the other.

When the eagle comes in to sight, Rah flintches slightly but sures herself up, huddled against the tree, her bow ready just waiting for the bird to drift down a little more, after all the first arrow would come as a bit of a surprise, so it had to be a good one, after that it would possible only take a few minutes for the great bird to find her, so the first few arrows had to be good. So Rah waited not giving her position away smiling nastily as the pesky buzzard dropped closer and closer to her range with the bow.

Suddenly stopping, the small Orc notices he will be heading into a raging battle...he turns to the side, walking lightly into the forest. He looks to be attempting to sneak around Istadris and his companions...as he walks deeper into the forest. After a few minutes, he notices he has no idea where he is. His eyes warrily darting from side to side he looks around very frightened...

The Beorian woodsman's sharp eyes are torn away from the oncoming figure of Skragat and to the other yrch on the road only briefly before the latter's bulky form has reached the place where he stands between the two silvery trunks. With a swift step back, and an agile twist of his studded-leather-clad figure, the tracker manages to avoid the other's widely swung scimitar blow. The longsword remains held steadily in his right hand, with the weapon's blade slanted forward and pointed slightly in his opponent's direction. Yet, now counter blow does the weathered fighter offer, instead choosing to backtrack further into the woods, away from the edge of road and the other yrch who walk upon it.

Ignoring Istadris' call to fall back into the trees, Finnabair hestitates at the base of the steep rise and then starts to move, cautious but urged despite the confusion of noise. Angry cries from the skies overhead and coming through the trees off to the side of her, Finnabair comes to where the trees suddenly fall away and the road is before her. Glancing quickly up it she spies two squat figures scurrying across and toward them she goes, bow lifted with the arrow already set to the string, drawing back and hardly slowing to aim it before releasing.

The arrow's little aim leaves enough room for luck for Torghaal. Seeing the human rise up and loose an arrow at him and Gralnak, he weaves to one side, avoiding the arrow and loosing track of Gral. As he resets his path, he notices that the other orc is gone but cannot waste the time to consider it as he reaches the edge of the road, his black scimitar held out and ready as he leaves the road and runs, headlong, for Finnabair.

As his blade sails past the agile human a moment is spent in gaining full balance, and the orc lurches heavily to the left as if he has come a cropper, yet only a feint he offers, driving swiftly upwards and towards the other. With another scream and a gaping of bestail jaws, the yellow fangs string with spittle. The short legs of the fat beast drive him forward, half running and leaping at the other. Lifiting his blade not, nor his body over much he sends the edge of the blade whirling low from the right, aimed at the thighs of the human whilst driving the shield upward with a great deal of force, seeking to strike the fellow in the gut and knock his wind from him.

Now almost directly above the fray, the eagle dips one wing, and then the other, tucking them against the body briefly to turn, circling lower, ever lower. Keen eyes unblinking seek the path, the obscuring trees, but it is not a night-bird, and in the growing gloom sight is somewhat diminished. Another cry rings out, this a challenge, as the great bird swoops closer.

Rah-Kathak grins gleefully and checks her arrow, to make sure the poison that she had dipped it in at the start was still good, snickering softly she watches the great annoying buzzard drop into range and she pulls back on her string to let fly with the arrow quickly reaches blindly for another her eyes watching her first arrow flying towards her target.

Finnabair watching as her shot goes astray, Finnabair sees the two yrch separate, one diving through the trees and the other turning to come at her now. Distracted by the cries and sound of wings beating powerfully on the air, her bow lowers as her shoulders hunch in fear of it and she skirts to the side, falling into the trees again, leaving the orch to pursue her. Not far away she can hear the growing scuffle of battle, and she calls out for her companions as she scurries through the forest, "Aldawin! Istadris!"

The grass and mud-covered land away from the edge of the road begins to slope gently upwards, and Istadris struggles now to keep his stubborn opponent at a safe distance as he trudges backwards through the undergrowth. The tracker at last plants his booted left foot down against the muddy ground and pivots to his left at the other's feint, yet despite his quickness, the fat slaver Skragat's next blow comes well within its reach. His longsword dips swiftly in a desperate parry, and the two blades meet with a resounding ring before the orch's scimitar is deflected safely away. The shoved orchish shield, however, pins Istadris' weapon arm to his body and knocks him a full pace backwards, while the black-fletched shaft that still portrudes from it shatters in two with the impact. The weathered human warrior grunts softly and attempts to twist away from the other's burly form even as he aims a quick blow of his left fist over the other's shield and at his nose.

As the human runs, Torghaal follows, trying to keep on her heels. Luckily for him, his scimitar gives him added range. As he runs, he flails the blade before him, hoping to cut or at least scratch the back of the fleeing human. "Stop and fight, coward!" he cries out, his voice begining to come in rasps; he does not like to run.

Darkness opens to reveal a hidden orc, bow-weilding cursed thing, foul to the eagle's eyes, foul in the sight of Manwe. And darkness opens to reveal the arrow aimed at the eagle's breast, but she wheels at the last moment, and it pierces her left wing, pierces and drives nearly through it, the tip lodging against bone. A scree of rage tears from the great bird's beak, and she folds now her wings and extends her talons, dropping down from the sky to attack the fould thing that has dared set an arrow in her flesh. Her vision impaired somewhat by bough and leaf and darkness, the bird reaches out blindly with rending talons at the orc, not aiming. Reynulf says, "I really am sorry guys, but I'm having an awful time with my computer."

Rah-Kathak squeaks at the very impressive sight of the huge buzzard diving down on her and dives for cover around the tree, though it seems not fast enough as a long gash, though not too deep appears just below where the leather armor protects her back and runs down her leg to the knee, limping away looking behind her as she goes Rah, with bow still in hand starts to put a little distance between herself and the buzzard so she can put another poison tip arrow in to the nasty thing.

As the shield knocks into the human the orc wails in pain as the shattering shaft caused the flesh beneath to further rent the dark veined flesh of the orc. The crooked jaw shreaks open and the orcs head wheels in pain even as the fist comes at him. And squaly it strikes, yet not the sunken snout of the creature, falling against the hard edge of the beasts cheek, turning the thick skull of the orc away from the humans face. Driving the booted feet hard to earth, letting the iron bite deep into the mood, Skragat drives his boody unstooped, revealing his full stature, among the orcen race few stand taller. The right arm of the Slave Master rises swiftly and lashes quicker, serpentine and venemous in aim and speed; to lash at the out stetched arm which just punched, wheeling down towards the root and shoulder, it lacks strength enough to hew through, yet enough to trouble even the strongest armour.

Held under the shadows of a towering pine, Aldawin catches blurs of shapes darker than night as figures in the forest move among the white birch and pine. And while she hesitates to flee farther into the forest, Istadris' tall form is soon lost from view--the cursing screams of the fat orch pursuing. Heeding prudence, the healer then turns quickly to make for the forest's depths, ducking under encroaching branches and halting only as she hears Finnabair's urgent call. Gripping the longsword tightly in her icy fingers, the healer turns to follow the sound of the ranger's voice, backtracking several steps in uncertaintly, and leading her paces, instead, closer to the orch Rah-Kathak.

Dashing back beyond the forest's edge, a dozen paces ahead of Torghaal's pursuit, Finnabair swiftly slides into the cover of its darkness. Moving amongst the pale shadows of the trees, heading for the where the sounds of weapons clashing she hurries, bow held down at her side and as yet no other arrow taken up and set to its taunt string, and again she calls out, ignoring the danger that might fall upon her, "Istadris!", changing her course again to avoid what lies ahead, its scrabbling alerting her, "Aldawin?!"

The chase becomes too much for one such as Torghaal, his breath ragged now as he slows and finally stops. Looking around as the human scampers off into the woods, he can still make out the road and the figures of more orcish enemies upon it. Looking about again and seeing none near to him, he takes a small metal horn from his robes, blowing two short and one long blast into it as he turns and makes back for the road, though also moving away from the oncoming gaurd. It was the signal to retreat and Torghaal does exactly that.

A second soft curse is uttered through Istadris' clenched teeth as he feels his left wrist jarred by the impact of his solid punch to the orch's thick skull. The pressure cast against him by the burly beast's iron shield slackens as the other draws to his full height, and here the Beorian woodsman makes his swift escape by twisting his body away to the left and springing a hurried step backwards. The other's arching scimitar blow nearly cleaves his arm in half, yet the limb is tucked quickly away from the strike and the orch's steel finds none of the human's flesh in his path. With surprising agility, Istadris backpedals yet another step to gain some distance between himself and his foe, but this time counters with a quick blow of his own. The longsword's lengthy blade is swung hard and low in a backhanded strike aimed to slice into the beast's dark flesh and bone, just beneath his left knee.

The eagle screams as her prey eludes her in the cover of the trees, leaving only the wetness of blood upon her talons. She lands upon the ground, holding her injured wing a bit away from her, and progresses along the path in acvian hops, her keen eyes seeking out orcs even as a sparrow hunts for bugs.

Rah-Kathak who is still limping away from the nasty buzzard with the very sharp claws turns just in time to stop from limping staight into a human. Rah just stopped and looked at the human, she was a blacksmith not a warrior and this was the first time she had ever seen a human with a weapon. Rah just snarls, and swings with both hands, the weapon she had in hand, her bow, not having had the time or even the mind dodraw the scimitar at her side.

A note comes crisp and noisome comes, tuneless and brash. Yet with the sound many of the orcs still hidden turn tail, running for deeper to escape the eyes of the eagle and the blades of the Gaurd.

Yet the horn rings distracting to the ear of the Slave Master. Thus as his blade falls past the human he hisses in anger, yet he wheels his body to place the curved blade back at the human. And it is only with the corner of his coaly eyes that the Orc espies the attack, and only the barest of margins left to leap back a pace. Too late. For the blade strike the tails of the mail coat and bounces onto the leather breeches, tearing the filthy cloth open and a deep wound in the left flank of the creatures thigh. A shout of pain comes and the orc wheels away another pace, almost crumpling back with the pain, yet footing is held. The Slave takes his time to lift his shield again and his blade, truning his squitning eyes back tot he human, the hoarse howls screechign out of a tormented throat never wholly cease as he watches the other. Edging ever back.

Patterns of light and dark are strange in the mottling of crowded birch and pine. And the wind's erratic breezes do little to help the Beor healer ascertain Finnabair's position in the thick of the woodlands. Her steps slowed, she squints in the darkness and turns quite suddenly into the path of Rah-Kathak, whose unexpected 'appearance' causes her to draw in a sharp breath, though she utters no other sound as the loathesome beast snarls and brings a bow up in defence. Hampered by the dim light, Aldawin does not see the weapon clearly and acts upon instinct alone, herself, stepping a pace back upon her left foot and raising the heavy longsword up in a deflecting blow towards whatever the she-orch has set against her.

Though his shoulders heave now with extertion, and his breathing comes in quick gasps through clenched teeth, Istadris too holds his ground before the burly orchish slaver. His booted feet are braced into the muddy ground just beyond the other's scimitar reach, and the now bloodied longsword sways easily in the firm, steady grip of his right hand. The tracker's sharp grey eyes are cold, and his stony features devoid of any expression as he watches the injured beast edge slowly away. A single step draws him once again nearer, and the longsword's heavy blade is raised tilted directly before him, its sharpened tip aimed at Skragat's face. Little heed those he pay to the sounds of scuffling and calls that ring out from the trees all about, his attention focused fully upon the creature directly before him. As the orchish warrior draws slowly away, so does Istadris follow--ever just beyond the other's reach, deathly silent, and unreadable.

The eagle hops along, trying to lift off the ground, but there is little room, and her left wing will not support a stiff curve needed to allow her to rise on a glide. Angry, she screes again, dipping her beak to peck at the ground. Orcs flee, and the chase would be fun.... at least for her. Yet instead she is grounded, and the arrow wound burns strangely. She settles herself in a hollow upon the path and watches keenly.

Racing another few long strides, Finnabair stops herself between a circle of trees and looks vainly through the darkness of the forest. The cries of the eagle ring sharply in the night and the sounds of yrch scrambling through the forest and across the road can be heard, so too the sound of battle on either side of her. But with no answer coming from either of her companions, she debates which way to turn, finally deciding upon a course that will take her back to where the giant eagle hops along with its wounded wing. Catching a glimpse of its looming form through the trees she hestitates, not daring to approach.

Grabbing the handel of his curved blade with both hands the orc sends it flayling into the path of the other with all his might and a grunt of pain and exertion heralds the blow. An almighty ring of steel goes up as the blade is driven off its course, and sends its skiting down the plate of iron of the fore arm of the orc. Yet as the blades met one prooved the weaker, the black cast iron failed, and its legnth is snapped half off, leaving shards of metal upon the floor. A look of horror and nager passes the orcs face, eh lurches again ducking back a pace and driving his body a apce and more back, seeking to put a tree between himself and the human, still clinging to the half blade. The orc stoops and darts alogn swiftly, never turning his shield or blade wholly away from the Woodsman.

Rah-Kathak looked down at the bow which had just been broken over the nasty human's sword and looked up at the owner of the sword who had just broken the bow snarled again just as the sound of the horn rings out. Looking at the human Rah throws the two piece of the bow at her then turns and hurries into a shuffled run away from the the buzzard who has settled into a hollow off to her left and the human in front of her, and off to the right, being careful to use the trees as cover, the scimitar previously forgotten banging against her leg again as she runs.

The eagle flaps her injured wing, and it crashes into the hanging branches, snapping some of them. And then she catches sight of one of the humans approaching, and she tilts her head, watching with bright eyes. 'Come... closer," she says, her voice high and deep at the same time, a windy sound. She hears the sound of swordplay and begins to hop towards it, her injured wing now dragging upon the ground.

Istadris flinches as the two blades collide with a jarring, ringing impact, and his right hand tightens instinctively around the hilt of his vibrating sword. Though it stands against the orchish-made scimitar, a deep notch is split into the Beorian blade's edge nearly at three quarters of its full length. The tracker moves unhesitantly then, springing towards his fleeing opponent and trotting easily and lightly over the tangled forest's jutting tree roots and muddy grounds. His heavy sword is at once lifted high overhead, and he aims a solid, arching strike down at the other's neck and shoulders even while sidestepping to circle round the tree which Skragat seeks to take shelter behind.

Finnabair withdraws a step as the great eagle turns its piercing eyes upon her and then another when it beckons her forward. But only those two steps and then she holds still, considering it fearfully and warily before retracing her steps and indeed daring to approach it now. Slowly though, and with axe still held in front of her, glancing at the wing it drags along the ground.

The sharp *snap* of the bow broken with the longsword's upraised arc splinters the air with sound, and urged by this success, Aldawin recovers her stance to attack yet again. But instead of the expected return blow, the healer finds the next assault is given in the form of the broken weapon flung at her. Shielding her face with her left arm, the shattered pieces of the bow are blocked and fall harmlessly to the ground. And though the healer takes a couple paces after the she-orch in pursuit--her eyes glinting with anger--she halts with those two steps, seeing that the wretched beasts are bound for retreat. Her breaths short and given to agitation, Aldawin looks about the press of pine and birch uneasily, raising her voice along with the length of the sword before her. "Istadris? Finnabair!" And then she waits.

As the warrior comes again the Orc still tries to flee, his body arching as he tries to leap out towards at tree, yet the human camoes to soon. Twising by the nearest margin the orcs steps out and past the blow, yet the tip of the sword catches heavily upon the chin link of his armour and tears it asunder, tearing the dark flesh upon the orcs chest, below his right shoulder. Pain. Black blood wells there quickly. Again the orc shrieks, yet his coaly eyes fight to stay open, he twists about the trunk and lunges at the human side, sending the ragged end of the blade at the human a viscously as his arms might. Hissing in anger as he does so, and twisiting his body away; seeking to flee from the tree he sought to hide behind and the human who stands there.

"I will not hurt you," says the eagle to the woman, a glint of amusement in her eyes. She looks to the side, seeing movement in the tangle of trees, but it is not anywhere she can go. She darts her beak forwards in frustration, snapping on air, and then settles again, waiting to see if any prey is forthcoming from the woods. A mouse darts out from the crackling brush, and she snaps it up quickly. "Rest, if you wish, I will warn you."

The Beorian woodsman follows Skragat's darting movements through wide eyes, and though the gloom of evening and the deep, enshrouding shadows cast by the press of trees around him obscure his vision, the other's bulky figure is quite visible where it moves along the birch's trunk. The tracker lifts the notched sword well overhead for yet another blow even as he springs around the tree and after the retreating orch. This time, however, the other creature's blow is nearly unseen, and it finds purchase against the human's studded leather-clad body in a glancing blow off his ribs on the left side of his torso. The jagged stub of the scimitar's shattered blade rends a shallow gash across Istadris' ribs, and he gasps aloud in pain and astonishment, even as he follows through with his own smashing overhead swing aimed for the other's right shoulder.

Even as the blade of the Orc strikes, and slides past the man, rather than be drawn closer the smashed blade rattles from his hand as the orc leans heavily to leap past the falling blow and by the narrowest margin does the sword fall past him. Yet the orcs motion never wholly ceases and flinging the wounded left arm out he drives it swiftly towards the skull of the human whilst running straight at him. His right hand lashes to his side, taking hold of a dagger even as he goes. In the short three steps sundering the pair the arm of Skragat lashes out hard and fast, yet the orcs pace builds explosively, as if he means to bowl the other over. Leaning heavily to the left he winces with pain and growls as his wounded thigh powers him off, black blood spuing out from many places on his body.

Finnabair finally hears an answer to her repeated calls, "Here, Aldawin!", she shouts back to the healer without turning away from the eagle toward which she begins to step toward at its assurances. Seeing it quickly snatch up and devour the mouse though she pauses, unsure about continuing forward when the sound of fighting rings loud again through the forest. Drawing back a step, looking at the eagle as though for permission, she starts back toward the sound of the battle.

"Go," says the eagle softly, a certain sadness to her voice. "If you can drive it this way, I will help.' She shuffles closer to the side of the road in order to let the human pass by her, and her eyes glitter.

Istadris exhales sharply as he is pulled forward by the weight of his swung blade. His own blow's momentum carries him into the other's path, and lifting his arm instinctively is all that the human fighter can do to ward off the other's bashing shield arm. The iron-shod shield slams into his upraised arm, knocking him backwards a full step and sending him staggering up against the trunk of the tall birch tree even as the burly beast rushes past him. With a low grunt and a pained grimace, the Beorian woodsman quickly pivots away from his fleeing opponent and turns to lift the sword defensively before him once again. His cold eyes follow the other creature closely, but he does not. With a low, rattling breath, he brings his bruised left arm down to clasp at his slashed ribs, all the while stooping where he stands and letting out a low, deep breath through clenched teeth.

Finnabair's voice this time is clear and unhampered by any distorting breezes, though the sound of continued scuffle and struggle reaches the healer's ears as well now that most of the foe have retreated. Heaving a nervous sigh, Aldawin begins to make her tracks back towards the road, finding her knapsack quite by chance along the way. Still warily watching the gloom of the forest about her, the healer is fairly startled when she steps clear of the sheltering branches and bracken to see the large eagle perched upon the road before her. The Beor's eyes widen slightly, though she looks--still wary--from the eagle to the ranger. "Where is Istadris?" she wonders, turning to snap a gaze over her shoulder and gripping the hilt tighter with paling fingers.

As the Orc bounces past the human, he turns not back, glancing off him and powering for the trees, Northwards, shunning the road. His gait is swift enough considering his left leg trailes near enough behind him and blood spues from his body, and furthermore does the orc run, taking no moment for breath as the human. Dagger in his right and shield upon his left, both arms pound wildy at the air as the orcs yellow fangs are barred desparately and his eyes near popping they stare so wide. The iron shod boots of the orc churn the earth, and clods of debris a flung behind him. Yet the beast skinds to his kness a moment, ragged breath tears from flaming lungs, no more than a moment does it take for his feet to be regained and his mad scramble restarted.

The woodsman leans wearily against the side of the birch trunk for a brief moment, his wide-eyed gaze still held by the bulky figure of the retreating orchish warrior, Skragat. Not until the other is hidden from sight by the gloom and trees does he turn, this time to look urgently in the direction of the road. With his bruised and battered left arm still held tightly to his ribs, Istadris trudges quickly over the muddy earth and to the old road's eastern edge. There at last he appears, emerging suddenly from the shadows perhaps a dozen yards further north of where the great eagle rests. His wide grey eyes are drawn immediately to the bird's massive form, and though his longsword dips limply at his side, the Beorian makes no step to move closer, seemingly struck with astonishment.

Finnabair looks upon the eagle and nods once, turning to go off toward where fade the last sounds of the fighting. But turning there she finds Aldawin approaching and a wary glance at the eagle again she answers, "That way, I think.", she says quietly, gesturing toward the noises only to be dumbstruck as the woodsman emerge upon the road himself. "No...there he is.", she says, correcting herself, raising a hand at him, "Istadris.", she calls, beckoning him toward she and Aldawin.

Istadris spares Finnabair and Aldawin only a brief look before lifting his eyes to look upon the magnificently large eagle. "Ah, are any of you injured?" He calls aloud, still clutching at his own bruised ribs and trudging only slowly down the dusty path to where his companions await him. The woodsman's gaze is held still by the great bird, however, even as he at last reaches the other two and stabs the tip of his sword into the dusty soil by his feet. "The wardens need to be informed of this." He utters, still half out of breath, "Are there none here?"

The eagle turns her golden head, regarding one human after another, her eyes still bright, though they are glazed a little with pain. "It was... a good fight.... though would it were out in the open. I could have helped you more..." She lowers her head, re-settling the feathers upon her breast with her beak. "Bright greetings and fair winds to you..."

Returning the uncertain gaze back to the giant eagle, Aldawin stands her ground--half-hidden in the shadows that spill upon the dirt road which, holds some faint gleam of starlight. Yet as Finnabair sees and motions to the woodsman, the healer is quick to turn in the direction the other waves, taking only a step or two towards Istadris before waiting for him to approach instead. "I am well," the healer hastens to answer the other's inquiry, and seems about to question him in turn as she looks doubtfully to his left side, when the eagle speaks. Falling to silence, Aldawin gazes up at the avian creature, astonishment settling in her own eyes.

Finnabair shakes her head at Istadris' question and then says, "First I would know that they have tucked their tails between them and gone." With another wary glance at the great eagle she eases her weapon down to her side and steps back toward the trees, retrieving the bow she left leaning against one just a few paces off the road. "I will only have a look to be sure. Not far.", she adds, slipping the bow over her shoulder and hurrying off in the direction the yrch retreated.