October 27, 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.

Here at the edge of the forest the road winds its way amongst the birches, their rustling, silver leaves lit by the last glimmer of the moon rising over the horizon before a warm and damp wind draws heavy clouds over it, darkening the night. Brought with it is the rain that now falls between the swaying branches that groan and clack against one another and down amongst them, on the east side of the road, a silent figure leans against a sturdy birch, watching north up the road. Dressed in somber colours she fades away against the white birch, handling the great length of a strung bow that rests upon the ground before her.

No more than a dozen yards further south along the old road from where the solitary watcher stands, treads a second figure. The tall, lean man's frame walks enveloped in a light cloak of forest green with the hood upraised to ward off the cool rain. A tall, slightly curved bowstaff dangles from his left shoulder, beside the leather quiver of arrows at his hip. The deepening shadows cast by the press of trees that border the road obscure his passing, and he at times disappears altogether into the night's gloom. His long steps are swift, however, but silent as he weaves his way northwards through the birches and pines along the eastern edge of the old road.

Out of concern for her kin and friends, elder healer Emeldir has ventured out together with them. Her skill is not as deft as the others, however; hence while they are positioned as look-outs, she is further back from the road amongst the silvery birches of the forest.

Having found a tree stump, Emeldir rests a while upon it, peering through the dark, unable to make out much save for when shafts of moonlight break through the clouds and the canopy of leaves above. Her right hand hovers just above the hilt of the sword strapped across her chest; it it comes down to it, the healer is capable of joining in a battle.

North, towards the dark rumour of mountains, east of the road by a score of long paces a shadow moves, yet it moves with company. To all save the very sharpest of eyes, the spidery movements of the figure are lost, despite a vast, bloated frame bound in sable mail dulled to offer no gleam or herald of reflected moonlight. A ragged cloak further deepens the shadow; the coaly skin and blackened helm defy the moon, only dark bestial eyes may offer a half gleam, or the spittle clinging to yellowed fangs. Grasped in clawed hands, a small dark bow, seemingly of bone rather than any sort of wood.

This shadow and a company similar begin to file along the edge of the road, ever south and ever in search of silence and the shade of brush and hedge.

Finnabair's hood is drawn forward and as she looks back south, down along the treeline, she reaches to pull it aside for an unemcumbered view. Seeing nothing there but the shadowy sprawl of the forest she turns again, glancing a moment to the place behind her in the trees where Emeldir lies hid in the dark, hid so well that she sees not her dark shape at the stump. Looking back to the empty road once more, she lets her hood fall back in place and shifts her footing, exhanging her bow into the other hand as she picks it up and starts with muffled steps northward to the next press of trees.

Among the shadow company, two or three figures back from the first, is the one they call Feghtiuk. Dark cloth and dark steel adorn him, as all of those herein, to give the required stealth to their presence. A long black scimitar hangs tight against his back, strapped to remove all sounds in passing. The rain has become an irritant for him, clinging to his helm and dropping in small streams from above his eyes. Clawed hands reach up to remove it, perhaps with more movment than was necessary; his growing anger at the iritation stronger than his sense of wariness.

The overhanging canopy of tangled, leafy branches offers some measure of shelter from the rain, and yet droplets fall ceaselessly upon the muddy undergrowth and over Istadris as he slips quitely north along the edge of the forest. The Beorian woodsman lifts a bare hand to tug idly at the low-hanging cowl, and hurries onwards. His sharp grey gaze roams over the inky shadows beyond the treeline, and it is in that obscuring blackness that he nearly stumbles across the Lady Emeldir. "Emeldir?" He whispers softly in confused tones, before dropping to a crouch in the darkness near her side and looking northwards through the trees once again, "What is the matter? Why are you here?". The woodsman shows no sign of noting Finnabair's cloaked form, nor the small band of creatures creeping nearer from further north along the road.

Her attentions centered on trying to make out what is going on, Emeldir is nearly startled by the whisper of Istadris. She does jump briefly, turning towards him now to whisper her reply, "I too have heard word of the beasts being sighted along the borders," she tells him, keeping her voice lowered, drawing the hood of her light cloak more protectively around her head. Her glance drawn for a moment in the direction she last saw Finnabair, she adds quietly, "If the beasts be here, I am willing to fight against them," her hand gripping the hilt of her sword, not mentioning that she'd be available to help with any injuries; the leather satchel containing her herbs and ointments rests on the forest floor at her feet.

Just behind the figure of Feghtiuk is Lak-ghash, another largish shape and covered in dark mail, hidden with the rest of the shadowy company. He grimaces at Feghtiuk's anger and haste with which he had moved, staring at the creature's back for a time before looking to his sides. A darkened and hide-covered battle axe is strapped to his back within quick reach of his hands to be used. The creatures' tongue slithers over his teeth, almost unable to wait for battle to be joined should that be their fate this night in these dark woods.

Istadris slips the curved shaft of his bow from his shoulder and rests it idly upon the ground by his side as he crouches next to Emeldir in the darkness off the road. "Aye, it was I who saw the creatures over several nights ago, now." He claims, still watching the trees ahead through narrowed eyes. "There were few of them, yet they made to spy further down the road, surely." The Beorian woodsman frowns uneasily then, and rises suddenly to his feet. "We've not seen the creatures since, yet signs of their passing just beyond the edge of the forest are clear." With a curt nod to the Beorian lady, he gestures onwards and adds, "I must find Finnabair. Take care, Emeldir." Stealthy, measured steps carry the veteran woodsman on through the press of trees along the eastern edge of the road and gradually towards where the ranger walks a few yards ahead.

Rain drips through the branches above Finnabair and seeps down along the trunk she leans against, soaking her garments through so that they are left to hang limply about her. Despite that, the night is warm with and the air is heavy, and with nimble fingers she checks the string of her bow, finding it still taunt and ready. Her even grey eyes rest on the road that climbs into the north and she casts her gaze to either side of the forest's edge, finding nothing but stillness and dark there. In the trees behind her some sense rather than sound draws her from her steady vigil and she turns to look into the deep shadows.

The company of orcs, for this they are, move now with a greater urgency as the eaves of the forest begin to become distinct. A flat shadow, begins to take the darkened shap of leaf and bow. Moving still in line with the road the shadowy figure have closed to within two dozen paces of the nearest of the, yet unseen and unsented humans.

The fattened body of the slave master hoys on at a pace which seems to defy his size and with a stealth that iron shod boots can seldom find. The bow in his hand is held at his chest, a black fletched arrow resting in the nock of the bow. The crooked skull, crowned by a similar helm wheels about, both hands and bow are lifted without breaking stride. He motions for the band to move nearer the road, and a hissing past jutting fangs urges for more stealth. But the massive orc breaks his own order, for the boots which bind his feet fall into a slight trough of the earth, the sound of rotting leaves and mud being squelched offers itself, slight, yet certain.

The Beorian woodsman's careful, deliberate steps grow more cautious as he passes into deeper shadow. Low-hanging branches at times present unseen obstacles in the darkness, while the incessant drip of raindrops only adds to the black night's disorienting effect. His thin lips curl distastefully as he loses sight of Emeldir entirely, yet he presses onwards, keeping well within reach of the inky shadows, yet where he may still see the edge of the road through the trees to his left. Trudging only a few paces behind where Finnabair has come to a halt, he too freezes midstride at the quiet sounds of the disturbance caused by one of the unseen yrch ahead. The tracker's right hand dips instinctively to the quiver at his side, yet he draws not, and instead remains motionless in his place and strains to listen past the dull rush of rainfall all around him.

Feghtiuk follows on behind the others, easilly keeping pace. He shakes his head angrily, little droplets of water flying to and fro as he grunts, trying to remain quiet. He simply glares at the Slave Master as he urges speed. Yet, as Skragat stumbles and new sounds enter the night, Feghtiuk's scimitar appears in his hand and ready in a single fluid motion. His eyes jump from side to side, seeking out the unseen foe and readying himself to kill. It takes him a few moments to realize that it was Skragat and not an attacker and he curses softly, his scimitar pointing menacingly at the other orc.

Moving with as much stealth as he can, Lak-ghash silently snarls at the company's leader having made noise thinking, 'Him telling us to being quiet and him making noise at same time..' He blinks his eyes and looks ahead, trying to discern anything from out of the distorted gloom of branches and rain. The motion of the orc ahead drawing his scimitar brings his attention, growling at the flying water droplets that are landing on his face. He wipes away the drops, leaving a dark smear on his face from the dirt on his hand.

Finnabair watches calmly as the presence she felt emerges as Istadris out of the shadows and comes to join her by the trees at the side of the road. With no word of greeting she sees his hand drop to his quiver and his look stare off into the night. "What is it?", she asks in a hushed voice, turning back to the road where strange sounds now begin to drift down toward them.

Istadris' teeth grit nervously at the faint, near undetectable sound of drawn steel that rings out from the darkness and trees just ahead. The black-fletched shaft in his right hand is knocked swiftly, while the tall bow is raised in absolute silence as he strains to find any movement ahead. His hooded head shakes swiftly in wordless response to Finnabair's questioning words, and though he watches the trees before him intently, the black night's gloom hangs heavily over Brethil's woods, veiling all that walks beneath in obscuring shadow.

His stride broken, Skragat stops and drags himself towards a narrow trunk of a tree, way to slender to offer any serious manner of shield from eyes or bow. His dart is returned to it's quiver; and while a bound black hand replaces the bow upon his shoulder, it now takes up a blade. Dark and cruelly curved, dulled by soot and grime, it gleams not, but the soft leather which it sits in, hisses as the blade is pulled free. A lolling arm drops, yet it stops, the blade pointing towards Feghtiuk, mirroring any threat that might be offered his way. His jaw pivots and he hisses softly open, baring his yellowed fangs; spittle stringing from top to bottom, as water coarses over his sickly dark face. He takes a step from the tree towards Feghtiuk, coal-black eyes, gleaming savagely, dispute grown full in his gaze.

"You make too large and loud a target, Skragat..." Feghtiuk hisses, his eyes glinting red in the darkness. His scimitar does not move away at the threat from the slaver and a wide grin appears upon Fegh's lips as he begins to shift around the other orc, putting his back roughly in the direction of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, where it will not be attacked. His blade cuts the air before him twice before stilling itself, again pointing to Skragat. "Shall we have this here? Perhaps one of the humans will come along and shoot you in the back as I tear out your throat?" His words are forced into wispers, but the malice and anger, long growing from the rain, escapes easilly.

In tandem with Istadris, Finnabair shrugs the wet cloak back from her shoulders and reaches for her own arrows, setting one to her longbow, the delicate wood of which she firmly holds as her fingers hook deeply around the string, leaving it undrawn and unbent for the moment. Stepping away from the tree she was at, she keeps back from the road and north through the march of birches that line its edge. Faint hissing noises come from out of the trees to the north and Finnabair squints harder to see through the black of night that hangs before their eyes.

The harsh hissed words uttered by the yrch ahead drift through the darkened trees, piercing the rainfall's dull roar. Istadris' grey eyes widen with alarm at the mostly unintelligible yet noticeable sounds, and though he looks briefly to Finnabair to gauge her reaction, his attention is soon focused upon the shadowy trees from where the sounds seemingly originate. Soft, cautious steps carry him around the bushy branches of a lofty pine and away from the edge of the road--into deeper shadow. There he halts once again, this time sucking a deep breath as he looks upon the faintly vague outline of a rather rotund orchish creature just under a dozen paces ahead. Though the woodsman raises his longbow and takes aim, he does not fire. His slitted eyes remain focused upon this target, while he watches and listens to the creatures half-hidden in gloom ahead.

Having been stopped and angered by this little quibble, a low growl emanates from Lak-ghash's throat as he watches the two orcs. His axe is in his hands because surely these two have given away our position and he hushedly hisses at them, "Keeping moving you fool worms, the hoomans is going to come and killing you both, you two making enough noise for them to finsing us." His beady eyes scan the gloom again, looking for any shapes that would show him where any hidden humans were.

The Slave Master stretches his frame, mindless of stealth or sight, he looms upwards monstous in the order of his kind. Again the creatures hisses dripping with disdane and fury, as his flaking skin does with rain. His left hand drops to his side, grasping fingers pulling a shield from his packs. He raises it to cover his left side, and he lets his booted feet take another long step towards the other orc. "You will tear nothing from me. I will not take a step further with such a wretch. Come then, die!." He takes another step forward, his throat filling with noise. Yet within the company, noises rise, the sniffing of air; and then the calls of warning, soft but urgent.

Feghtiuk's chest rises and falls, silent laughter. "You ammuse me. Human behind you...ehh, fifteen paces. Scouts saw it before. Your back is turned." He takes a step back, his scimitar now pulled across his chest as he moves next to one of the trees to shield himself. His eyes glint with pleasure, though he is certain that they have now been seen.

As Istadris steps away, Finnabair remains in place, listening intently to the things that come down through the trees north of them, the mood of harsh and angry words unmistakable now. Frowning to herself, she steps forward only a few paces, keeping close amongst the trees but halting suddenly when the sight of several squat figures shift in the night before her. With her bow raised straight out before her, level with her shoulder she readies the arrow still set to the string, pulling it back slightly as she moves the tip between the creatures, seeking one to choose.

Istadris watches the exchange in absolute silence. The longbow hangs upraised before him, and his tall, cloak-clad form well-hidden in the darkness behind a stand of brambly brush. Cool rainwater drips freely along the cowl of his hood, yet the woodsman pays it no heed as he carefully takes aim at the most obvious of the orchish shapes before him: The hulking, looming Skragat. Even as Feghtiuk slides aside to take cover behind a tree, Istadris releases his first shaft. The tell-tale snap of bowstring pierces the otherwise hushed scene, and the Beorian's black-fletched shaft flies straight and true--between a pair of tree trunks and directly for between the shoulder blades of the master slaver.

Both hearing the warnings of the rest of the orcs and seeing a figure for himself, Lak-ghash follows Feghtiuk's example and presses close to a tree, though also staying low to present less of a target. His clawed hand takes the hide-covering off the blade of his axe and drops it on the ground, pulling his axe close to his body and watching. His eyes widen somewhat as the twang of the humans bow breaks the monotonous sounds of rain.

As the sound of an arrow is heard, Feghtiuk moves around to the far side of the tree, getting as much of himself behind it as possible. After a short moment, he looks around the tree at some of the other orcs, ducks low, and weaves his way away from the others and into the dark woods.

The arrow sent by Istadris flies forward through the night and Finnabair draws back on her own to have it join flight, but the only other figures suddenly fade from sight as they slide into the trees. Growling in frustration and sending a hurried look toward Istadris, she steps clear of the trees she stands amongst, backing away several paces to keep her distance and wait for one to come back into view.

The scimitar in his hand rises, he begins to move towards the shape of Feghtiuk. The sounds of warning bring the orchish brute to set his head wheeling, and even as it does the twang of bow reaches his ears. Thoughts of evasion come to the mind of Skragat, but too late. Striking his right shoulder blade, and bursting the mailinks there a shriek, chilling, profane and animal rises. The lumbering orc falls forward, unbalanced by the belting blow, arrow still bristling from his shoulder as he falls heavily to the mud, his dark blood welling and mingling with the earth. the thick lids of coaly eyes blink as his ragged breath masters pain and his clawed hands rake the mud, crawling towards the slight refuge of a tree.

Even afore the first arrow flew, some of the orchish number, headless of the fight had begun to seek the source of the reek, and now with the call of bow-song a trio of orcs begin to slide around trunks swiftly, snaking towards Istadris, blades ready to wet with something thicker than rain.

Istadris watches through slitted eyes as the first of his shafts is driven by the longbow's force into the burly orchish beast's shoulder. His right hand darts immediately for a second arrow at his quiver, and yet sudden movement from the trees directly ahead catches his attention. The woodsman curses loudly as he makes out at least three shapes weaving their way through the brush towards him, and the arrow slides out of his fingers and to the muddy ground by his side. "Back to the lines, Finnabair!" He yells out gruffly, even while slipping backwards and once again around the same lofty pine that had moments ago hidden him. The woodsman dares not look back, but instead forces his way through the wet, prickly branches and towards the edge of the road where the half-hidden moon's pale light offers some measure of illumination to guide his path. Though he does not leave the cover of the trees, Istadris makes his retreat along the old road, and soon his cloaked figure is vanished from sight of those pursuing.

Gripping his battle axe, and feeling the hate rise within him, Lak-ghash slips round the other side of the tree, staying low and begins creeping towards the hiding place of the humans, a few paces behind the first three, though he also weeves back and forth. An evil grin is plastered on his face and his axe is clutched tight, ready for use.

Finnabair sees Istadris' arrow fell the large orch and sees the three that slide out of the night, making their way quickly toward woodsman now that he has revealed himself, followed by fourth, more devious orch. Adding them to the numbers already counted, she quickly draws her bow, pulling the string back to her ear as she chooses the foremost of the group that race after Istadris, whose call to flee she does not follow for the moment. Her fingers slip from the string, releasing the dart upon the orch and quickly she reaches for another even as she begins to back away.

Mud smeared fingers grasp at the bark of a slender trunk, grappling and heaving the orc forward. With a gasp of pain, and a surge of power the Slave Master lifts himself up. The binding on his hand caked in mud and his finger shaking with pain, he reaches around to pull the arrow. A sharp hiss comes, as the arrow yields not, again he pulls, yet it snaps, leaving head and half the barb within his sickly flesh. His left arm swing out in anger, striking the tree trunk hard. A scream rises, words lost to a garbled wrenching, they curse the archer, the orc and himself. Yet the best steadies and raises his blade, fury replacing the pain. Wildly he runs past the trunk and towards the last call of the archer, vengeance filling his mind.

Ever moving and weaving behind three other orcs, Lak-ghash sees the second archers arrow slam into one of his fellows ahead, and the orc dropping to the ground sprawling and howling in pain. Lak begins a run now for the second archer, his axe held ready to swing should he come upon her at a sudden. His iron shod shoes thud and squelch through the mud, almost threatening to trap them.

Finnabair's first arrow finds its mark and her second is set to string, ready for the fourth orc that detaches itself from the small group and makes directly for her, brandishing its axe. Halting her backward steps long enough to aim, she shuts one eye and levels the tip of the dart at it, then releases her fingers from the string and sends the shaft singing forward through the rain. Sparing no time to see if this one meets the success of the first, she turns upon her heel and bolts through the trees, passing the place where Emeldir lay in hiding. Seeing the Lady absent from the spot, she breaths a sigh of relief and flees eastward, deeper into the wet forest.

Lak-ghash hears the sound a the bow again but the blood rushing through his ears dulls it and the wrath in his blood make him unconcerned for his safety. It is thus that the archer's arrow flies true and strikes him in the thigh, peircing and breaking a few of the metal links on his armor. A hoot and barbaric howl leaves the orcs pain-wracked body as he crashes to the ground on his side, the arrow shaft sticking out as a warning to the other two orcs coming up behind.

The Slave Master sees more arrows fly, a loud call tares from his lungs. "Back, these cowards will sting rather than fight." He turns and seeks a tree for hiding. He calls out loudly and clearly despite his rage. "Cowards, we will come again till this land is broken, count this."