November 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.

An ink dark sky lit with moon and stars, is blunted by a rolling shroud of clouds; they course over the sky, driven by a stiff breeze, letting the milky light of the moon spill through at times. And so it does now, bringing a cold light to the twisted mesh of bough and fading leaf, yet the canopy, though failing still leaves the ground beneath it a tangle of shadows and scrub. The lurching of boughs, at the winds hoarse goading, brings a soft rasping to the air; the slightest flutter of leaf paired from limb is about all that offers itself to waking ears.

From the North, dark shapes come, offering no herald in the nightshade of the forest. Murky shadows, slipping past wide trunks, stooped low and swathed in cloaks of a coaly hue. Stilling the hiss of breath, leaving less for the ear than the murmur of the wind. Boots bound with soft hide or feet left bare, fall carefully upon a soft blanket of new fallen leaves. A company moves within Brethil's eaves this night, of no small number, for the number is masked well by the furtive approach. Mayhap watchful eyes may note a score of dark shapes, but twice more might move unsighted.

Within the creeping tide of orcen folk, a bloated form clad in stretched sable mail, comes creeping closer. Bent near double, with apish arms lolling the figure approaches, and despite the creatures monstrous stature, he drifts along with spidery well timed steps. A blackened blade, left mat by an oily flame offers no gleam to the cold moonlight and a cloak shrouds the rest of him in shadow. He matches the pace of the company, urgent and aggressive, as they hoy southward, were the snufflers said.

Others follow close behind these first of the orcish party. Black clad, of cloth and leather, they walk upright. Swiftly they move, from shadow to shadow as to leave their approch unknown to all but the most keensighted. Torghaal moves among them, First Prophet of Melkor risen from the comforts of his camp and bade to action by those whom he controls. A dozen of them accompany him now, far less in number than the other band but none the less dangerous. They flow like moving shadows forward and among their grey counterparts.

All lies quiet this night across the Haladin's hidden encampment, sheltered from the cold winds by the surrounding press of tall birch, oak, and pine trees. The very eaves of the wood hang tangled and intertwined high overhead, blotting out what little light is afforded by the distant moon and shrouding the gathering of shelters and tents in a veil of murky, obscuring shadow. A single fire crackles softly at the center of the small glade that marks the middle of the hidden campsite, and its flames burn slowly and dully--they offer little in the way of warmth or light to the few scattered figures who rest about them. In the distant shadows all around the clustered tents stand other figures: The Haladin sentries set to watch the night's passing. Some stand beneath the concealing shade of pine and birch trees, while others yet perch upon the thick branches of various lofty oaks that surround the site.

It is by the great roots of one such oak that Istadris stands, his cloak-clad figure swallowed by the forest's enveloping gloom while he keeps watch down a narrow game trail leading northwards through the press of trees, away from the camp to his south.

Inside the Haladin encampment within the healer's tent sleeps one form, not upon the comfort of the cots that stand along one edge of the shelter, but near the warming fire, which itself has burned to a low glowing of embers and struggling flames. Covered by the warm draping of her cloak, Aldawin seems to have fallen asleep while writing a letter; her hand loosely grips a quilled pen and rests upon a parchment half-covered with meticulous writing.

A shadow moves within the orcish host, head and shoulders taller than any among them. It's feet make no sound, and no weapon gleams in it's hands. The tall creature quietly slips back and to the sides, keeping to the shadows of the trees. Red eyes flicker in the night, the only thing to give it's presence away.

Also asleep within the camp is the Haladin apprentice smith, fully dressed save for her bootsm propped up near the edge of her small, dark tent. The low-slung canvas shelter barely provides enough room for the short lass to sleep at full length. Leana's tent is pitched on the northward edge of camp, underneath the boughs of a stripling birch, surrounded by bush and bracken.

The Orchish band move closer still. The pace of the band slowing, as clawed hands wave hasty orders, no breath hissing to their coarse speech. A slight scent fills the nostrils of the keen scented orcs, that of burning. A number seek the blind sides of thick trunks, fumbling with black fetched arrows, setting them to the knock of horn bows. Another signal brings the pace up again, yet archers come not, stooping in the scrub and brush as can be found.

Now a soft noise grows, a sound of many running feet, soft bound or no. The line of orchs begin to pelt towards the camp, or rather the slight smell of a fire, and so they come to a two dozen running strides from the murky camp. The hissing of breath, strained and ill supressed can not be silenced. The ringing of metal comes from some ill prepared beasts.

Among the nearest of the Orcs is Skragat, mail clad and with a dark curved blade drawn to be wetted. A crooked helm bobs upon his similarly malformed pate, and sable skin wrinkles as his face strains.

As the others begin to charge, Torghaal flashes hasty orders to his awaiting servants. Quiet ringing of blades escapes the forrest as these black figures draw darker blades. Moving around through the forrest, their dozen warriors work their way around to the side of the camp, away from the charging forms of their kin.

Though the forest gloom offers the encroaching orchish soldiers excellent cover against the prying eyes of Haladin sentries, the sudden sounds of their booted steps and ringing blades noticeably disturb the night's uneasy stillness. It is from the high branches of a stout oak a short ways north of the encampment's edge that the first cry of alarm rings out. "Foes! Awake!" Shouts the young sentry in his native Haladin tongue, even as the voices of several of his fellows join in from the shrubs and trees around him.

Istadris starts visibly at the sudden cry. His slitted grey eyes open widely with obvious shock, and his right hand is raised in instinct to the pommel of the sword at his shoulder. The weapon is quickly pulled free of its sheath, though the woodsman draws a few uncertain steps backwards as he first sees a handful of the shadowy shapes rushing towards him through the darkened trees ahead.

Stretched out on the ground beside the solitary fire of the camp, lies Finnabair, deep in sleep with one arm reaching out to rest upon the axe and bow that lie aside her and a soft leather pack bundled up under her head. Slitted eyes open and she turns away from the fire in her sleep to draw up the thin, woollen blanket that has slipped down, tugged away by the wind. Grey eyes close and she falls still until her brow creases with a frown and her eyes open again, focusing intently on the trees beyond the camp. Lifting herself up on one elbow, she reaches for the long haft of her axe even as the first cry of warning comes from the sentry and scrambles to her feet.

Ever a light sleeper, Leana awakens with a start, poking her coppery head out of the tent and squinting about in confusion and alarm. Cursing quietly as the alarm raises the camp, she retreats back into her tent for a brief moment before coming out once again with one boot on, working on tugging the other on even as she steps out. Succeeding in that endeavor, the smith takes up her axe and goes directly to the center of camp, looking around with a lost air about her. She reaches out to pluck at the elbow of one of her fellow Haladin as he rushes past, but gets no response from the guard as he hurries on to the defense of the camp.

A handful of the black cloaked orcs breaks off from the main group, more subtle than the others though no less deadly. Moving with craft and speed, they vanish into the night. Pausing momentarily once tehy reach a sheltered enclave.

Foremost among them is the tall shadow, Burghash. He is clad in black leather, and swathed in a thin cloak of midnight. He turns and grins, showing his teeth, and in

A handful of the black cloaked orcs breaks off from the main group, more subtle than the others though no less deadly. Moving with craft and speed, they vanish into the night. Pausing momentarily once tehy reach a sheltered enclave.

Foremost among them is the tall shadow, Burghash. He is clad in black leather, and swathed in a thin cloak of midnight. He turns and grins, allowing his teeth to show, and in a harsh whisper instrucht his fellows. That done, he grasps a low lying branch and digs his claws in to climb. The others follow.

As the Orcs with the swiftest gait come to the camps very boundary and its calling guards, this hiss of orcen arrows comes, pitched over their own kinds heads, loosely toward the guessed camp and one or two calling voices. The harsh shrill calls of the orc rise, almost in relief that the silence has past, the voices are filled with madness and a dark lust. Blades lifted the first wave seek to meet warden as those behind, try to plow into the midst of the camp.

The swollen frame of Skragat os bent near straight as he pelts onward, arms pumping maddly whilst gripping his blade, indeed it seems to pound too close to his own head. Upon his wrist a shield is buckled, pocked and tarnished the iron is, but thick cast. THe mail coat rattles with a kind of tuneless music, and the leather face iron of booted churns the earth nonetheless, hoying clarts behind him as he goes. And near the Beoriand Ranger he sprints, offering his shielded side as he tries to run past the taller man, into the camp.

Looking back as some of his party leaves him, Torghaal can but continue onwards to the camp. As the first of the orcs begin to cry out, Torghaal positions his own forces in the direction of the calls, in hopes that he can meet his companions in the midst of the human camp. With a loud cry, he beings to run forward through what remains of the trees with his folk following, some of the larger even overtaking him as they charge.

Not a light sleeper, and with the tent set further south in the camp, Aldawin is not at first roused with the initial cries of alarm. It is not until the pounding of feet and shuffling of gear sounds outside her tent that the healer's eyes open. Seeming a bit disoriented at first, the Beorian looks at the waning fire and sits up; the cloak falls away from her shoulders. Looking towards the exit of her tent, she gets to her feet, stifling a yawn as she draws the flap open and peers outside. "What is it?" she asks one of the scouts who hurries by, though as he does not answer in his haste to sprint northwards, and Aldawin sees others in the camp doing the same, she draws back inside quickly, retrieving a coat of leather armour from under two sacks of provisions. Dashing back to the tent's opening, she looks out again to see Leana standing near the center of camp. "Leana!" she calls, leaving the shelter of the tent now and motioning the smithy in her direction. Her grey gaze flickers southward briefly.

The Haladin encampment is suddenly astir with the shouts of sentries and the calls of those who have just now risen from rest at the alarm. Many confused and bewildered woodsman race through the trees from their shelters and towards the horrific sounds of the charging yrch at the northern edge of the camp. Here and there sound the tell-tale snapping of bowstrings as those few Brethilmen that sit perched up in the trees begin to fire shafts down upon the passing orchish creatures.

With the unsheathed sword gripped firmly in hand now, and raised readily before him, Istadris cautiously withdraws further towards the camp's edge. His cool grey eyes strain to make out the vague shapes of creatures as they pass between the trees in the gloom all around him. One such beast--the bloated slaver, Skragat--rushes almost directly towards where he stands. With gritted teeth and twisted lips, the Beorian tracker sidles a step to his left and partly behind the oak's trunk to avoid the bulk of the approaching creature. Even as Skragat runs past the same tree trunk, however, Istadris aims an arched, downwards stroke of his blade for the yrch's left knee.

Upon hearing her name called, Leana turns to seek out the source of it, the dim light fromt the fire playing gently on the side of her face. As her dark eyes light on Aldawin, the smith goes southwards, towards the healer's tent. "Looks as though they've found us," she says abruptly upon nearing the healer. Lee pauses briefly and squints out into the darkness of the trees, turning the haft of her axe in her hands. She grimaces slightly, and then turns a questioning glance to the healer. "So what do we do from here? I can't help but think I'll be in the way..."

The small band of black-cloaks scale with ease the young tree they have chosen, stealthy yet in thier movements. They move apart skightly, spreading to give room to the others. Quietly, stepping lightly, they move through teh trees above the camp.

Burghash, formemost and most skilled in treecraft, peers down into the camp as it's guardians rush to defend. His keen eyes pick out those likely to be dangerous, and then cast about in search of softer flesh. Finally he catches a glimpse of a human... two, in fact, who he recognizes. He grins, anddraws his bitter weapon in preparation for the assault. Burghash pulls the blade Kwalruk from it's scabbard. Razored black edges gleam faintly in the darkness.

Back to the fire, Finnabair looks to the trees where the coming crash of yrch is heard and a moment later seen as the first of them enter the edge of the camp. With a quick look about her she sees the young figure of Leana, axe in hand and standing near to Aldawin, "Be ready to use that!", she cries to the girl, pointing sternly to her weapon before she turns back and rushes toward the trees where the cries hail the loudest, joining those that have gone to stave off the attack, her axe gripped firmly in both hands.

Breaking from the cover of the trees into the eves of the human camp, Torghaal and his remaining Prophets quickly look about their new surroundings for thouse they had been sent to slay. Their group breaks now, splitting into three sets of three and dispersing through the camp in all directions. Torghaal and his two body gaurds push forwards, making for the single fire that can now been seen at the center of the camp.

Amid the raising din of battle, the click of flint may be lost, indeed the flighty sparks may be also; yet as plumes of blue flourish upon fat smeared rags, it is a stark ploy. So as arrows begin to be flung wildly towards the growing battle, the orcish cries fill the air with din, as some break even within the ring of tents. Some arrows fall, flaming and unshot, telling of a quick aiming Haladin warden, other screams mingle with those of anger, pain and death

As Skragat sppeds on the whistle of a blade fills his ears, the pace of the orch defying his girth it seems as the blade merely whistles over his dark flaking skin, breaking only the surface. A growl of anger rises, and a bestial light fills the coaly eyes of the orc. Digging his booted feet into the light soil of the underwood, a fould curse condemns the leather bound thereto. Sliding to stillness, he hisses using his shield arm to hoist himself up, and drive back towards his assailant. The darting glance and wrinkling snout of the orc, note this foe is not new. Shield and blade rise as he seeks to put a trunk at his back.

Istadris lets out a soft, surprised gasp as his swung blade finds little of the passing orch's leg. With a low-uttered curse, the woodsman turns swiftly upon his left heel and lifts the sword before him--the blade slanted with its tip lowered in the orch warrior's direction. His knees bend slightly beneath him, and his legs tense as he prepares to rush the beastly creature. Yet, the chaotic sounds of fighting from camp cause him to hesitate a mere moment, and he takes his wide grey eyes from his foe to glance towards the fire-lit clearing for a split second.

The camp is a scene of frenzied fighting, and even now one of the shelters nearer to the northern edge of camp has caught fire from the orchish shot darts. The Wardens of Brethil have begun to gather around the edges of the small glade, and there make a stand against the dark-clad soldiers that have come to surround them. Meanwhile, a handful of sentries still perch up in the tree branches, shooting where they may and taking aim for passing yrch in the obscuring darkness.

Approaching Leana, Aldawin gives Finnabair a glance as the other utters her warning before turning to join the others. "You are unarmoured," she hisses even as she slips the leather coat over her tunic. The armour's latches are left unfastened for the moment, and she motions the apprentice smithy away from the open center of camp. "Come," she says, motioning southward. "Let us find some of your kin to stand with so at least we will be better guarded."

Burghash burghash reaches a branch above the perimeter of the camp, neares to the two females, and motions to his copatriots to attack. He then leaps to the ground, landing on cat's feet several paces behind his prey. The other black cloaks follow him to the ground, one following him towards the dark haired woman, the other three off to the side and heading towards the shorter one. His long legs pull ahead of them, and even as they move he lashes out in attack, the razor edges of his curved blade gleaming with death in the firelight. His sharp teeth grin as he angles his blade toward her unarmoured sword arm, intent on causing pain.

"Aye," Leana calls back to Finnabair, her uneasiness disappating a bit. She flinches as the arrows begin raining, taking a few involuntary steps backwards. The shelter-turned-bonfire catches her attention, and she curses soundly. "It's been a dry year, if the forest catches fire..." she hisses and cuts herself off as Aldawin speaks, glancing down and only now noticing her own lack of armour. "Right, coming a..."

Leana does not have a chance to finish her sentance, for Burghash and his fellows arrive, startling her. She backs up a few steps, turning her axe into a defensive position yet still glancing behind her in hopes of one of her kin arriving.

Nearly to the trees, Haladin and Beor can be seen slipping into the dark forest and meeting yrch on the edge of the camp with loud clashes of weapons and a confusion of cries. A brief sight of of Istadris and the orch does not cause her step to hestitate, but Finnabair draws up short, spotting three yrch pushing for the centre of the camp, and quickly turns about, a quick glance for their target, the young smith and the healer, "Leana! Aldawin! Ware!", she warns, making for them when yet another orch drops from the trees not far from them. Running across the camp now, she calls again, "Behind you!", pointing at it with her axe as it raises its sword up for a deadly strike, Leana turning just in time to try and defend herself.

The face of Skragat distorts, rage buckling his jaw as he calls out a wordless cry. He scenes a pause, and a wandering gaze, growling the Orc digs his feet into the ground. Two paces he takes, landing finally on his left foot as the ragged leather cladding is flung off by the boots flight. The Orchs right shoulder drops as he leans forward, his elbow drives forward, thrusting the blades tip half slashing, half stabbing towards the humans chest. A grunt of excersion and a shower of spittle bursts from the orcs mouth, as he raises his shield to cover his chest and chin.

Aldawin cannot see the dark shapes occluded in the grey and deepening shadows nearby. She is still intent upon getting Leana and herself away from the northern reaches of camp when the three shapes drop out of the tree, their blades drawn and to the ready. Not wielding her own blade yet, the healer's grey gaze just registers the danger when Finnabair's cry of warning sounds as well. Pivoting upon her left foot, the healer draws an instinctive pace away from Leana and from the beast as well, gaining some distance from the swift-arcing, curving blade. Not enough to clear the weapon's stroke, it bites into her arm just above the elbow, leaving a gash several inches long. "Back!" she shouts, though to whom is is not clear as her hand closes about the leather-wrapped handle of her sword, only now drawing it from its sheath.

Momentarily distracted by the commotion at the edge of camp, Istadris nevertheless swiftly turns back to face Skragat fully as the burly orchish creature paces suddenly forward. Only a quick step back upon his booted left heel, along with a twist of his upper body and a well placed parry saves him from the slashing scimitar's half-thrusted tip, which passes harmlessly a mere inch or so to the left of his armoured left shoulder. The tracker's left hand reaches instinctively out to grasp the sword's hilt two-handedly even as he edges a half step forward upon his right leg and aims a quick swing of his sword out and up along the other creature's parried blade. The weapon's edge is aimed for Skragat's mail-clad right arm, just above the elbow joint.

The slower orcs quickly make up the distance, and each moves to attack his chosen target. Those assailing leana spread around her, moving so that no more than one of thier three can be seen at once. The tallest among them wields a hand axe, quite smaller than leana's own, and the other two bear short spears. They close in

The slower orcs quickly make up the distance, and each moves to attack his chosen target. Those assailing leana spread around her, moving so that no more than one of thier three can be seen at once. The tallest among them wields a hand axe, quite smaller than leana's own, and the other two bear short spears. They close in around her, and one of the spear-wielders lashes out as he passes.

Leana's lips are pressed together in a grim line, white with pressure as she turns quickly around to find herself surrounded by no less than three orcs. She swears in her native tongue, but then falls into silence as the attack begins. Her attention is distracted towards the one with the hand-axe, and hence is too slow to note the blow sent towards her, receiving a light gash on her upper arm. Grimacing, she whirls towards that one and braces, swinging her axe towards its midsection in the same motion she would use to fell a tree.

The orch growls maddly is the blade is turned past the Ranger. A booted foot drives a pace towards the human even as the longsword comes back at him, a late flinch serves only to let the edge climb and strike his shoulder squarley. The ring of metal fills Skragat's ears as mail links and flesh a burst alike, black blood welling in the gash. A howl, filled with pain and profane to the ear rises, contesting even with the full din of battle. The blow buffest the orc, sending him reeling back a pace, a stamping foot steadies the massive beast, and blinking coaly eyes focus loosly on the man. Shooting pain wracks the arm of the beast, and for the moment it hangs bloodied and limp, clawed hands grimly latched to the blades handle. The left arms bangs out, shield there strapped, aiming the iron plate towards the skull of the human, perhaps seeking to by a moment at least, or knock the wits from the Ranger at best.

Burghash and his dagger-wielding partner likewise close in on aldawin, the taller orc grinning wickedly. The other moves to flank the human on her shield-side, out of reach once she draws her weapon. Burghash steps close, to neutrilize the advantage in reach his opponend bears. He brings the curved blade upward, sharp edge moving towards her exposed stomach where her armor is unlaced.

The orc is to quick by a hair for Leana's heavy blow, and it's weapon is longer than the axe she wields. Nevertheless, it stumbles as it leaps backwards, and moves slowly back towards her. The larger , axe-wielding orc takes it's chance, and swings a viscious blow towards her unprotected back.

A low grunt escapes through Istadris' gritted teeth as he feels the shuddering impact of his blade as it cuts into Skragat's mail-clad shoulder. The Beor's swordblade is lifted swiftly away from the bloodied gash, and raised readily before him with its tip lowered in the burly slaver's direction. Though he at first edges a quick step forward to press on the attack, the other creature's desperate and unexpected shield bash catches him nearly off guard. Istadris ducks quickly to his left and staggers a step backwards to narrowly avoid the edge of the heavy object. His booted feet hit one of the oak's roots, and he stumbles yet another pace further, but manages to regain his balance as he finds the tree's trunk at his back.

The fire left at the centre of the camp gutters in the wind and under the trample of feet, and Finnabair races by it on her way to where Leana and Aldawin defend themselves from the attacking orch. Growling as she sees its blade strike the arm of the healer and more yrch swarming in on the two women, she hastens faster, "Leana!", she calls, as the smith levels its axe at the attacker, her swing narrowly missing it as it makes another attack on the healer. Only a dozen yards from them now, the ranger brings her axe up in both hands and rushes first for Burghash, hoping to drive it and his companions away from the women.

Seeing his daughter harried by the three orcs, one of the Haladin guards who had been set up in the treetops puts down his bow and arrow for his axe. Nathen whispers a few words to one of his comrades and then begins moving stealthily along the lower branches of the forest canopy, making his way towards Leana.

"Some help!" Leana calls out at last in Halethian as her swing falls short of the target. Wary of her attackers on all sides, Leana turns and ducks, bringing up her axe. The ringing of steel against steel sounds briefly and she rises out of the crouch, pushing forward and swinging her axe once again, grunting softly with the exertion of the blow.

This orc is not as fast, and the heavy blow drags across his chest, knocking him back. Even as he flails, though, the other two are attacking, one lashing out with teh flat of his spear in a whiplike motion, the other thrusting heavily.

Though the wound Aldawin has received bleeds freely, she makes no allowance for its concern as now another orch joins Burghash in assault. Her grey gaze flickering between them both, she responds to the glinting blade of the latter as he slashes his scimitar towards her midsection and dodges the blow with a shuffling step to her left, turning with the angle of the blade so it passes by harmlessly. In the movement, the healer draws slightly to the orch's right side, and with a desperate thrust of the short-bladed weapon attempts to pink the other along the lower ribs.

The camp is breached and orchish shapes run through trampling the tents left abandoned, and screaming wild calls of battle if no foe comes to their blade. Yet arrows and Haladin blades have assured that many a dark corpse is already littering the floor. The handful of archers abandon there task, last arrows shot they charge in with lit torches in one hand and weapons in the other, seeking to further raise fire within the embattled camp.

The Slave Master sees a moment, he has and he takes a long pounding step forward, and brings his shield back to shadow his left side. The jaw of the beast pivots and his fangs gape apart as another scream ripples from the beast lungs, as his burly arm heaves up swiftly, arcing in the air and falling down toward the ranger as he takes another pace. As the cruel blade falls, dark blood is flung from the orc's arm. As the orc's gasps trails off the blade falls swiftly from high on the humans left, sweeping over his body in a lashing stroke, offering the blades keenest edge.

The growing fires illuminate the battle in a harsh orange light that flickers with every gust of the wind. Leana, her coppery head seeming a part of the flames themselves, steps forward to raise a blow again to the orc she just attacked. Yet the two behind her go unmarked by her eyes, and the thrusting spear finds a place beneath her ribs, fortunately missing her spinal column. The other attack misses entirely. The smith blanches and cries out, unable to continue her attack.

On her behalf, however, her father at last arrives from the treetops, his grim features distorted by nothing short of grim fury. The guard moves towards the one who dealt the last blow to his daughter and abruptly swings his axe in a short and powerful blow towards the creature's neck.

Burghash is quick, and well trained. As Aldawin thrusts at him, e brings his weapon to the side, striking her short sword with his own weapon. Knocking it to the side, he raises his arm, and backslashes with the convex edge of his toward her bare throat.

With his booted left foot buried in the deep mud between two of the oak's roots, and his armoured back pressed against the tree's stout trunk, Istadris ducks to his right and pushes away with both legs. The quick move carries him just out of the swung scimitar's falling arch, and he grunts aloud even while lunging a desperate step forward and lifting his own blade aside over his right shoulder. The Beor's sword is then brough fully down and across in a forehanded swing aimed for the outside of the orchish slaver's right knee.

As a guard rushes to meet the fell trio who face the smith, two peel off the lass, deemin the newcomer more fell, rightly so. His first blow falls into the neck of the attacking orc, crumpling spine and coaly skin, killing the beast in one stoke. The gaspings of the orc last not long, writhing but a moment as one remaing orc draws the Warden away from the smith leaving another to harass her.

A bestial grunt, wordless, yet dripping with malice flies in tandem with spittle, flung to the smith. A curved scimitar falls from the orcs right hand, swooping in towards the females middle.

Both of Leana's wounds bleed freely, darkening her plain clothing in slick patches that glisten in the fire light. The one in her back seems to especially pain her, and she looks at her remaining attacker with a mixture of disbelief and desperate fear. She moves her axe down in front of her body, trying to parry the blow of the scimitar, yet it still pricks her lightly on the side despite her efforts. Angrily, she swings her axe high towards the orc's shoulder, throwing most of her weight behind the motion.

Only a few steps short of the two women and the yrch that surround them, Finnabair turns to aid the healer when she sees one of the Haladin guards coming to the side of the smith, Leana. "Aldawin!", she cries as the healer and the orch swing and parry at one another, edging around them. Sliding around to the left side of Burghash, the Beorian ranger eyes the beast, searching it over before drawing back her weapon and sending it forward with a short, precise motion to try and cut across its upper left arm.

The Slave Master gasps, as the swift human lunges past him. The noise ceases not for again the orcs master the pain the grips his right shoulder and raises his blade. Another scream rises as he flings down his blade in a straight, cleaving arc, aiming to pair the Humans right shoulder from the rest of his torso. the writhing of the orcs tongue and the squinting of his eyes, revelas the pain that courses through his body in even sending his blade ot at the Ranger, yet the noise rises to screaming as the longsword falls again, striking his knee and taking his footing. The shield arm and left knee stop the orc from falling flat out and let his blade complete its new bent path. Gasping for breath the Slave Master never ceases his terrible howling.

Aldawin winces with the tremor of the weapons met blade-to-blade, but she clenches the handle of the sword tighter, even as Burghash sweeps the gleaming edge towards her throat. Jerking away from the deadly blade, the healer staggers two broad paces back, almost losing her footing as her heel lands upon one of the rocks ringing the firepit. Yet her balance is maintained, barely and with a grimace of anger she holds the sword forward in defense--even as Finnabair intervenes with a forceful blow of her own.

The Orc meeting Leana cries in fury as his blade slides from its course. Dragging the curved Iron back swiftly, the best places it between the returning axe blow. The blade offer scant meat to turn such a heartfelt stroke and it is driven into the shoulder with the axe stroke. Splashings of dark blood herald succes as the armour is broken in some way at least, yet a shout of keen felt pain may be more telling of the axe's true bite. Knocked back a pace an iron shod, booted foot hoys out to strike at the smith knee.

Leana flinches as her knee is so unceremoniously kicked, and she stumbles, having already been put off-balance by her strong blow. She drops to one knee, barely holding onto her axe in her clumsy confusion. Not bothering to rise again immediately, she takes the opportunity to try and rap at the creature's shins. The blow comes from a short distance, and does not carry much power with it, but she is simply trying to buy herself some time to get to her feet again.

The axe blade connects-with force. Burghash's sword arm is deeply rent, and the bone cracks below the leading edge. Indeed, the blow crushes into his ribs, so great is the strength behind it. The tall orc flails, his thin form knocked back and lifted into the air. He flips sideways, landing on his knees with a hiss of pain, but he quickly staggers to his feet. Moving backwards, he reaches into his cloak with his good hand and pulls forth a dagger, throwing it wildly as he steps hurridly back into the woods.

Istadris is carried a pace forward and to Skragat's right side by the pulling weight of his own longsword as the weapon cuts a solid gash into the orchish warrior's mail-clad flesh. His lips peel back in a fearful grimace as the beast's curved scimitar blade comes falling against him, and though he ducks once again to his right and sidles a swift step in that same direction, the orchish weapon finds clear purchase against his leather and metal-clad left shoulder. A sharp gasp and pained cry leave his peeled lips, and his grey eyes widen with the unwelcomed shock of the blade's piercing blade. Istadris staggers a step and falls to his left knee just within reach of the Skragat, and with a desperate, heaving grunt, sends the longsword's keen edge across in a powerful arching blow aimed for the other creature's mailed left side.

As his blade falls true the Slave Master, fumbles wildly at his left arm he tears at the bonds of the shield there fastened, his breath hissing in panic as the straps snap and the shield drops heavily to the earth. Cursing, the orc takes his red wetted blade anew in his left hand and thrusts upward, driving from his right knee upwards, towards the human, blade held afore him as a pointer. His own thrust, though wild, sent the orc's side lurching away from the longsword blade. Not swift enough as the human's blade rakes the outside of his arm, bursting no mail or flesh.

The beast whom fight Leana, wheels away as it feels a booted foot strike, indeed his leap to the left of the smith carries the beast clear of her retorting slash. A hiss comes as the orc eyes the camp and the growing battle, many of his company seem fallen about him, yet many still swarm in, baring torches and yet unwetted blades.

Wheeling again the orc lurches forward, redoubling his assault upon the stooping female. Lifting his blade he lets it wheel abouts its zenith, with a cry of anger and challenge a whip of muscles send the blade falling back towards the smiths right shoulder.

Seeing that Burghash seems all but dispatched by Finnabair in the severe blow dealt him, the healer looks to Leana who, bloodied and injured, barely holds her own against another of the fell creatures. She turns from the other fight and starts towards the apprentice smithy, only to feel the sting of a blade high in her left shoulder as Burghash's thrown dagger nicks the edge of the leather armour and finds a shallow but effective mark upon her. Gritting her teeth, she comes to a stop and jerks her left arm back; the armour nudges the blade from her flesh, and the healer calls to the orch that harries the smithy's apprentice. "Leave her, fiend!" she yells, rushing forward to engage the vile beast.

No small measure of warm red blood flows down the back of Istadris' left shoulder now, where the beastly creature's blade has rent a rather ugly gash through his armoured coat and into flesh beneath. His swung blade makes only glancing contact with Skragat's side, and the force placed into the attack drives him a half step forward, closer to the burly beast and his own thrusting scimitar. Orchish-made blade once again finds purchase against the Beor's armoured body, this time tearing a smaller gash against over his ribs, not far below his left armpit. With a pained gasp and a low curse, he staggers another step backwards, away from Skragat and towards the tangled branches of a prickly shrub. In the same instant, the tracker aims a hurried and rather desperate forehanded swing of his blade at the creature's now unshielded left side.

The blade that falls towards Leana could surely take her whole limb off, should it strike true to her shoulder, so great is the height from which it falls. Yet she moves slightly away so that it misses her by but a tiny gap as she stumbles to her feet, still in obvious pain and breathing with difficulty. She holds her axe defensively, but does not seem able to clear her thoughts enough to attack the creature, instead only looking rather blankly at Aldawin as the healer rushes to her aid.

The Slave Master steadies himself as he reaches standing again driving past the man, his left knee near buckling beneath his weight. The orc leans towards the human, a lame legs almost plowing behind him. Yet with another mastering grunt he drives the boot back into the soil, and lurches towards Istadris, heavy lidded eyes blinking in pain rob his dark gaze of the coming shot. A hacking blow comes, over arm and swiftly arcing towards the right side of the skull of the human. The blade is sent out even as the Longsword darts towards the left arm, in which the scimitar is held. A grating of metal rings in the air as the sword glances over the burly mailclad arm, causing the orcs attacking stroke to lurch in the air somewhat.

Finnabair feels the force of her strike reverberate up through her weapon and into her arm, and even as the orch is pushed backward, wounded by her blade, it reaches for a dagger concealed beneath its cloak. A stern look on her face, she advances a step toward Burghash, but he deftly throws the knife at the healer before she can stop him. With a cry she tries to warn the healer, but the knife slips by and finds it mark, the orch away into the trees seconds after throwing it. Leaving off from pursuing it, she turns back for the smith and healer.

Darkness mingles with confusion in the Haladin camp this late evening. Shouts and the clanging of weapons pierce the night as black, fell shapes of orchish hosts do battle with the Edain. To the north, the Beor woodsman Istadris battles with the Slave Master Skragat, while within the camp Finnabair has just dealt Burghash a fearful blow, sending the beast back to the shadows. Leana bears many wounds from her own battle with one of the yrch, and Aldawin speeds now to aid the weakening apprentice smithy.

Istadris' half-hearted swing glances rather ineffectively off the bloated orchish slaver's mail-clad left arm, even as the Beor staggers back upon his booted left foot. A quick twist of his body is all that saves the tracker from the creature's downwards scimitar stroke, which flies past a mere hair's width away from his bloodied left arm. The prickly, entangling brush behind him impedes his withdrawal, and so he sidesteps swiftly to his right and attempts to place a little more distance between himself and the orchish beast even while aiming a solid thrust of his sword at Skragat's upper right arm.

Within the central clearing, all but one of the orchish foes lay slain or fled, a heated battle rages rather at the perimeters and many orcs rally there, the few left within seem isolated in the light of the flaming tents.

And so the glance of the orc meeting Leane wanders, dark eyes widen and a hiss of fear comes. The odds stark to behold. Turning upon his heal he runs away from the smith to the trees, offering no more of a blow. The swift footfalls carry the wounded orc dangerously near the coming healer and the female ranger.

"I said leave her!" Aldawin hisses between clenched teeth, her widened grey gaze given to the orch that still presses upon the wounded Leana. Moving close to the vile orch, the healer attempts to round to the right of the creature, yet upon her nearing to engage in the battle, the orch flees. Holding her blade forward--her brandishing hand smeared with blood from the earlier wound--Aldawin makes no overt action to engage the beast with its attempt to escape, but stands ready should its steps bring it nearer.

Skragat comes again, even as his blade falters and cleave air alone. A growl of anger and rage rises from the throat of the Slave Master, bestial and fearful, he stumbles on a pace. A ripple of aching muscles sends the scimitar whipping up aloft, it hangs, never to fall, as the rage in the throat of Slave Master dies. The lame leg sending him lurching into the path of the sword thrust, his own throat skewered by mischance.

The sound of convulsions gurgle out, vulgar and chilling, as the gasp of a drowning beast. Dark blood pours out, the sable mail now glistening dark and bright with new coursing blood. The weary legs of the orc buckle and the cold, dull chime of a blade falling to the earth can be heard. With his weight hanging on the stabbing sword the orc crumples, falling to the earth, to massive perhaps to be held aloft. the dark eyes roll back into an empty skull, the stained yellow fangs now running with blood.

As the orc begins to retreat, Leana sinks down once more to her knees, lowering her coppery head and simultaneously reaching up a hand to rub at her eyes, hiding them from view for a few moments. Coming to herself, she mutters a hoarse "Thank you" to the two Beorians before moving back to set her back to a tree, so she can watch the waning battle without having to worry about being attacked from behind.

The Beorian tracker's right hand tightens instinctively around the pommel of his sword as the thrusting blow is met not by the orchish slaver's mail-clad arm or body, but by his mostly exposed throat. His shoulders slump with weary relief, and he edges a hurried pace backwards to avoid the bulk of the falling creature's dying body. The longsword is pulled downwards and nearly torn from Istadris' grasp before he can manage two twist it and slide it the tip from the creature's sheathing flesh. Sparing only one last, disgusted glance down at the fallen beast, he turns quickly upon his heel and begins to work his way through the gloomy foliage back towards the flickery light of the fires that burn in camp.

Finnabair sweeps her gaze about the camp, seeing the yrch that had swept over it now beginning to dissapate, the sounds of fighting still ringing through the trees and the night air, abating considerably though. The spear-wielding orch that had been attacking Leana now leaves off and rushes by where Aldawin stands, her sword brandished, warning it to keep its distance. The Beorian ranger strides past the two women with a determined look, bidding them with a gesture to remain as she heads for the trees, about to slip amongst them to join the Haladin guards that continue to drive back the yrch still tarrying about the camp. Entering the treeline though she sees one tall figure returning and slows to meet it.

The flames that consume one of the shelters at the edge of the glade leap violently up into the cold autumn air, sending sparks and embers flying off into the nearby brush and up towards the branches high above. The camp's clearing is lit by this eerie, flickery glow, and even now many of the Haladin soldiers have begun to gather in groups here to contain the fires that threaten to spread. The fighting along the perimeters quickly dwindles, and many of the brethilmen's sentries even now begin to clamber down from their high perches up in the branches to aid those below.

Hurried strides bear Istadris out from the treeline and into the edge of the glade, where he halts upon seeing Finnabair's approach. "You are well?" He asks simply, looking the ranger over through narrowed eyes before glancing past her and across the busy, bustling clearing.

As the orch continues his retreat after his comrades, the Beor healer turns an anxious glance about the camp to make certain none other of the beasts pose any immediate threat. Giving only a nod of agreement to Finnabair, her shoulders slouching, Aldawin continues then upon her way to Leana, sighing heavily as she drops to one knee and sets her sword to the ground beside her. "Aye, Lee," she says in a subdued tone as she makes quick survey of the smithy's wounds. She reaches up to swipe the obscuring locks of dark hair away from her face, only to smear a streak of blood upon her forehead. With a low mutter, she uses her other sleeve to wipe the blood from her right hand before leaning closer to inspect Leana's wounds. "I will need my satchel," the healer says more to herself than to the other young woman, forcing a tense smile. "I will return quickly." So said, she gets to her feet and starts southward, straining to see if the healer's tent has remained unscorched from the fires.

The fighting orcs still stand firm, but shrieking orders rise up, and slowly ground is given way and finnaly the last line of fighters turns heal and flees into the woods. It would see though the steps of the orcs walk not in panic Northward, but branch both east and west, seeking cover from fire light and bow shot, maybe readying to regather there forces and come again to the enflamed encampment. The woops and screams of the vile creatures can be heard recceeding from the camp, and finnally growing silent.

Closing her eyes for a dizzy moment, Leana moves one of her hands to probe the spear wound in her back, grimacing slightly before opening her eyes to glance around at the camp. The apprentice smith draws in a shuddering breath at the extent of damage, frowning at the fires and the bodies of both orcs and men around the perimeter of the camp. She glares at the few retreating forms of the orcs before they pass out of sight, and sighs.

As Istadris comes up to her, Finnabair nods in wordless answer and turns to survey the havoc wrecked upon the camp, watching as the Haladin quickly work to smother the fires and tend to the wounded. Smoke curls up through the canopy and fills the night air with an acrid smell, leaving an unpleasant taste in the Beorian ranger's mouth. "Where were the sentries?", she asks, turning to squint through the black of the forest where the last sounds of the retreating yrch hail, "Why was there not warning sooner?"

Istadris turns the pommel of the sword in his hand and drives the point of the blade into the ground by his side. His armour-clad frame slumps forward wearily, and his shoulders heave with each of his heavy, laboured breaths. With his right hand placed upon the weapon's pommel, and much of his weight resting atop it, the woodsman once again surveys the surrounding glade. "Likely they are dead." he utters in reply to the ranger's query, "I was on watch at the edge of the camp, and heard warning only once they were upon me." With a disgusted shake of his head, the Beor looks to Finnabair once again, "Those by the road and those further north may not be seen again, though I'll wager the Haladin shall send a few folk to see what they may." A concerned frown mars his glistening brow, as he looks past Finnabair and across the fire-lit clearing. "What of the others?" He asks, suddenly alarmed, "Where is Aldawin?"

Wrinkling her nose at the acrid smoke in the air, and looking away in disgust from the black corpses of yrch that lie scattered here and there, Aldawin stops when hailed by a group of scouts that tend to a fallen comrade. Instructing them upon a course of assistance to the wounded man, she offers faint assurance before getting back to her feet and moving onward, glad to see that while the tent has collapsed at one corner, it is mostly intact. Slipping through the entrance, she sees to getting all the provisions she will need, and can carry.

Finnabair nods to Istadris' conjecture about the guards and scowls into the shadows, running her hands distractedly over the smooth haft of her axe, "Aldawin is there.", she answers, pointing the healer out across the camp as she tends to others before herself. "She took an orch's dagger and Leana is wounded as well, I think.", she adds, searching for the young smith amongst the men and women that work to set the camp to right. "None of the guards were near enough to them and I did not see the yrch in time to warn.", she admits, looking past the woodsmen and into the trees. "They should not have come upon the camp with such ease.", she says unnecessarily, straightening abruptly and slipping her grasp upon the axe-haft so that her hand holds it just beneath the blade, "I will go out with the wardens and see what became of the sentries.", she says, nodding a farewell to him and heading out into the trees.

The Beorian tracker's' grey eyes shut momentarily against the flames' bright, flickery lights, and he heaves a low, pained sigh as he lifts his right hand to touch experimentally at the gash atop his left shoulder. Only upon haring Finnabair's answer does he look once more past the ranger, and then only briefly before lifting his bloodied fingers up to the fire's glow. "I had best sit down a while." He utters breathily, before offering the other a nod and a cautioning glance, "Do not stray far tonight. They are likely to return before light, and possibly in number." With heavy, dragging steps, the injured tracker crosses the bustling encampment and makes his way towards the trees opposite from the northern edge of the clearing. There he sinks down beside one of the other injured Haladin, and leans uneasily back upon his right shoulder as he watches various soldiers rush to find water to extinguish the small fires raging around them.