Brethil's Roleplaying Logs

Dimbar: East Bank of Sirion
A faint, rock-strewn track meanders through the barren flatlands, moving from a westerly direction towards the southeast. The faint gurgle of waters flowing comes from the west, the path widening slightly as it heads towards the source of the sound. A few clumps of gorse poke up from the rocky ground, and here and there are bits of purplish heather plants. As a wind sweeps through the land, some small shrubs tumble over the otherwise desolate landscape.

A half moon rides through the night's black sky, casting a silvery pall over the barren lands that stretch out beneath her. Over the rocky path a single figure makes its way carefully toward the northwest, leaping from one cropping to another with nimble steps until it stops and pauses upon a short rise in the land. Crouching low, next to a thatch of gorse, the figure draws aside a mask allowing itself to catch its breath and peer through to the dark to the way ahead.

A broken piece of land, of rough bolders and seeping shadow, is lit by niether star, nor the passing moonlight. And here the hiss of vile breath, coursing past yellowed fangs, twines with the soft breeze and is lost entirely. For, plastered at the edge of a larger rock is a crooked beast. All clad in dark cloth and iron, the shape is near lost, for motionless it keeps, stooped upon, squat legs. A reek of decay, and filth clings to the form, yet the coursing air clears it from the place. A Twisted lug of steel sits between dark coaly eyes, as they dart over the track, seeking any warning. None is found.

With a crunching of pebble, and dead bushes, iron shopd boots take footing again and the Orc moves onto the path. Clawed hands, swathed in wragged cloth, cling to a dark bow, with a black arrow set to the nock. With careful steps, the orc moves Eastward, always seeking shadow, and seldom does any pale moon sheen fall on the sable form.

Still for the space of several moments Finnabair remains crouched low upon the uneven ground before she reaches for her mask and draws it across her face once again, concealling all by her steady, grey eyes. Rising and about to set off again, feet pointed to the northwest, her head turns slowly toward the the nearby sound of scrabbling and snapping of dry brush. Calmly she moves aside, tucking herself down behind the thatch of gorse next to her and there lies in wait, observing the path with a wary eye.

The path is barred by a twisted stone, long etched by winds, and coursing rains from aloft. Yet its strange form, has forced the path to buckle about it, and longer it isfor it, by no small margin. But as the creature moves to it, stooped with arms and bows swaying with the near apish gait, it follows the path not. Letting the lean mail clad body slap against the rock for a moment, a crooked helm wheels left then right as the beast's dark gaze drinks in al it might. With another his of breath, the orc scrabbles to its top, and vault to the other side. As the iron shod feet land, sound alone is not mane, some stone or another caught square sent a fall of blue sparks in the air, to swiftly fail. A vile string of noise, muffled as it is, comes allowed and the orc stoops, running towards another rock, mayhap a score and a half of strides from the unseen human.

The sound of approach rings clear through the dark night as the creature batters against the rock, followed by the noise of it scrambling around on the rocks, then the sound of it landing heavily before moving forward again. Close to the ground, Finnabair leans upon her bent knee and with to reaches behind her and free the bow set at an angle there, catching up a single arrow as she brings them both forward. Holding the weapon down at her side as the veil of night still hangs before her eyes, the sounds are enough to direct her gaze as she patiently waits for the source of the noise to make itself visible before her.

The steps of the orc fall rapidly, and as they beast hoys of the cover of a bolder, the care for silence seems lost. Despite this, the passage is little more than some beast's scuttlings. With a slide skid the beast comes to a rest, standing maybe two dozen paces from the Ranger, his bolder, about all that sunders him from her placing. A tense chest pounds in and out, and air is gulped back through barred, chipped teeth. Yet in this moment, the bow of the beast rises, and the coaly eyes begin to peer towards the plausible holes for foes, consious of the noise of his own passage, and fearful of punishment. Crouching lower, the breath of the beast stills.

Finnabair leans sideways, peering around the gorse that partially blocks her view of the path just to the north of her. The noise of the animal, or creature, continues for some time, sliding over the pebbly ground to a noisy stop and before a thick silence falls. Turning her head, straining to hear, she moves the bow grasped in her hand and brings it out in front of her, an arrow fitted loosely to the string though she makes no effort to draw it. Moving her gaze back, she stares hard at the boulder a short distance ahead of her.

Above the bolder rises the cast helm of the orc, the crooked lug of iron hanging between his eyes gleams a moment on the moonight, some patch of its oily surface seems bashed clean, leaving near untarnished metal to the pale light. Jet either side of the lug, and the nose it shields, dark eyes gleam, yet no target do they find, near or far. Sinking swiftly again helm, head and orc go behind the bolder. And in the shadow and even shade cast of the bolder, clawed hands replace a bow to the beasts shoulder, leaving a twitching ahdn to fall to a roughly made pommel of a curved blade. Still sitting, claoked back pressed against the cool stone, the orc looks now, back down the path it just stepped.

Finnabair keen, grey eyes catch the dull gleam of iron lit by the moonlight which shines faintly through thinning clouds and swiftly she rises, lifting up her bow to take quick aim upon the small but offered target. Yet even as she draws back the arrow the thing vanishes from sight with little sound, wrapping itself in the shadows of the boulder. Cursing silently to herself, the ranger relaxes her draw and crouches down behind the gorse again, eyes narrowed hard upon the boulder.

A soft hiss of metal comes, as the curved blade is drawn from the oily rags it is bound in. A moment is spent, again checking the road behind him, and with another draught of cool air, the orc stands, letting his fould acrid breath cloud on the sharp evenings air, and drift to the outer edge of the stone, as moon beams drifts through the cloud. An over long arm slides to the floor, letting knuckles push against the hard, cold, gravelly earth. Silently, the orc stands, breathing once more, and stooper lower, without the bow. Moving away from the bolders edge, the orc begins to jog towards the next island of shadow and hiding, the harbour of Finnabair. The clawed left hand pumps hard against the cold air, whereas the blade grasped in the right sway gently, belying the readiness in that limb.

A soft sound is heard from behind the boulder and Finnabair leans forward slightly, anticipating another vision of the creature that lies there. A few more scufflings and then the steady fall of iron shod boots sound out, heading toward her out of the shadows and with little delay the Ranger rises to meet them. The great length of her bow rises up with her, her deft fingers drawing it to the full as she sights the tip of the arrow directly upon the creature that appears suddenly before her. One short breath in and her fingers release the tightly drawn string it twangs and reverberates on the autumn air, the iron dart taking flight toward its mark.

The swift moving orc was not mindless of the threat this new boulder might hold, and thus as the dark shadow of the ranger rises, his keen eyes sight the threat. Leaping a pace left, to lunge away from the hissing arrow's flight, it prooves over-swift. Bristling from just beneath the creatures left hip is the dart, yet the clumsy gathering of mail served well for this scruffy orc, shielding as double or triple fold armour. And thus little, but a slight raking of flesh is done and no blood wells past the sable links. A yelp of pain rises, and the creature stumbles, as if it might fall from footing, yet a steading hand pushes the beast away from the earth. The gasp grows to a roar of rage, and spittle is flung wildly from the orcs mouth. Snapping and tearing at the arrow, it shatters and falls away from the frenzied touch, all the while, the orc seeks to meet the archer, closing in swiftly and lifting his blade to head hieght. The stone still sunders the pair as the orc closes in, and he seems not ready to leap it.

Finnabair watches as her arrow flies upon the air toward the orch, finding its mark well though it dips with the wind, its sharp tip does little but cause a scratch beneath the heavy armour of it. Her lone arrow does little to hinder the orch from the path it makes toward her and without time reach for another arrow and take the next shot, she casts the longbow away from her and withdraws several steps around the thatch of gorse she stands beside, using it to block the orch from bearing down upon her.

As the ranger backs away the orc hisses, the sound drips with malice as he begins to try to round the boulder, yet a moan of pain gurgles from his throat, the arrow seems still to have left its head within the foul flesh of the orc. A growl, mastering the sharp pain tha blunts his legs rises, yet as the beas moves to step forward, his leg swings stiffly, as if long lame. A growl of anger rises, but the ranger spot is well chosen and cannot be gotten to swiftly. A loud scrape of gravel heralds the turning of the beast, and it ceases not, for the leg drags in the beasts wake, only half stepping, each time punctuated with a pained growl. Yet despite this wound, the beasts turn of pace is not slight and soon it mail clad form is near back to the wide stone from which it ran. And as the beast moves the legs becomes more fluid and the noises less, as fear masters pain.

Finnabair stands upon the other side, feet planted wide as she tries to judge which way the orch will come about. Her eyes travel over it feverishly and quickly noticing the stiffness of the leg that hampers it from making a quick challenge to her attack. About to reach back and draw foward the long handled axe that rests on her back, the orch suddenly turns and ushers itself back toward the boulder, growling with sounds of pain. Seeing the orch's back to her and retreating with a swiftness that ignores its pain, she curses herself under her breath for having cast away the bow, her empty hands grasping at the air in frustration. With little time to waste she checks the ground about her, searching out the weapon and finding it behind her, delaying her pursuit further.

Luck and fear ushered the orch to the boulders edge and the small beast, summoned such a burst of power from its wissened, stringy muscles, that it bounded clear up the one side, in one leap and down the other side in one further hop. Both came with a fearful holler, which rattled about the stones in this hollow place. Yet given this luck, the beast needs not to be offered it again, cunning and guile send the orc, hunchbacked and scuttling round the paths edge, through brush and boulder, all the time with barred fangs to silence the calls, which his body wishes to send aloud. Seaping westward, with as much speed as his lame leg can spur, the creatures attempts to evade the archer.

Finnabair snatches her bow up off the ground and turns just in time to see the orch leap down the other side of the boulder and disappear. Racing after it, she swings wide of the boulder but stops herself abruptly just as she comes around its other side, calculating that its direction diverges from her original path. A scowl upon her face as she stares into the black shadows the orch has disappeared back into, she runs her hands along the dusty wood her bow and finally sets forth, picking her way carefully through the rocky terrain.