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.

Deep night in Brethil's forest is cold, though for the moment, at least, no snow falls. But the wind still blows, and though it is more of a breeze than a gale, there are gusts that at times stir the untouched snow in places. The ground is still covered from the last snowfall to a depth of a foot, with drifts in places that go much deeper.

The watchers in the trees are well bundled in the cold, though it seems to find it's way through the warmest cloaks at times. Branwyn, grey hood pulled up, stands beneath one of the trees used for the sentries. The snow bothers her little, and at least tonight there are some stars to be seen. Her eyes go up to them, since all has been quiet so far tonight.

In the tree above Branwyn sits Leana, her back against the trunk of the tree and her legs hanging down below the branch upon which she rests. A dark cloak covers her form entirely, save for where her face peeks through her hood, reddened by the cold. Her axe, as always, is strapped to her back, and her face is turned towards the road in silent watch.

Also with the group, though on the ground, is Emeldir. She is well-bundled in defense to the cold and snow, a warm, heavy cloak of soft wool closely fastened around her, it's hood protecting her head.

A mittened hand rests on the hilt of her sword, just inside the cloak. Dangling next to the sword is the large leathern pouch containing healing remedies and ointments which she is rarely without. She lightly stamps her feet on the snow-packed ground, seeking to forestall the chill beginning to creep into her toes, her breath making frosted bubbles in the ebony darkness.

Finnabair slips among the shadows south of the rest, walking softly among the trees that edge the road at an easy pace. Her cloak rides out on the wind, clasped together at the neck by a small brooch; the hood drawn forward to hide the face and guard against the elements and upon her back rests a longbow and quiver of arrows, companions to a straight-bladed axe. A drift of snow presents itself before her and edging around, deeper into the trees, she turns and then corrects her course, approaching the place where the others lie hidden.

Amid the meshed branches and tangle of frosted underbrush, a company comes. There gait is silent and there movements swift. They wear the sable colours of the night sky and blend well with the mournful dark trunks of the forest. The company is but small, yet they seem all well armed, indeed many go with a bow grasped in clawed hands.

One such Orc eads near to the group, his boots are bound in leather and his dark eyes peer out from a crooked helm of iron. The vile breath courses out of his nostrils and frosts on the chill air, yet not so much as to give herald to his coming. In his hands the blackened bow of horn is, and at its nock a black fletched arrow is set. Sucking his yellowe fangs a moment the beast waves his hand to the other, calling for more care and less speed.

Through some of the trees in parallel with Gruulbok and his party moves Darshkra, he leads a small group of his clan-folk. As always, he is at the head of the party, his large war hammer held aloft as he presses on through the snow covered foliage of the forest. His sweeping gaze is cast from the road and Gruulbok and to the left into the shadows of the trees.

Within the line of orcs a small, robed figure walks. He walks towards the back of the group. Oddly enough, this seems to be the only robed one among the ranks...a very uncommon sight. It is very small, even smaller still as it walks slightly haunched over. Its eyes scan the forest floor, with quick jolts from here to there. In the small beasts hand there is a short bow, and over shoulder, there is a quiver. He holds the bow downards, notched with a crude steel arrow, as he pulls lightly on the string.

The quiet sigh Branwyn makes as she pulls her gaze away from the sky and back to the woods before them is too low to be heard by any, even Leana in the tree above. She shifts her longbow and arrow to the other hand and flexs the fingers of her right before shifting them back again. Renocking the arrow lightly, she glances from the nearest trees with watchers to those farthest away, wishing once more for reinforcments from Doriath. Though the sentries here are a mixture of Haladin, Beorian and Eldar, they are still spread too lightly for her peace of mind.

Hearing the slight stamping of boots off to the side and somewhat behind her, she turns enough to make out the form of the Lady Emeldir. Hoping the Lady is bundled well enough for the cold, she turns her attention forward again. A faint sense of unease stirs in the back of her mind, but no more than on other nights.

Leana turns and squints out into the forest, her eyes scanning over the underbrush, unwary of the approach of any enemy. She turns her head back and leans it against the trunk of the tree, closing her eyes for a moment and huddling into her cloak against the cold. She opens her eyes soon, however, determined to stay awake and alert through the night watch.

Ahead, a shadow moves against the backdrop of night and Finnabair slows her step as she comes toward it, lifting a hand in silent greeting to any of the sentries hidden from her sight. The trees begin to thin, the road to the north lies empty and Finnabair comes to a stop, crouching down not but a few trees away from where Brawyn herself stands watching and Leana too, perched in the branches of another. Pulling at the scarf that is wound about her neck, short frozen breaths drift out on the air and are whisked away the gusting winds, her grey eyes fixed on the empty land beyond the road.

Gruulbok's coaly eyes gleam coldy as the peer past the crooked lug of his helm. His dark cloaked form leans close to a trees trunk and slowly he begins to step onwards. Unwittingly his feet tread towards the folk gather near, yet no sign of them has he. Yet a soft patch of snow hides a fallen, and it goes some way also to muffle the sound of it cracking beneath the boot of Gruulbok, yet a soft hiss of distaste and fear rises from his lungs, with a cloud of vapour. Wheeling back, he presses his mailclad back against the trunk of a tree and holds still, save the heaving of his chest in the chill air.

To his right the Chieftain of the Black Hand spies Gruulbok quick movements, with a simple raised hand he brings his ranks to a halt and waits, lowering himself slightly. A few glancing looks to where Gruulbok is are given, but his main attention now lies before him and his group. Ahead something is, yet what, he knows not. His weapon is held, ever ready, before him, as if holding back a foe of some sort.

Gralnak takes light steps forward, the light crunching of his feet in the snow can be heard. Seeing Gruulbok's movements, the alarm seems to pass down the group of orcs like a wave. Gralnak slowly splits himself from the group slightly, hiding against a large tree, and some brush off to the side. His eyes dart from tree top to tree top, watching for the enemy. His fingers play with the end of the arrow.

The light crunch of footsteps in the snow alerts Branwyn to the Dorthonion scout's arrival and she moves her head just enough to see where Finnabair has hidden herself. Only a few moments later, her eyes back on the forest beyond the road, her ears catch the a noise, faint, yet still there. Her sense of unease sharpens as well, and her cold green eyes search the woods and road for any sign. From above in one of the trees comes a low whistle, the one agreed upon for danger and her right hand tightens on the bow. A half step back gives her room to bring it up while still hidden by the tree and she waits tensely for whatever will appear.

Leana lifts her head slightly, her ears seeming to perk up for a moment as she turns to look out over the forest once again. Frowning, the apprentice smith rises to her feet, balancing on the limb halfway up the tree with her hand set to the trunk. Her form is sillhouetted by the starlight for a moment as she takes one step away from the trunk, where the cover of branches is thickest. She tugs her hood back into place after the wind had pushed it off and peers out into the darkness, waiting to see if whatever is out there will become more clear.

Finnabair's grey eyes narrow, the night formless and silent in front of her. The wind moans through the trees, the low whistle still carries on it and the Beorian ranger reaches behind her to unslip the bow, running her bare hands over its smooth wood as she brings it forward along with an arrow. Glancing off to the side, she spies the tall figure of the Elf stepping back, her own bow readied. Finnabair follows suit, rising and casting her cloak back from off her shoulders to give her freedom of movement as she sets the arrow to the string and scans the road again.

Hearing the whistle, Gralnak plants himself against the tree, kneeling slightly among the brush.

Waiting a moment, the orc sees no answer is given to the noise made by his boot. So with another sigh of misgiving, the stooped beast waves a hand, urging that the band moves on. He is first to break his cover, walking lightly around the tree he had used for harbour, yet against the white of the blanketing snow, the dark form is laid bare for a moment. His steps are quick as he jogs along, crunching the snow softly. Yet his bow he does not drop, and his sable helm wheels hither and thither as the Gruulboks eyes seek any foe or danger ahead.

The orc finds himself in the midts of the road when a soft whistling comes, the dark eyes widen and the beast darts quickly to the dyke at the edge of the path, and lolls noisily into it, whilst scampering about and readying his bow.

The alarm of the group seems to die down. Though the small Orc suspects otherwise, he stays in his position a few moments...eyes intently watching the trees, looking for any sign of life. He now begins to slowly and steadily step forward. His steps making low groans, as the snow packs together beneath his feet, though perhaps not enough for any other then himself to hear. As the wind blows...he obviously is alarmed, quickening his pace. He makes his way to another tree, with large uplifted roots...this one about fourty feet forward from the other. He kneels down into its side, as he takes a glance towards the trail, which is still, yet, fairly close, being only a few yards off. Then once again, his eyes go to the

The group lead by Darshkra are yet to move off. They wait, still in the gusting wind. As Gruulbok once again goes to ground, he raises his hand once more, clenching it this time is group take what cover they can in and about the trees of the forest, still alert they stay focused on what may lie ahead.

Spotting the yrch as soon as he breaks cover, still Branwyn holds back, waiting to see if he is alone or if there is a larger company. Though her eyes and the bow are trained on the ditch into which he rolls when he hears the whistle, she can catch bits of movement from behind him and a bit to either side. But no other makes their presence known yet, and so she waits, hoping those around her will do the same, for any signal now will merely let the enemy pinpoint their position.

Her eyes widening as she spots the creatures, Leana quickly removes her gloves and her cloak, draping them on the limb of the tree and then climbs down the side opposite the orcs, using the trunk for cover as she descends. Once at the base, she pulls her axe out and wraps her hands about the shaft, rather nervously peeking around the tree-trunk to keep an eye on what's going on.

Finnabair's narrowed eyes widen sligthly when the unmistakable shape of an orch creeps onto the open road. About to draw and set her arrow upon it, the creature suddenly scuttles off to the side with no attempt to keep quiet, making its movement easy to track by sound alone. With an uneasy look she follows back along the way it came, searching through the darkness when the the quiet sounds of Leana's descent distract her. Looking toward the young smith who appears at the base of the tree, Finnabair moves one hand off her bow and presses her fingers to her lips for silence, gesturing to the road in warning.

Again the skittish movements of Gruulbok bring no answer save silence. The beast raises his helm just over the drifts of snow that skirt the banks, to allow a dark glance about. Softly his breath hisses and sends the acrid cloud of his frosted breath afore him. Instinctivley, the beast shoulders his bow, and replaces the arrow to the quiver, that is fast buckled at his own side. Yet no sooner is this done than a dark flaking hand falls to the pommel of a sable blade, blackened in a greasy flame, and forged crooked. Without a ring, it is pulled from its bonds, and without a sound, he scampers up and over the bank. He begins to jog and then run, his gair grows swift and louder, and it carries him towards Branwyn, though she is unlooked for. The apeish arms pump as the beast runs for the next good spot of cover - the elf's own - and the scimitar flails in his hands.

Gralnak peers endlessly into the trees, very intent on finding something. He hears the sound of scrapping...like that of someone clawing against a tree...climbing down one. His eyes widen quickly, his head bulleting towards the direction of the sound. His hands tighten on the string of his bow...though as he looks...he see's nothing, though he keeps his eyes in this direction...holding his bow up around his waist, aching to shoot something.

Darshkra waits, his form remains much the same, save his head, which jerks about, glancing from one to the other to the other. The group of orcs before him he keeps check upon, watching their progress intently.

Though Branwyn can hear the small sounds of Leana descending the tree, she refrains from moving, keeping her bow on the ditch with the intention of taking out this first of the yrch as soon as possible. She gives a small sigh of relief when Leana seems to stay behind the tree. The wait is repaid when the orch appears to be reassured by the silence and lifts himself out of the ditch. She holds back for a long moment even as the creature begins to run towards her, in the hopes of another showing itself, but finally she can wait no longer and the arrow is loosed as the creature passes the halfway spot on the road.

Leana nods silently at Finnabair, remaining still and quiet. Her stance, though, is ready, both feet planted firmly shoulder-width apart and hands gripping the haft of her axe tightly despite the pervasive cold. As the smith hears the sound of Gruulbok's running feet and then Branywn's loosed bow, she twists around to the side to peer around the base of the tree, eyes quickly scanning the scene.

The small orcs eyes still scan the area of which he seems sure he heard a noise. Even at the sound of a fired arrow, the small orc keeps his gaze in the same general direction it has been for some time now. A human steps around the side of the tree after the single arrow was fired. A grin passes over Gralnak's face, as he quickly prepares to fire. He lifts his bow up around chest area, the bottom half of his body still hiden beneath the roots of the tree. Turning the bow to a side ways position he pulls hard on the string. With the hand which is planted on the base of the bow he takes his pointer finger, pointing at his prey...he fires, unknowing where the arrow will end up.

Assured, Finnabair nods to Leana and looks back toward the road, just as the orch appears once again, this time running directly toward the trees where she, Branwyn and Leana stand in shadows. Branwyn, quicker and nimbler, looses an arrow for the creature, the dart flying swiftly toward it. The Beorian ranger resets her own arrow and takes a step forward, searching vainly for followers in the dark. The dangerous sound of a snapping bow causes her to shy away, not knowing the path of the arrow, behind the insufficient cover of a thin birch.

Midstep Gruulbok falters, a foul screech tares from his chest, as an arrow Bristles from his shoulder. Mail links and flesh burst alike, yet the shaft is not sunk deep. The fist of the beast breaks his fall, even as his black blood begins to drip and despoil the snow. With a growl now of anger, the beast rises and tears the shaft from his arm, and with this motion his body convulses with pain. He turns to run again, and his course is unaltered, seeking still the same cover as before. The Orc's long swift steps bring him within a score of paces of the other, and belying the blind shade of the trees, the reek of Elf rises in his snout. A hiss of distaste comes, ferrel and filled with fury. And so the scimitar of the beast slashes and hack at the branches in his way.

Another hand rises from the Chieftain, this time the fingers are spread and the group behind him, a small group of his best Black Hander's, rise also, as he does, and scatter somewhat about him, each targeting and pinning their eyes on those before them. Each ready, each willing to follow their master to their death.

The anxious sentries in the trees above the three hold their fire as instructed beforehand, waiting to see if they will need to hold off a large number of attackers. A small smile of satisfaction crosses Branwyn's face at the sound of her arrow hitting and the howl of its victim. Waiting only long enough to be sure the yrch continues at her, Branwyn takes a step backwards to drop her bow, then pulls her longsword free of its sheath. As the creature pulls his blade and slashes at the branches of the tree to reach her, she chooses a clear spot near the trunk of the tree in the hopes of a clear strike at him. Her buckler is still fastened to her belt and there is no time to retrieve it.

As the arrow misses her so narrowly that she can feel its passing in the air, Leana twists quickly back behind the tree. The apprentice smith curses quietly under her breath, and lifts one hand from her axe to blow on her cold fingers. She looks to Finnabair, as though for instruction or assurance, yet soon her glance is pulled away by the sounds that assault her ears, the silence punctuated by the urgent sounds of battle. Lee looks rather worried and apprehensive, returning her hand to twist nervously about the wooden shaft of her axe.

Finnabair steps back and leaves the one tree between herself and the road, sparing a quick look to Leana, "Take care, Leana. Stay well back of the road and should they enter the trees, have your axe ready.", the only assurance she is able to give the young smith, "Or else fly as fast as you can!", she calls and turns back, scurring westward through the trees to leave some distance between. Upon her back the axe bounces, and as she spies several dark figures slipping along the road, she draws to a halt to try and sight upon one.

Finnally Branwyn is sited by Gruulbok, leapingto the left of the trunk, he tries to get himself a clear stab at the Elleth. And even afore thefeet of the orc had landed upon the snow, his arm thrusts out straightways, stabbing wildly at the elf. The wounded left arm of the beast is wet with dark blood, yet it hangs not useless, his small shield is set afore his left side, shading his breast. As the orc lands with a crunch of snow, he grunts even as the tip of the blade hoys towards the gut of the elf.

Their is obvious cursing going on in Gralnaks head as the arrow narrowly misses Leana. Taking a quick glance towards Gruulbok, he returns his gaze to Leana, drawing another arrow from his quiver and notching it. He stands slightly, as if about to leave his position...though pausing, he looks up into the tree's...no...he is not going to completely blow his cover just yet, kneeling back behind the roots. He holds his bow up, arrow pointed towards the tree in which Leana takes refuge behind.

"Aye," Leana returns to Finnabair, nodding and then shifting her axe in her hands once more. She takes a few steps back, so that the tree does not block her whole view of the road, and continues scanning the scene, wary and watchful.

Even though she is tense and waiting, the orc's leap takes Branwyn enough by surprise that she twists sideways from his blade a hair too late. The tip of the scimitar lays open a shallow gash in her left side. A cold fury takes her and she brings the longsword up in a slashing cut, aimed at to cut diagonally across the beast's chest.

Both eyes widen, as the human exposes herself once again to the Orc. Once again, he stands up slightly, this time attempting to get a better aim. Holding the bow slightly sideways, he once again points with his pointer finger towards his target. He hisses lightly, cleanly releasing the arrow.....

Having hung around in the back of the group of orcs is the Smith who now steps into the middle of the group, grumbling and snarling at the rest of the fighters. He is sick of having to wait around and takes charge of the group, antsy to get back at those two pale-faced twits who chased him out of here the other day. He whispers to the group which then knock and raise their bows, followed by the command to fire, launching a black rain of death upon the enemy.

The large Smith then raises his axe high in the air and shouts whereby the rest of them weild their swords and whatnot. The charge into the fray is swift, moving with the quick pace of feet that are used to forced marches.

The orc's face is set grim and foul as his blade strikes at the Elleth, but it crumbles and falters as it strikes but softly, and doing little save awaken the other. Ere he can move clear of the Elleth her blade arcs before Gruulbok and rakes over his chest. The mail coat he wears served its purpose and little of his vile skin was torn, but in places the shirt is split and his breast is exposed. Cursing again, the beast reels back a pace from the blow, yet he ceases not. Lurching and feigning a swoon the beast instead sets his boots into the snow and begins to sprint away from the Elleth. The orc moves with no thought of silence or stealth and indeed much of the snow is hoyed out behind him or roughly ploud by his boots. Headlong the orcs hoy, as bare branches and twigs whip and rakes his face, for terror was in the beast for the sight of the fell Quende.

Letting out an involuntary cry as an arrow strikes in her upper arm, cutting through the leather but not hitting so deeply, Leana's eyes narrow. The expression of pain on the young Haladin's face passes quickly and is soon replaced by anger, her dark eyes narrowed as she removes the arrow and looks in the direction from whence it came came. Spotting Gralnak there in the shadows, she takes her axe and moves swiftly forward through the snow in order to attack it.

The soft sound of running steps passing through the trees behind tell Finnabair that the other scouts and wardens are close by, their bows answering the those of the yrch from among the trees. Suddenly a shape rises up, bow aimed in the direction where she left Leana behind; the sound of the young smith's cry following immediately after proof that the orch's arrow flew true. Her expression stoney, the Beorian ranger straightens herself and bends her bow, laying the point upon within the frame of the creature's dark shape before letting her fingers slip from the string; the sound of the dart whistling sharply through the air.

Gralnak grins widely, revealing stained and jagged teeth, as he quickly retrieves another arrow from his quiver, and notches it. Though suddenly he pauses...expression going suddenly from triumph....to despair. For he has been shot, right in his right side. He drops his bow, swings behind the tree, attention going completely to his side. He yanks at the arrow, though it is caught within his armor, and a good distance in his flesh. Looking up he is reminded of another threat, a human running at him. He snaps the arrow, leaving only an inch or two revealed from his black robe. He bends down, a shot of pain crossing his face, as his teeth grit and eyes clench. He reveals a dagger from his boot, as he peeks around the tree at that which is running at him.

As the hail of arrows come at them out of the trees across the road, the Edain and Eldar in the trees return the fire. After the first release though, they fall each into their own rhythm, trying to take out individual targets as the orcs show themselves. Some of the that initial volley has hit a few, but none are yet seriously hurt.

Branwyn's fury is fueled by a cry she recognizes as well as the retreat of the orc she has just hit, and as it runs from her, her feet take her beyond the tree to the edge of the road in pursuit. Several of the arrows loosed by the orcs come far too close to her, but once there, she can see the mass of them attacking, with one in particular in the lead. Leaving the followers to the arrows of those in the trees behind her, she pulls her buckler loose from her belt and shoves her arm through the strap. Her eyes are on the leader and the expression on her face is pure cold hate.

The snow drifts are deep, and Leana struggles through them, striving to move quickly enough so as to not make herself a standing target. Her eyes widen briefly in surprise as the orc she approaches is shot by an arrow, but does not question it, simply continuing forward on her way. She skids to a stop just before the orc, her eyes flashing with anger and her axe at the ready.

Hissing in pain, the small orc watches as the human approaches. Growling he swings behind the tree completely, looking around. He obviously isnt to confident with his current situation. Though as the human skids past the tree right next to him he quickly, and desperately swings his dagger up at her left thigh in a quick, slashing twist of the elbow and wrist.

The dagger lightly cuts through, and blood begins to stain Leana's clothing. She flinches slightly, yet does not pause in the slightest as she brings the head of her axe back towards her shoulder and then swings it downwards at the orc in an arc aimed to land at its left side.

Somewhere in between where the group of orcs was and where they are now is when Dornalk the large orcish Smith saw and marked his target and watches as she jumps down from her tree. The white look of cold hate in her face is matched by the red burning fury in his. His group breaks off and leaves him to face this one as he brandishes his battle axe again, a weapon large and worthy enough for this beast.

The last few feet between him and Branwyn are a somewhat harrowing experience, as she can now clearly see his jagged teeth and burning red eyes, so he can see her as clearly. He brings his axe behind him and swings downward, the cold axe-blade whistling from the momentum, seeking to cleave the Elleth in half. A mighty blow indeed would this make upon his enemy..he can almost taste her blood in his mouth..

Finnabair's first arrow set to flight, Finnabair is reaching for another when she catches sight of Leana racing out of the trees toward the orch, "Leana!", she cries, alarmed. With the smith now blocking her target and placing herself in danger, Finnabair quickly sets her bow down in the snow against a tree and hurriedly pulls at the axe on her back as she dashes from the cover of the trees. The sound of their clashes ring through the air and around her there is the whur and hum of arrows chasing each, but the Beorian ranger presses on across the open space, calling, "Leana! Away!"

Though her expression changes not at all as she awaits the orc running at her, her body moves quickly to match his attack. Almost comtemptuously, she moves her left foot back as her longsword swings upwards at the descending axe. With a crash, the two blades meet in the air. Pushing forward with her left foot, she twists her blade free of the axe and puts her strength into a downward slash at the creature's shoulder with a hiss.

The connect with Leana does not seem to please him...though the arrow implanted in his side doesnt seem to help. He jumps backwards attempting to dodge Leana's counter-attack though is caught in his side. He hisses in pain. He looks very angry now. His breathing becomes very hard, a cloud of warm air being emitted into the coolness of the coming night. In a growl, he takes a quick lunge at her, aiming to slash at her throat. Though a shot of pain goes through the area in which he was shot, misguiding his dagger as it now is aimed for her upper chest, below the neck.

A slightly annoyed look passing briefly over her face as she hears Finnabair's words, Leana fails to dodge Gralnak's strike, which slashes just below her collarbone. Lee aims a threatening glare at Gralnak briefly, but obeys her better instincts and moves away in obedience with the Beorian's call, backing up a few steps before turning to run.

Mayhap it was the force of the charge combined with the swing of his axe, or maybe not but regardless, he did not expect the elleth to catch his axe on her blade. And then still trying to come to a full stop, the last few inches of motion help to allow Branwyn's blade to dig into the leather covering Dornalk's shoulder. Quickly looking at it, the smith spits at the pale-face and starts edging to the right. He feints to the left and then attacks her from the right, bring his axe around from the side, aiming for her sword arm.

Still a dozen yards from Leana and the orch, Finnabair watches as it lashes out visciously with its dagger and cuts the smith. Again she calls, "Leana!", running faster when suddenly her stride is checked by an arrow that lands deep in the snow before her. That moment of hestitation makes her an easy target, and half a breath later an another arrow catches her high on her left arm, pushing through leather armour to imbed its barbed head in her flesh. Pushed back a step by the force, Finnabair exchanges the axe to her right hand alone and continues to advance with grim determination.

Watches the human as she turns away at her calling. Though he does not follow, he simply stares at her...his polluted yellow eyes gazing at her, as a crooked grin forms on his face, "Flee, maggot." he says lightly in a hissing serpant like voice, "I dare you toooo." he finishes eyeing his bow. Though as he hears the call once again, he charges at Leana, leaping at her with his dagger in a stabbing position, he aims for her neck. The obvious pain of his wounds showing, he leaves his defenses down...either she, or it coming out of this.

Though her blade strikes the creature's shoulder, it cuts him only slightly and as he pulls away, Branwyn tries to set herself for the next attack, slightly shaken by the unusual strength of the beast before her. But still she is unprepared for his charge and mistakes the feint to the left for the attack, turning slightly in that direction. As the battle axe reverses and comes at her sword arm, she manages to twist towards it, but her blade fails to block this time. The axe takes her in the right side, striking through mail and into the flesh beyond. The pain hits Branwyn through the haze of anger and she screams, stumbling backwards towards the tree behind her. Blood runs down her right side and leg from the wound and though she manages to keep to her feet and hold on to her sword, there is no way she can raise it for the moment.

Whirling about to face the orc as it follows after her, Leana moves her neck out of the way just in time, so the dagger strikes in her shoulder. She clenches her teeth against the pain of the strike and turns about, fury evident in every feature, face pale with the cold. She uses one of her favorite haladin curse words, and turns her grip on her axe. The apprentice smith swings it in a swift arc to the left, aiming lower to hit Gralnak's side.

Steps away from Leana and the orch, Branwyn's chilling scream forces Finnabair to turn and see the Elf hard pressed to defend herself against large orch. The blood staining the Elf's side and the snow around leaves the Beorian ranger only a moment to decide between her and the young Haladin and with the arrow still protruding from her left arm she makes the decision by turning her feet toward the Elf, "Leana, away!", she calls a last time to Leana as she races off now for the other pair.

Gralnak cries out in pain, a cry louder then it looks such a small orc could produce, as the axe connects with his left side once again. He growls at Leana, taking a step back. He listens to Finnabair's words. Now bending over slightly...about 5 feet or so from Leana, he manages to produce a light grin. He hisses at Leana, speaking loudly in uruk, "Run!...Coward" the last word the human may be able to recognize, though perhaps not depending on how observant they are. He stands there, one right hand clasping his left side where three slashes lie, and holding his dagger up with his left hand.

Seeing his quarry unable to attack for the time being, Dornalk hastily walks over to where she is against the tree, and seeing the blood streaming down her leg has gotten his saliva going, causing a haze of bloodlust to appear in his vision. He licks his teeth and lips in front of her, giving her a grin that just drips with evil malice and hate. He raises his axe into the air, swings it around a few times to show off his strength in front of the elleth. He brings his blade in a downward, diagonal slash aiming for her upper torso, the slash coming in from the left side.

"I'm fine!" Leana fairly howls after Finnabair, the wind whipping her bright hair in a flurry about her face. She keeps her gaze fastened on Gralnak and then shifts her axe into the opposite grasp as before, with her right hand near the bottom and her left hand further up on the haft. She does not understand a word of the orc's speech, but simply sneers at him, quickly taking a few steps into the gap between them and swinging her axe in a wide arc towards his neck from the left side.

Rushing for the pair, Finnabair can only watch as the orch looms over the beleaguered Branwyn, raising its axe high in the air above where she lies in the snow and then slashes with deadly force at her, "Hie!", the Beorian ranger shouts angrily to gain its attention, her own axe gripped firmly in her right arm. The arrow stuck in her left pains her, blood from the wound staining the leather of her armour dark, but for now she ignores it, intent upon the Elf's foe, "Beor!", her battle cry this time, feet pounding through the snows toward the two.

Gralnak's reers back, expecting her to run. Though instead charging at him. He Turns his head to the side and falls backwards. Though his effort is in vain, as the axe catches him good on the right side of his neck. He growls, blood squirting through the air. He falls to the ground, scrambling to regain footing he barely is able to stab at her right ankle with his dagger.

A cry of dismay arises from a the few Doriathrim in the trees who see Branwyn driven back out of sight. For herself, though the pain flows through her in waves, Branwyn's mind seems to see things in slow motion. Leaning back against the tree even as the huge creature advances, she tries to marshall her strength for the moment when he will strike. The sight of the drool dripping from his mouth is almost enough to turn her stomach, but she makes herself watch his eyes instead. Taunting her with several swings of his axe, she lets him think she is unable to move herself, though a small part of her wonders if that might not be true. Yet when he finally swings the axe up and brings it down at her, she manages to drop to the right, falling away from the him to her right side. Another scream is wrung from her as she hits the ground, the axe having cut her left shoulder slightly. Grimly, she starts to push herself over onto her back, unaware that anyone has seen her plight.

The large Smith hears the cry of the Ranger coming for him and turns his burning eyes to see how close the other pale-face is to him, caught in a second of indecision and possibly even dismay. He growls and decides to finish off the one at his feet before turning to the new adversary and as Branwyn is trying to get to her back is the perfect time to strike. He seems to love raising his axe into the air and does so again, bring it above Branwyn's half-prone, half-supine form and lets the proverbial guillotine fall for her stomach, putting his muscle behind it of course..

The dagger piercing through the leather of her right boot gives Leana pause, but not too much as she strides towards Gralnak. "Get up," she says mockingly in her native tongue, swinging her axe just lightly down at the arm he wields his dagger with. The apprentice smith moves slightly slower now as her many light injuries begin to wear on her, yet she lets her face show none of the pain.

Gralnak stands to a kneel, like that of a frog ready lead on its prey. He grins lightly as Leana speaks. He swings his body to the side, narrowly dodging her attack. With his free hand, he grabs a handful of snow, hurling it up towards Leana's face, as he lunges towards her with his dagger, attempting to stab directly at her stomach. A large puddle of blood is left in the place he sat, a cold reminder of the wounds he bears, most notably the arrow still implanted in his side.

Listening for the sound of the orc even as she tries to push herself over onto her back, Bran can hear him hesitate for a moment. Putting the last of her waning strength into it, she pushes hard and rolls over just as the axe comes down where her back was a moment ago. She lays there, panting, blood staining the snow around her and stares defiantly up at the creature. Her sword is still gripped tightly, though whether she can bring it up at him in defence is another matter.

Leana twists aside to avoid the handful of snow Gralnak hurled at her, so that his strike does not land in her stomach, but rather in her side. Drawing in a ragged breath, the apprentice smith whirls directly about, swinging her axe downwards and to the right in order to strike his shoulder.

Her cries warning of her coming, the orch turns to her for only a moment before returning its attention upon the Elf, unleashing another strike of its axe upon her. The Beor crosses the last few steps swiftly, turning her right side slightly toward it to keep the nuisance of the arrow in her left out of the way. One worrisome look at the sorely wounded Elf and she growls over at the Orch, "Away.", brandishing her axe.

Gralnak grins, a twisted, evil grin, as he connects. As she attacks him he once again spins to the side, barely missing her attack, its wind felt on his cold face. Now completely standing he slashes at her, downward and left, aimed towards the face. Celeborn pages: Should I come to the battlefield to act as a healer? You paged Celeborn with 'You could. The camp isn't far from.'.

The orc's attack strikes true, drawing a long line of red that stretches from Leana's cheekbone to her chin, a relatively deep cut that begins to bleed down her chin and neck. Grinding her teeth together against the pain, the apprentice smith leans on her forward right foot and pushes her axe in a short arc aimed for Gralnak's midriff.

Her cries warning of her coming, the orch turns to her for only a moment before returning its attention upon the Elf, unleashing another strike of its axe upon her. The Beor crosses the last few steps swiftly, turning her right side slightly toward it to keep the nuisance of the arrow in her left out of the way. One worrisome look at the sorely wounded Elf and she growls over at the Orch, "Away.", brandishing her axe.

Dornalk's biggest worry now is the enemy still walking around more than the one on the ground nearby and so turns to face the newcomer, brandishing his own axe in returning answer to hers. He spits in Finnabair's face and shouts "Come get it, pale-face!" He licks his lips then from the saliva that still drips from his teeth and sets his axe in a reverse hold so that it is pointed to the ground. He leaps at Finna and brings the axe upwards towards her mid-section, his long arms possibly being one of the factors of making this maneuver work.

Gralnak laughs mockingly at Leana as his dagger slides down her face. Leaning quickly back he very narrowly escapes the bite of her cold axe blade, swinging by him. He looks straight at her and in a low, calm voice proclaims, "Die!" he steps forward dagger in hand, stabbing at her chest...Her heart being somewhere beneath.

From the deep woods comes a grey steed bearing a cloaked rider. The horse stops some distance from the fray and rears slightly, stomping the ground nervously. The rider checks the mare and she wheels him around. The hood of the rider is blown off by the wind during the maneuver, his moon-white hair gleaming.

Too slow to dodge entirely, all Leana manages to do is bend her knees and turn slightly to the side so that the blow lands on her shoulder rather than in her chest. Unable to contain a slight shiver both at the cold and the blood she has lost, Lee turns her grip on her axe to the more familiar right-handed stance and swings a swift arc aimed for Gralnak's upper arm.

The orch's spittle offends Finnabair's face, her lips curling back in disgust as she quickly passes her sleeve across to wipe it away. As it lifts it bloodied axe for her now, the Beorian ranger darts from its path, moving away from where Branwyn lies to draw the Orch off. Still with her right side turned slightly toward the Orch, she returns its strike with one of her own, swinging it back and around, attempting to aim for its long, extended arms before it can draw back.

With her buckler laying on the ground, its strap broken by her fall, Branwyn has only the sword in her right hand for defense should the orch who laid her here turn back to her. Her left hand is against her right side, though it fails to stop the blood that is turning the snow under the tree by the road a bright red. With the Dorthonion ranger's arrival, she dares hope to survive the night, but nothing is certain yet, for the Beorian looks small against the size of the orch who stands between them. Yet Finnabair seems to be holding her own against him so far, and she continues to hope. Unable to rise, she can only lay there and await the outcome, for she can see little of what is going on around her now...only the clashes of swords and the twang of released arrows from the woods.

The rider dismounts and without any obvious weapon or armor, runs toward the battle, his grey robes billowing behind him. He keeps his tall form low, remaining under the arrow fire. He does not seem to greatly fear the dark ones, but he also makes no move to attack them. Rather, he searches for wounded, soon finding Branwyn. "Warden!" he says only loud enough to be heard over the surrounding noises.

Hisses as Leana turns, disrupting his attack. His throat gurgles, as he opens his mouth, spitting at Leana. Gralnak jumps to the left, dodging Leana's attack, he pushes at her as he jumps attempting to knock her off balance, or to the ground for that matter. Though it is a weak push, since right in the middle he clenches his right side in great pain. He begins to backstep very quickly. He turns towards the tree in which he sat before, running, he quickly managers to grab both bow and quiver...though every single arrow falls out, save one. He sprints in the opposite direction of Leana, eyeing Dornalk and Finnabair as he passes.

After missing the Beorian, his swing having gone wide, the Smith of the Black Hand pulls back for another swing and catches a good-sized nick in his forearm, the blade slicing through so fast that it has yet to begin stinging. A hiss escapes the creatures mouth and he crouches, starting to edge to the left, watching her closely. Thinking his move from earlier would work on this one as well, he goes for it. He feints to the left and then comes in from the right, aiming for the word-arm of this pale-face, thereby effectively having stopped two opponents from being able to attack..

The unexpected sound of a voice nearby brings Branwyn's head around, away from the struggle between Finnabair and the creature who wounded her. Her eyes widen in surprise at the face she sees and a part of her wonders if she has lost even more blood than she thought, for it seems to her to shine with a light of its own. She blinks twice, then says faintly, "My lord?" She tries to turn her body in his direction, but the movement makes her vision narrow and blacken around the edges and she falls back from the few inches she managed to rise.

Leana stumbles backwards a few steps as Gralnak pushes her, gripping her axe in readiness to attack. Yet as Gralnak flees instead, she relaxes slightly and bows her head, pressing one of her hands to the painful wound down her face. Wincing slightly, the Haladin glances about at the surrounding battle and then steps back towards the cover of the trees. She finds a relatively shadowed and sheltered place at the base of a pine just off the path and curls up in the roots, so as to wait out the rest of the battle and the cold of the night.

Still seemingly aloof to the carnage around him, the Doriath lord Celeborn almost serenely slides his arms under his warden's shoulders and knees. He speaks to her softly before lifting her up against him and carrying her back toward his horse, out of the direct fighting and the arrows' flights. He stands straight, then turns to look at the battle from the safer distance, still holding the fallen as his mare hoofs at the ground behind him.

The straight blade of her axe causes little but a scratch upon the large orch and does not slow his next attack. Watching him moves, her feint to the left fools her, and she reaches out to parry the blow only to find him pulling back quickly to the right and she tries vainly to move with it and block the strike. But her defenses are left open and though she manages to pull back her arm and lean away from the blade, it sneaks in to leave a deep and bloody gash across her right thigh. Thrown off balance, but maintaing her grip on the axe, she falls back and is already scrambling over the snow to create a space between her and the orch.

Continueing to run, the small orc gets a good distance away from where he fled from. He soon begins to slow...to a stop against a tree and some brush. His small, beady eyes dart around. It looks like he is fairly safe right here, as he looks down to examine his wounds. He notices he has one arrow left....and with a grin, he looks up towards the battle area. Ah!....a White-haired elf, leaning over and helping a companion....what an opportunity, he must be thinking. Notching the arrow, he pulls back on the string, and with the hand on the base of the bow, he points cockily towards his target....Celeborn....

Dornalk's face lights up as he feels his axe blade sink into the pale-face's flesh but flashes despair as she tries to get away. With these words, he mocks her in his foul language, "You stinking pale-face, coming back and fighting me you pig!" Right after, he leaps for her, closing the distance in the single bound. Bringing his massive axe down upon her with great strength, he aims for her stomach, knowing how much something like that would hurt..

Though he stands in the open, the elven lord's mien is one of insufferable calm. He adjusts the dead-weight of Branwyn in his arms and is about to turn and put her on the horse when something stops him. He quickly shifts her weight entirely into one arm, holding her under her arms against him, and with the other, more quickly than lightning at night, his now-free hand snaps up. When it closes, a dark arrow stops just a breath away from his neck. He turns his hand over, looks at the arrow, then tosses it away as a mere nuisance, picking Branwyn up again and returning his attention to his horse.

Leana's eyes are still upon the battle though she no longer participates, peering through the cold and clear winter darkness to keep an eye on the ongoing skirmishes. She narrows her eyes, seeming worried as she sees the fight Finnabair is currently involved in. "Away, she says," the smith grumbles quietly to herself, even as she begins taking inventory of her own injuries.

Celeborn's soft words prove true, for being lifted up out of the snow does hurt.. enough that Branwyn loses her hold on consciousness for a time. Yet her hand continues to grip her sword tightly even as she is carried away.

Seeing Branwyn rescued and some of the orc's withdrawing, the sentries in the trees start to drop down in the hopes of aiding those on the road. Two of those in the trees closest to where Finnabair is being hard pressed have drawn weapons and start to run towards her. One of them shouts, "For Beor!" as he sprints a step ahead of the other towards the wounded ranger.

Growling with anger as the elf catches his arrow the small orc mutters, "Arrogant sssscuum." he says, fist clenching around the arrow base. His dull yellow paranoid eyes dart from side to side as he crouches and backsteps....before turning, and fleeing.

Half way to her feet, Finnabair feels the next bite of the Orch's axe slicing across her side, low on her back. Thrown down in the snow again, she moans as the arrow in her left arm snaps and she rolls on to her back, her face washed white with pain as she draws, with sluggish effort, her axe before her to fend off its deadly weapon. The coming cries of "Beor!" heartens her and she calls it in return, pushing herself back through the snow with her one good leg to keep distancing herself from the looming orch.

Gripping his axe in both hands, the Smith raises it high and gives an immense roar as he hears the calls around him. He licks the blood of both opponents off his blade while walking after the adaneth. He looks around, still walking after her, grinning evilly, his fangs and teeth now dripping with her blood as well as that of Branwyn's. But now is the time to strike the last blow upon this human, wanting to be done with it finnaly. He takes a large stride towards her and launches himself into the air. He comes down hard with his axe following and brings it down upon the human once more, going for her upper torso.

As the two watchers close on Finnabair and the creature she fights, the one in the lead, a Beorian, brandishes his axe, intending to come between her and the orch. The second, a Doriathrim warden, moves to flank the orch, planning to take the beast in the side with his longsword, if possible. They eye the ranger, hoping they are in time and their shouts fill the air with cries of "Beor" and "Thingol". Beyond them, but not more than a score of yards come three more of the sentries, two of whom have kept their bows to cover their retreat. The last one hunts for the place where he saw Leana retreat to, hoping she too is safe.

Whatever remains of the rest of the group of orcs has pulled back behind their own archers and are slowly pulling back, being covered by more hails of black arrows. The only orc left for now on the battlefield is the Master Smith of the glorious Black Hand.

Finnabair drags herself backward, a trail of bright blood staining the snow in her wake, her axe near useless in her hand down at her side. Paling again as it licks her own blood from the axehead and marches toward her, she freezes in place and waits, judging the moment when it leaps high in the air to roll herself away and out of its path. Suddenly around her appear the two others, placing themselves between her and the orch, giving it challenge with their fresh arms and weapons. Now free to drag herself away, Finnabair turns and with great effort draws herself up on to her feet, limping slowly behind the bows of the sentries.

Celeborn lifts Branwyn onto his horse and rips a long piece of hem from the bottom of his cloak. He reaches into a small pouch and removes a few herbs which he presses into her side, binding the cloth around her torso. He then pats the mare's rump and she takes off toward the camp with her wounded rider.

Leana rises to her feet as she sees the sentry approach, greeting him with a wan smile. She certainly looks a mess, with wounds on her face, ankle, thigh, side, arm, shoulder, and two more on her upper chest near the collarbone. None of them are very deep, though, and create only small stains of blood on her clothing save for the wound on her face, from which a trail of blood traces its path all the way down her face and neck.

The failed attack dropps Dornalk in the snow, just as the two adversaries arrive to block him from his quarry. He snarls at them, not even badly wounded yet and willing to take off a few heads for snacks, though he really wanted that elf from before..she had sweeter tasting blood than that human. He rises to a crouch, gripping his axe should it be needed and springes for the closest opening between the closing ring of pale-faces around him, using his strength and axe-haft to shove his way through, about to take off and head for camp.

Those of the Haladin camp who are still in the trees continue to aim and shoot at the retreating orcs, hopes rising as they see more and more retreating. The sound of the the next shift coming through the woods from the camp brings sighs of relief as well. The two closing on the only orc left on the road show only grim determination as they are shoved away, and they wait where they are as the huge beast retreats, snarling at them. None leave until he is out of sight, though others begin to help those who are wounded.

A few feet behind the bows of the sentries, Finnabair turns and leans heavily upon her axe, a slight tremble in her arm. Staggered, frozen breaths sneak out past her lips and she begins with careful fingers to touch over the wounds given her by the yrch: first the arrow in her left arm, the barb and a short section of the arrow jutting out; the deep gash on her right thigh that bleeds the most freely and forces her to place her weight upon the left; and finally the long slash across her back. Leaving the scouts and wardens that have come out from the forest to finish chasing off the last of the yrch, she begins with slow progress back to the camp.

Celeborn turns and looks back toward the battle again as the orcs are fleeing, snapping the assassin's arrow under his foot with a sharp stomp. He takes a few steps toward the field for any who still require assistance. Covered in Branwyn's blood, he looks little better than those who fought save for the serene look on his fair features.

Using the axe as a crude walking stick, Finnabair marches doggedly for the camp, the last sounds of the fight fading behind her. Having to stop every dozen or so yards to catch her breath, the pain of the wounds making her energy flag.

A sentry fetches Leana's abandoned cloak and gloves, from where she left them at the very start of the battle. The young smith accepts them gratefully and begins walking off towards camp as well, following in Finnabair's tracks. The cloak hides most of her wounds, and the only evidence of the battle upon her are the cuts on her face and right ankle, and the paleness of her features. She slowly catches up to Finnabair in order to walk just behind and to the right of her. "Need some help?" she asks the Beorian quietly as she reaches hearing distance.

The orc who is not yet battle-weary relunctantly retreats back to his group as they pull out of the woods and make their way back to their own camp. Whether or not the Smith will go back to his forge in that Gaur-ridden Tower is yet to be seen.

Stopped by the sound of young smith's voice, Finnabair turns, leaning heavily upon her axe again, "Leana, are you hurt?", she asks, her heavy lidded eyes searching over the girl quickly. Seeing her able to walk but with several scratches on her face, she looks expectantly for answer.

"A bit," Leana shrugs, bringing up one hand once more to touch the long cut on her face. "I'm well enough, though, it was just a dagger ... never got cut too deep. You seem a bit worse off ... I saw something of your fight towards the end. I'm glad I didn't fight /that/ one..."

Finnabair nods stoically at Leana's comment and picks up her axe, continuing on for the camp, "See that your wounds are tended to, Leana. Make straight for the healers tent, if you will.", she says. The light of the morn grows pink and golden on the snow, pushing back the shadow of night.

As the relief for the sentries arrives, looks of concern cross their faces as they begin to run into the wounded being helped back to the camp. Some stop to gather news while others move closer to the road or up into the trees to ensure that no further attacks are made. A runner is sent back to camp with the news, as well as to bring help for any unable to walk that far. As the woods are scoured for any who may be unconsious, and the wounded move slowly away, those who have come for their turn at watch settle in quietly, though nerves are strung tight. A hush begins to fall over the road and woods as the voices of those leaving fade and the only sign of activity is the churned and bloodied snow.