Brithiach: West Bank of Sirion
The river Sirion flows quietly from the northeast here. Windswept plains of gorse and grass grow right up to its edge. The river is shallow enough here to be forded and the road seems to continue on the other side. To the West the road skirts along the north edge of a forest. Silvery green birches and pines dominate its growth, and a high hill amidst stands out as well to the south.

Hidden archers watch the river banks from their posts high up in the great trees at the edge of the woods.

The frigid winter winds howl and wail noisily across the gently swaying treetops, driving billowing clouds of snow against the canopy of intertwined branches with great force. The skies overhead are overcast and dark, and here beneath the sheltering trees, all lies shrouded in a thick veil of inky gloom. The falling snows are not so forceful beneath the trees, but the ground is blanketed in white drifts that rise at times to knee's height. It is well beyond the last lines of the Haladin encampment's sentries that Istadris travels, his cloak-clad shape bent low and at times swallowed out of sight by the darkness. His booted feet carry him across the snowy grounds towards the edge of the forest still several dozen yards east, where the river flows noisily southwards. At his left shoulder hangs a tall, curved bowstaff, and a quiver filled with black-fletched shafts dangles beneath it by his hip.

Shrouded in a heavy cloak, Finnabair stands at the edge of the forest peering through the falling snow, across the road to the plains that stretch out into the darkness. Only a quiver of arrows and the great height of her longbow are strapped upon her back; the added warmth of a fur resting across her shoulders. Fogging breaths rise from the hood drawn far forward, and she shifts her footing quietly and draws close the cloak tugged open by a slight wind, glancing along the line of trees that run east and west on either side of her.

Hissing breath courses softly in the air, the sound is lost wholly to the winds mounrfull calls, as it frosts and clouds in the chill winters eve. Boots bound in leather plod with a much guile as can be mastered by the beast, yet spindle limbs move with spidery care, seeking ever the shade of bough and trunk. The empty bones of the trees provide only scant cover for the beast, for its sable garb is in stark contrast to the clean blanket of white. A small bow of horn sits in shaking hands, the clawed fingers shudder with the cold air which bits at them. Eastward it seems the creature moves, with no great speed or errand does this orc go with, more with care and quiet. With another step, the orc slides close to the frosted bark of a gnarled tree, a helm-capped skull peers in all ways, seeking foe or friend who might be near, again the hissing of breath contest with the winds breath.

Stepping lightly through the thick snow, a small dark robed orc travels. He steps slowly, this being either due to the amount of snow, or for the fact of being stealthy. He stands upright, a look of confidence and pride. His hands lie to his sides, unmoving as he passes through the snow. Beneath that dark hood of his, though, yellow eyes poisoned with darkness lie uneasily in their sockets. Left, right, right, left, they search peering through the falling snow with unknown skill. Among the brush of the forest floor, the small one stops. Lifting his robe up slightly, he retrieves a small bow and quiver. The end of the robe crusted with snow then falls once again. Though he does not proceed to notch an arrow, or even place the quiver over shoulder, instead, he continues wadding through the snow covered forest.

Still some distance from the eastern edge of the woods, where the Sirion's roaring waters flow on heedless of the windy winter night's bitter cold, Istadris veers northwards and walks on through the trees. His lengthy steps carry him through drifted snow and between the silvery birch trunks, always beneath the black, concealing shadows cast by the overhanging canopy. It is in this fashion, with practiced stealth and a swift stride, that the Beor woodsman approaches the edge of the trees further north where Finnabair stands at watch.

His grey eyes are narrowed against the blasting winds as he searches through the deep gloom, and his right hand clutches at the collar of his thick cloak to keep the garment close about his shoulders. Seemingly unaware of the other creatures lurking in the trees further west, the tracker at last nears the site where Finnabair watches, and there creeps towards the edge of the trees himself.

Grey eyes still on the north, Finnabair again slips a hand out from beneath the confines of her cloak, this time to rub absently at her eyes, watering from the icy bite of the wind. Drawing in a long breath, she shifts her cold feet again, checking the night's sky where the moon is well hidden behind heavy clouds and then drops her gaze once more.

Deeper into the shadows of the trees, a shape huddles in the snow. Melting ice clings stubbornly to the black cloak that shrouds the creature, and red eyes glimmer from the cavernous hood. The crouching form is still and unassuming, seeming for all the world as unthinking as a stone.

The red eyes blink, and a breath of steam hisses from beneath the hood. At last, a thin hand slips free of the shapeless mass, and clawed fingers pull the hood back to reveal a harsh face. All at once the cloak unfolds thin arms and legs, the black form lurching to it's feet in a parody of grace. The serpantine creature hisses as it lifts it's face to the sky, where a storm still rages. A curse is siezed and hurled aside by the wind even as it slips from beneath the hood, and the tall orc begins to patter through the windswept trees, unshod feet leaving faint prints in the snow...

The ragged cloak of the orc hangs not past his knees by much, but its hemm is frosted thickly with snow, lifted from the higher drifts. The grimey mail of the beast gleam not in any light, least under a loft as grim as this. A twitching hand drops and dances at the colds bidding, hovering just over the quiver bound at is hip, as it justs from the ragged cloak. The left forearm of the beast is bound in filthy rags and stained dark in his own dried blood. No arrow does he take, yet the hand rises to swivle the crooked helm on his pate, for the ample head had drifted so that its iron lug robbed one eye of sight.

With another sigh, wracked with rattlings from a chest bother by some ailment or another, the orc begins to plod along again. The course of the orc is metered carefully to follow a line of trunks, shading himself mostly from all sides save at his rear and afore him.

Whats that? Ah, the sound of running water, the flowing of the Sirion, which Gralnak can now hear from his position. His head tilts slightly to the left, his eyes straining even further. He arches his back lightly, a slight ducking position as he now makes his way for the river. As the small figure continues to slowly wad through the thick snow towards the river, snow begins to collect upon his cloak, leaving small patches of wet white powder, flecking the darkness of the black cloak. He nears the tree line, the sound of rushing water growing steadily to his ear as he walks. He stops a good hundred feet from the edge. Taking the quiver, he puts it over his head and under an arm, in a diagnoal fashion on his back. As the river attracts many of the foul creatures of Beleriand.

Istadris watches silently from his vantage point at the edge of the treeline that faces the old road leading westwards and east across the snow-blanketed field. The river flows past only a few dozen yards further east, and though its waters are hidden from view by the sloping banks and the countless trees growing along them, its roar is easily discernable even over the howling winds. The longbow slips easily from the Beor's shoulder, and he takes the weapon in his cold-numbed left hand, all the while crouching low beneath a set of low-hanging pine branches and creeping towards where Finnabair hides some few feet before him. "Finnabair." He calls out in a low, sharp whisper that is easily hidden by the wailing winds, "What news, tonight?"

Pulling her attention away from the road to the north, Finnabair looks aside and spies a figure creeping over the snows toward her, the voice revealling that it is Istadris. Crouching down low amongst the birches, she shakes her head, "No news, Istadris.", she whipsers back, "Only that a winter's storm is growing on the wind and will be hard upon us by morn.", she says, pointing to the dark mass of clouds to the east that have blocked out the stars entirely. "I hope they have collected plenty of wood to burn the fires bright."

The dark form of Gruulbok creeps ever closer to the road, his steps are well metered and his gait is kept small and silent, lost to the wind. Soon the drifted snow at the roads edge looms afore him and the hidden dykes show only as slight depressions in the snow. With care he moves now, taking only a step after a long breath, each clouding upon the chill air. Yet mischance guides the boot of the beast, for it fins one such snow filled gully. The leg of the orc slides knee deep down and the beast pitches forward. A moments explosion comes, no more, soft dark curses contesting and mayhap bettering the wailing of the wind. This alone would likely serve as a herald, yet the flailing of the orc may clearly be seen for the black of his clothing finds nought to mask it in the snow. Using the horn of his bow as a pick, he drags himself out upon his belly even onto the road. Yet rise he does not, for the moment, holding still and silent.

The Beor woodsman drops to an uneasy crouch by the snow covered roots of a tall pine, and there rests motionlessly a short while, as Finnabair whispers her reply. With a slight nod and a jerking of his right thumb back over his shoulder, he answers. "You should go back to camp, then." He says, the words whispered in the Beorian tongue, "I came to relieve you. Expect the others to--" His own words die off abruptly, as the sound of Gruulbok's not-too-distant struggling and cursing rise momentarily above the loud winds. With a puzzled look to the ranger, Istadris turns quickly and stands, keeping still and against the pine tree's snow-ladden branches for cover. His narrowed eyes begin to scan the road from where the noises seemingly came from, while at once he reaches for one of the arrows in the quiver at his side.

The orc burghash's sinewy form continues through the woods, it's head bowed and it's black cloak wrapped tightly about it. At whiles the form lift's it's head, glancing about it with ember eyes, and takes off in another direction. It at last heads south, along a rough parallel of the river and keeping to the heavy trees, as it sniffs its way through the forest. It becomes more cautious as it's meandering path takes it nearer to the human outpost, but the creature moves on with a hissing snarl...

Here, upon the tree in which he rested to equip his quiver, the small orc stands, obvious weariness from tramping through such thick snow, for such an orc's size. Inhaling the frigid and dry air deeply and exhaling in a light cloud as the warm air meets the cold, the small orc leans up onto his own feet. But...only after two steps, his head head tilts quickly in the direction of the sound which Gruulbok makes. Wide-eyed, the small orc begins to quickly hop through the snow, making his way to the site of his fellow orc...which for all he knows, could be a foolish human. He nears the site, though perhaps in too much haste, making himself mildly easy to spot for anyone who cared to notice.

Finnabair's head turns as Istadris' words are cut off and she squints her eyes, "You heard something?", she asks, glancing back to see that he has reached for his bow. Hesitating a moment as she strains to hear over the wind, she whispers, "I will wait for the others to come.", and rises, reaching for her own her bow. "It may just be an animal." Slipping free the bow and retrieving an arrow, she stands stock-still with eyes scanning the faint line of the road.

Istadris' slitted eyes are strained in the deep darkness of winter's night, his lips pursed and jaws tensed fearfully as he scans the drifts at the edge of the road running some mere two dozen yards away from where he stands just within the treeline. "That was no animal." He whispers back, all the while knocking arrow to string and lifting the weapon in his numbed fingers. Not until Gralnak has neared the place where his fellow has fallen, does Istadris take note of the vaguely-seen shape. "There!" He whispers fiercely, while nudging Finnabair's shoulder and pointing to the road where the creature passes. "There goes some one, or some thing." His brow furrows deeply, and he swallows dryly of the bitterly cold air, "And 'tis certainly no animal, running on two feet."

Flat upon his belly, Gruulbok moves not, yet this hissing of his breath grows in pace, yet not in noise. The colay eyes of the beast blinks as they are buried in the darkness of the snow. Slowly, turning the helmed head with caution the orc surveys the place he lies. The clawed hands of the beast loosen on the dark frame of the bow, and one hand slides slowly and carefully over the snow. Finnally and with little noise the hand rests upon the pommel of a crooked blade, girt at his hip; it is not loosed, yet the hand remains there. A long moment the beast lies motionless and quiet, yet with a growing sound of growling, the beast begins to cral back towards the dyke and the roads edge, hoping to find again some cover.

Moving slowly over the snowladen ground, Burghash comes within sight of the human road. He growls softly as he slips crouching towards it, eyes searching and ears listening intently. At last, he hears the sound of movement, and a feral grin splits his face as he moves towards it. He casts his cloak open, revealing a body clad in worn black leather, and loostens his scimitar in it's scabbard. his eyes glow as he moves towards the source of the noise...

Snow falls away from her as Finnabair casts back her cloak and rolls her left shoulder, relaxing the stiffness that has set in there. Nocking the choosen arrow to the string of her slender bow, her eyes dart forward as Istadris nudges her, gesturing for the road where a shadow quickly slips by; she nods, "Aye, tis no animal.", she admits with an expression that darkens as she follows its brief movement. "And it will not be alone, no doubt.", she adds, glancing up and down the road for what she suspects. Running her cold fingers along the taunt string, she holds the bow low, patient.

Taking an arrow from his quiver, the small robed orc places the arrow against string, pulling lightly. He approaches the south side of the road, and is in obvious surprise to see another orc. Though he does not loosen his bow. He hisses lightly, "What are you doingss?!" his sharp words piercing through the cold. His eyes sprint in their sockets, peering throughout the surrounding area, before they come to rest upon Gruulbok once again, "Foul thingss are about..." he growls, "I can sssmell themss."

The woodsman lifts the stout bowstaff in his left hand and takes aim at Gralnak's vague, shadowy shape--the only one of the two yrch standing at the edge of the road. "Others must be about." He whispers simply to Finnabair, his frown deepening, "Keep watch along the road, and over your shoulder."

Still and without moving, Istadris keeps careful aim of Gralnak along the length of his undrawn arrow shaft. His right hand is drawn briefly to his mouth, where he breathes heavily upon it to warm his numbed fingers before regrasping the knocked dart and slowly beginning to draw. But he holds still a moment longer, ever nervous, and casts a glance over his left shoulder and into the woods behind him.

The dark skull of Gruulbok rises, and his coaly gaze is set towards a hissing voice. Snow sticks to his dark flaking skin and the beast seems pained by it, distaste is etched upon his face. Yet at the words of the other orc, fury rises in his throat and spouts out in the form of mangled hissed words. "You damned fool!" Bow long forsaken, the spidery arms of the arc punch and flail into the snow to gain purchance, and with a drive of feet he leaps up and begins to make for the treeline. No small amount of noise is made, and the plowings of snow which are thrown in his wake would serve as sure a herald as any. The orc makes to the Northern edge of the road, away from the calling voice of Gralnak. As he goes, the hiss of his scimitar being torn from its bond cuts aloud over the winds baying.

The yellow eyes of Gralnak curiously watch the larger orc as it stands. He ignores the other orc's words, watching as he flees for cover on the northern edge. Confused, Gralnak also takes cover, on the southern edge. He quickly finds a nice sized tree to hide behind. Though it is obvious he has no idea what he's hiding from, his left side still slightly revealed to Istadris and Finnabair. He glances over to Gruulbok, before looking around the forest.

Finnabair peers hard at the road, "Something is crawling there.", she whispers sharply, shifting her bow to one hand while she points to where the dark shape of Gruulbok crawls, seeking cover. But then the shape suddenly rises to race forward, heading toward the treeline, and she quickly returns the bow to both hands, drawing it and sighting the tip of the arrow upon the clamourous orch. Holding it for a breath, her arm shakes slightly and moving with the creature, she then releases, letting the arrow fly from the trees to try and take it down before it reaches them.

The unmistakable sound of a sword unsheathing brings a cruel smile to Burghash's lips, and he slips his own blade slowly free of it's sheath. The sharp edges slide smoothly out of the black leather. His gait picks up speed as he moves south towards the road, his coming less stealthy than perhaps it could be. He stops and glances around in the half-light, seeking to catch glimpse of anyone nearby...

Istadris' grey eyes widen momentarily as Gruulbok's large, burly shape bursts suddenly from the deep drifts at the edge of the road and begins to rush towards the trees where he himself is hidden. "Here comes one..." He utters, just as Finnabair's first arrow is shot from her bow. With his own longbow already raised, the woodsman merely draws the arrow's fletching to the corner of his lips and adjusts his aim. His keen gaze is still focused upon Gralnak, even as the smaller creature rushes to find cover in the trees. The orchish warrior's vague shape is still partly exposed to Istadris, and it is against this visible side that his shaft is sent forth, spiralling through the cold night's air and cutting through the light snowfall beneath the trees' branches.

The first warning of the imminet danger at hand is the hit of the arrows flight, yet a loud punching sound takes it place as both mail flesh and bone are burst and shattered as the arrow strikes straight into the beast left shoulder. A howl as if one stricken with death rises chill in the air, and black blood spues immediatly out from the wound. The stride of the Orc flaters, such force did the arrow fly with, and reeling and rocking back a pace. The left arm of the beast hangs still a moment, and so it seems it will stay. A moment of mastery is taken, yet it lasts less than the clouding breath that stutters from lungs wracked with pain. With a goad of fury and mindless hate, the orc runs, to the very direction that the fletching of the arrow points, straight towards Finnabair. Yet all wits are not gone, for he favours a path ever shaded by trunks and bough, seeking to make a clean shot elusive.

The orch's howl informs Finnabair that her arrow has flown true, but ever efficient she reaches for another and has it at the bow as it now begins to run directly for her, now that her place among the trees has been revealled to it. The snap of Istadris' bow sounds out beside her and readying her next arrow, she tracks the orch with it, frowning as it darts amongst root and branch, making it difficult to take precise aim; yet drawing the bow back to its fullest, the fletching brushing against her cheek, she waits for when it next shows itself and slips her fingers from the string and lets the arrow fly.

Gralnak stands, bow in hand and ready to be shot. The next few seconds, all seems quiet...an eerie quiet...too quiet. When suddenly an arrow is heard whistleing through the air and straight into Gruulboks books body. A grin forms on the small orcs face, though he is given little time to consider his position, as another arrow is heard. Still watching Gruulbok, and thinking he is in good hiding considering the direction in which the arrow came from that hit Gruulbok he stares at the wounded orc. >>>--~Squish~--> The arrow passes cleanly through the left arm of Gralnak, and continues into his side another good amount leaving only the fletching revealed from the shoulder. A loud hiss shoots through the air like a dagger. Dropping the bow in great pain, the small orc shifts behind the tree. Examining his wound, he is in distress to find his arm binded to his body by an arrow. Waiting for the next arrow to fly, the small orc quickly begins to make his way from the battle site, creeping quickly from tree to tree, attempting to keep from being seen...for too long.

Again an arrows comes, and with no less force. The thump of its impact is louder than the first, for it tears through the mail that is bound to the right thigh of the beast, indeed straight through the knotted muscle of the beast does it course, stopped only by the mail at the rear of the muscle. Another howl rises, this one is grim indeed, for now anger and rage are utterly overtaken by pain, bestail and insane. The flight of the orc served as no shield and indeed the swift gait falters and slow, till finally the legs of the oprc buckles under the load of mail helm and orc. A ripple of metal sounds, and the cracking of the wooden shafts crack in the air as the wolf falls out full measure. In falling the scimitar of the beast rocked from the crawed grasp of the orc, on now it lies embedded in the snow, beyond the reach of the beast. The hands of the beast begin to fling and tear at the snow in a futile attempt to propell him forward or back. Yet move he does not, all his hands work to do, is to churn the mire made of warm, dark blood and melting snow. A hand clutches towards the newly wounded thigh, yet in this movement is guile, for a short dark blade is drawn, and tucked back towards the wrist of the beast.

The Beorian woodsman's first shaft has hardly reached its target, when he already reaches for a second from the quiver at his hip. Yet, Gralnak's shadowy figure vanishes from sight behind the tree's trunk, and Istadris reconsiders. His grey-eyed gaze is drawn towards Gruulbok's frenzied approach, and instead of slipping another arrow from his quiver he sets the bow quickly aside and reaches up to grasp the hilt of the sword at his right shoulder. The heavy weapon is quickly freed from its scabbard and its darkened blade exposed to the cold air of the winter night. The tracker settles down to a readied crouch by Finnabair's side, his knees bent beneath him, and the sword held defensively in front of his armour-clad chest. Only then does he at last notice the third shape--that of Burghash--coming through the snows from the road ahead beyond where Gruulbok has fallen by the ranger's shafts, and his lips curl with distaste. "Another one!"

The orc burghash emerges into the middle of a frenzied skirmish. He takes a moment to see that his fellows are wounded and defeated, and turns back to run into the woods.

After releasing her second arrow, Finnabair pauses and watches its flight, holding her breath as it too hits the orch soundly and slows its flight toward her. Pausing uncertainly, she watches as it struggles in the snow, and slowly she reaches back for her next arrow. "Istadris.", she utters quietly to the woodsman crouched at her side, "Are there others in the woods?", she asks anxiously, not daring to look away from the orch who lies flailing less than a dozen yards ahead of them. The third arrow at her bow, she lifts but does not draw the weapon, eyeing the orch cautiously.

Istadris' sword tip is lowered slightly as he watches Gruulbok cease to struggle in the snows ahead, all the while the third orchish creature turns tail and flees away from the trees. "The one I shot may still live." He utters, with a glance to the ranger near his side. Quickly gathering his bow and slinging it over his left shoulder, the tracker slips further back into the trees and gestures westwards, in the direction where Gralnak was last seen. "Watch the road, in case any more come." He says, his naked blade still gripped readily in hand, "I shall go after the other one, in case he means to stay in these trees." With a quick nod in farewell, Istadris hurries off into the darkness, his lengthy strides bearing him swiftly over the deep drifts and between the trees' towering trunks.

The body of the orc stills and his breath falls below hearing. The limbs of the beast moves not, and so he lies in the dark stained snow, face down and seemingly without life, yet not so.

Finnabair gives a silent nod to Istadris' as he leaves her side, listening keenly as he moves off through the trees in search of yrch. The forest grows quiet around her and her grey eyes rest hard upon the orch where its movements fall still in the snow, her arrow is still trained upon it. The clouds amass thick over the trees and during those silent moments the snow begins to fall heavier, quickly blanketing the road.

Long moments pass and still Gruulbok lies still, either in stupor, in wait, or in death. No sound of his breath challenges with the wind that howls, about him, casting snow from drift tops of the sable stain in the snow. Still, he hears at least one of the hunters leave, and a long moment he waits till the quiet footsteps receeded from his hearing. Blinking through pain, the eyes of the orc begin to be blinded by the outflowing of blood from his own shoulder. A soft curse comes, yet again he calls louder. The wreacked left arm of the beast pounds through the snow and against the frozen earth, and driving his good leg to the ground he rises as swift as he might. A ferrel evil light rests in the coaly eyes of the orc, his helm fallen from his crooked skull to lie in the mire of blood and snow. Staggering forward mastering pain and his blunt leg he begins to gain pace and he moves towards the other, yet ever he keeps the dagger from the hunters sight.

As though frozen by the cold, Finnabair stands motionless with her bow drawn upon the orch, her gaze quickly flinting to either side of it in case others should creep foward. A moment passes and she relaxes only slightly, about to lower the bow when suddenly the orch lifts itself out of the snow and staggers hastily for her. Her eyes grow cold and hard in the second, and she draws back to the full and levels the tip of the arrow upon its wounded form, releasing the string from her deft fingers with a snap and so sends forth the third of her arrows.

The body of Gruulbok ripples and shudders as the arrow drives hard into his mail clad breast. Blood courses over the burst links and down the shaft of the arrow. The gait of the beast, already ruined, falters again as the wracking dart sends him reeling back a pace once more. The howl that comes from the orc is mingled with blood, which rises in his throat. It seems like the beast's balance is gone, leaving him to fall backwards, yet suddenly lurching forward, the orc hoys the last few paces towards the huntress. The hilt is grasped so that the dagger juts down from the fist of the beast, like a fang. The last pace he takes, sliding in the snow and falling just afore the other. An apeish arm lashes out, with serpentine speed, driven by a malice deeper than the pain that rules Gruulbok. The arcing arm of the beast lashes out towards the others belly,.

Finnabair's third arrow covers the short distance and penetrates through the orch's armour but still it does not slow the foul thing from pressing on doggedly for her. Casting her bow aside, staggers back a step, her hands reach hurriedly inside her cloak, grabbing for the axe that depends from her belt and her eyes widen in fear with the orch now just a step away from her. Its arm comes out at her, its dagger flashing toward her as it falls in the snow before her; she turns away, the sweep of her cloak the only thing that it catches and she herself falls backward in the snow in her attempt to keep beyond it.

Even as Finnabair falls forward, the orc falls to his knees. Another scream comes from his chest as the shaft of wood in his thigh tears and renst the muscle it has driven through. The fangs of the beat string with blood as his mouth gapes wide. A hiss of fury comes, even as the beast spits it dark blood at the human. Once more the orc lunges forward, trying to stab his knife down into the chest of the other, driving his right arm forward, the other faling beneath him. The orcs broken mail clad body falls as if death's weight were upon it, yet in the lunge at least, the last urgings of the orcs broken muscles are spent. A word is screamed, past choking and spluttering. "Die!" it ceases not, yet falls into animals sounds of pain and profanity.

Finnabair's feet kick at the snow as she lies on her back, trying to push herself away from the long arms of the orch; but the cloak beneath her hampers her struggle and tangles around the axe that she still is trying to free. The whites of her eyes show her panic as Gruulbok lunges forward with his dagger again and she frantically rolls away, landing on her front to quickly scramble onto her knees and then her feet, only a few feet from the orch. One free hand reaches up to unclasp her cloak, letting it drop from her shoulders and letting her finally reach for the axe at her side.

A booted foot drives against earth, kicking snow behind the orc, it moves him nearer the Hunter, yet the arm beneath him, lifeless and pained serves only as a break. Another shriek of pain rises and rolls around the wood, yet it heralds another lurching, wrenching call from convulsive limbs. And once more, falling like a hmmer, the fist of the orc drives down with the dagger jutting from it like a horn. The dark blade is curved and wicked, and it punches down with animal power, driving at the humans left side. The body of this beast is wet and black with his own blood and his throat filled with the noise of death, yet once more he spits at the Hunter and ocne more the dark cry rises, the word near lost in the mangled insane speech of Gruulbok.

The winter's storm grows in intensity, whiting out the road just to the north and filtering heavily through the bare branches above where orch and adan struggle within the forest's edge. Just risen to her feet, Finnabair whips round to face the thrash of the orch's dagger and nimbly skirts it, the breath of its passing felt as at last she draws her axe from its place at her side and steps forward to wield it against the creature. Her expression still fearful, the set of her face is unmercificul as she brings up the axe with her right arm, gripping the stout oak haft and turning the dark and straight blade downward, driving a blow toward the orch's outstretched arm.

Gruulbok has not enough strength left in his limbs to shift away from the axe blow, even if his eyes weren't blind with weariness. Again a cry rises, this time it ceases not, for the axe head fell upon the beasts arm, jarring it and cutting mail flesh both, yet the taught flaking skin of the orcs hand shows the blade is still held by slashed muscles. Again from the gash blood spues, yet the dagger is heald firm. Rising to his knees, the orc lurches and sways in the growing wind. The arm of the beast whips out one last time, the arms flails wildly sent with little aim or thought.

Finnabair's axe batters through the orch's mail with a force strong enough numb the length of her arm, and pulling back her weapon she takes a long step back, breathing hard and staring at it's bleeding form. The orch is unrelenting, its determination driving it to rise at her yet again, threshing with its dagger and with little effort she steps beyond its reach, letting the blade sweep before her. To the west shouts ring through the trees, the clash of fighting sounds beyond the heavy fall of snow, and Finnabair half turns and then stops, glaring at the orch before her as she advances on the bloodied orch again with her axe, and without raising it high she tries to cut downward toward the middle of its body.

The slap of the axe head comes remote to the ears of the orc, the blow itself was dealt with another might to send the orc rolling onto his back, yet his mail coat was utterly ruined. Chain links where torn asunder and driven into the vile dark flesh of the orc, a gasp of pain rises, as the cracking sound of ribs contests with the storms howlings. Yet no other sound comes from the beast as he topples, tolling to his side. The last hisses of breath from the shattered chest of the beast came rattling and futile, even as the snow about the orc crept black with the blood of the beast. As fast as the blood comes from the chest of the beast to defile the white snow, the faster it falls, till the sable ruins of the are many times flecked white.

Finnabair grimaces as her axe crushes bones beneath it and blood splatters up at her with the orch's gasping for air. Staggering back a step, the head of her axe dragging through the snow, she leans there breathing hard, staring at the motionless form of the orch as though wary of it suddenly rising up again. A long moment passes as she stands vigil over the defeated, its dagger glinting harmlessly in the snow now and then its last rattling breath gives out, leaving her alone. To the west the sounds of battle come again, and stirred back to life the Beorian ranger stalks round the orch, picking up the discarded cloak and then over to the bow she cast aside during the fight. She looks back stoically, the snow already covering its body, burying it under a mound as though it were an unmarked grave; and then she turns and strides off wearily, west through the trees, leaving the dead behind.