Brithiach
A vast forest mostly populated by silver-birched trees lies to the south, appearing nearly impenetratable. To the East lies the Ford of Brithiach over the mighty Sirion river. The high mountains vanish in the shadows in the North, yet another range is clearer Northeast. All around you is barren, desolate land with few trees or features.

The hour grows late, and night's enveloping shroud lies heavily across the woods of Brethil. The skies are ever overcast tonight, yet no snows fall upon the canopy of intertwined tree boughs, and even the winds have slowly died down after an afternoon of their fierce howling and wailing. Still, the air is icy cold and winter chill bites deeply tonight. It is beneath a grove of tall, stout trees which bear perched sentries in their branches that Istadris and a handful of Haladin warriors have come to rest a while. The northern edge of the forest stands not far north of here, while a party of orchish intruders and their horrid allies approach from the west.

Xoria nods her head to the woodsman's words and turnes her head to start watching again, when she notices movement of the guard suddenly standing her hand goes for the longsword, moving behind her first so that the movement would be minimal, her hand wraps around the hilt of the longsword that is strapped across her back, but other than that she makes no move to draw the sword, quickly scanning around the area that the scout is now searching looking for any thing that would cause the scout to suddenly reveal himself so.

Istadris' eyes are drawn also to the Haladin scout who has so abruptly stood from his place of rest by the roots of a great tree. His thin lips curl with distaste, and without call or word of warning, the Beorian tracker starts suddenly towards the other man. His lean shape is carefully concealed between tree and beneath shadow, however, as he approaches his less careful companion to see what the matter may be.

The other resting soldiers, meanwhile, turn uneasily in their places to look westward into the pitch black night. Their own hands creep uneasily towards spear haft and axe blade, though none dare rise for fear of further revealing their party to whatever danger may lurk in the trees.

The black cloaked figures drift to a halt, dangerously close to where the sentries are known to patrol. The tall guide hisses and drifts back through the ranks, letting one or two others scout the enemy's strength now that he has brought them close. He cradles his scimitar impatiently as he waits for the attack to begin.

South, from deep within the trees, a figure comes at a fleeting pace under the spidery eaves of the silver forest. Moving over the snows, her approach can be quietly heard once she nears the forest's northern edge and she begins to slow, picking her way discreetly among thinning trees with her eyes dropping often to the ground before her, as though following markings. A stand of birch lie ahead and she veers toward them, ducking under branches so that the great height of her bow does not catch. Before her, the first few shadowy figures of the sentries are outlined in the dark and she walks another step and then hunches down amongst them without a word, grey eyes fixed to the north.

In the midst of the creeping black robed ones, there is a small figure. His hood is cast up, he peers from beneath it. His eyes piercing the darkness, it's eyes scan the horizon, noting any movement which they may come to lay upon. As the host of prophets ceases to a halt. Reaching his skinny lanky arms beneath his cloak, he retrieves a bow and quiver, most likely attatched to a belt of some sort. While placing the quiver over its shoulder, his attention is quickly caught by that of someone running through the woods. A light grin curls upon his lips, as he retrieves an arrow from his quiver, placing it lightly against the string. Though he waits, in a slight sitting position among the brush and tree's of the horrid forest.

Within short moments, Istadris has reached the side of the westernmost Haladin sentry. His right arm reaches forth to grasp the other man's shoulder, whom he urges back into the shadows with a firm tug and a quiet whisper. The gentle winter winds pick up momentarily at that instant, however, and the trees' unclad branches sway above with a whispery rustle and the quiet clicking of wood upon wood. The night skies pale, dim light falls momentarily upon the two as they move away from the western edge of the outpost, and further into the shadowy depths which hide the remainder of their companions.

From the east and behind, Branwyn makes her way towards the sentries posted in the trees and above. It is her turn to make the rounds of this area, and the Doriathrim makes her way silently through the trees. Moving lightly over the snow drifts, she takes care to move carefully from tree to tree, despite her hue-changing cloak. She has left the hood of it up, the better to move unseen, and her strung longbow in is her right hand. As she draws near where the sentries are hidden, she pauses to watch and listen.

And then, as when one puffs a breath at the flame of a candle, those two thin lines amidst the shadows 'neath trunk and leaf simply... disappear.

But whither?

Soon, within moments even -- so swift, indeed -- that fall of paws upon iced and hard snow rise. Well nigh the orcs; crouched in the manner that only wolves and hounds can, there the red eyes of Morindor appear again. And his voice; it is even as the wind, so lithe:

"Charge."

And the message, in all the fear -- of the foe before them, and their master beside them -- is passed quietly, from Orc to Orc, until it at last does reach their leader...

Eyes still resting upon that in which he saw the woman run. He waits...with great patience. Even despite the rousing of those around him by the Gaur. He holds his bow up lightly to his chest, pulling playfully back on the string, intent on firing at anything which moves from that position. The wind picks up...causing him to jump slightly...perhaps creating an illusion of many enemies. Though he calms. What is that?! A hand...a shoulder...a figure in the dark. Quickly readying his bow, the small orc aims with as best of accuracy as possible. Twang...the firing the arrow extremely loud, or did the forest suddenly go quiet?

With that sound, the black cloaked orcs begin thier assault, moiving forward with greater speed and less stealth. They head towards the camp, keeping low to avoid arrow fire, and ready to engage the enemy.

Huddled down in the snow with her cloak gathered around her feet, Finnabair warms her hands by cupping them together and blowing hot breaths between several times. Glancing over to watch Istadris walk toward the last sentry, her eyes squint as the moonlight brightens suddenly, illuminating the pair; but the frown that appears on her is quickly removed sounds in the night: the rousing of the yrch. Reacting quickly, Finnabair reaches for the bow on her back, unslipping it as she smoothly rises, an arrow arriving in her other hand as she steps aside from the trees that block her view.

At the sound of a bow string, Xoria quickly lowers herself to the ground, careful not to disturb the branch she was sitting on too much and she crouches in the shadows of the roots of the tree where the rest of the scouts are crouched, drawing the longsword from over her shoulder, Xoria holds it ready waiting to see what the woodsman and his scouts were going to do.

The woods' obscuring shadows have hardly swallowed Istadris into their concealing folds once again when the tell-tale snap of a shooting bow rings out from the trees further west. The fired shaft goes astray, flying past the woodsman's left shoulder and then glancing off the birch tree's solid trunk before disappearing into the gloom and snows beyond. Caught seemingly by surprise, Istadris lets out a soft curse through twisting lips and turns hurriedly away to find cover behind the same tree. "They are upon us!" He growls in a low, piercing whisper to the nearest of the Haladin sentries. The all-too familiar sound of the yrchs assault floods the otherwise silent woods, and it is all Istadris can do to lay down his longbow and reach for the sword at his shoulder while awaiting their approach behind his cover.

Thus, movement and sounds has been stirred, and the great hushed silence is no more.

The Gaur, even as the orcs as set afoot, leap away from those brutes. Yet, this time without hiding; snow crackling loudly underneath soft paws. Yet, perhaps those same Orc's assult will prove enough to draw attention towards them, rather than the were-wolf itself.

But why then does it move as it does?

In line with the outposts of Haladin sentries, well within the reach of a thrown spear...

The sound of an arrow being loosed ahead is enough. Branwyn reaches for her quiver, and nocking the arrow lightly, begins to move forward again. Her pace is quicker, but her caution is even greater. As she moves under the first tree with a sentry, she stops again, waiting to see where her aid might be needed the most.

The sound of another arrow being loosed brings her closer yet, until she spies one of her wardens, Xoria, slipping out of a tree off to her right. The sound of yrch moving through the woods ahead is unmistakeable now. The tree she is next to has branches high enough not to impede an arrow's flight and so she draws back the arrow, waiting only on a target.

The Haladin soldiers resting upon the snowy ground all rise to find cover, while bringing their own spears and axes to the ready as they await the noisy orchish onslaught. Those above in the trees meanwhile, remain perched where they are and lift bows to aim. The sharp twanging of their fired shafts is heard above the din below on occasion, as each man aims and shoots against chosen target.

As the black cloaks move in to attack, the tallest among them slips away to the flank. As tyhey come closer to ther enemy, he drifts off to the side, away from the main body of the orcs. Slipping from tree to tree, he moves towards the camp carefully, dropping slowly behind his fellows.

As the first few arrows begin to whistle through the air and fly past her on either side, Finnabair shoulders up against a birch, thin as it is, and sweeps her gaze past the yrch. Her eyes stop suddenly when they fall upon the great hulk of a gaur that bounds among the night's shadows, making her catch her breath and clutch at the bow and arrow in her hand.

Unhappy with his misfired shot, the small orc retrieves another arrow, following up with the group of orcs, though towards the back, and much more stealthily. Infront of him one of his fellow prophets is struck down by an arrow in the chest. He grins lightly, the anticipation of battle getting to him. He looks into the tree's ahead, waiting for another target. He creeps up with the host, very close now to the camp.

As the arrows from the sentries fly over her head, Branwyn spies a dark form trying to circle around the main body. With a quick glance around her, she starts after it, lowering the bow to her side and holding the arrow in place with two finger. Beginning to stalk the creature, she sees a point ahead, perhaps 20 yards, where their paths will cross. Her movements are even more careful, for she wishes to take the creature by surprise.

Hidden as he is behind the thick tree's concealing trunk, Istadris listens only to the hoots, yells, and hollers of the yrch as they rush the edge of their make-shift sentry outpost. The longsword is drawn swiftly from the scabbard at his right shoulder, and its darkened blade revealed to the cold, gloomy night air. Not far in front of where he stands, one of the sentries fumbles and drops the arrow grasped in his right hand. The Haladin's eyes widen with obvious fear, and his lips fall agape as he points towards the approaching form of the great wolfish beast and yells aloud. "One of the gaurhoth is upon us!" He shouts in the Haladin tongue, even while drawing backwards and nearer to his companions, "Take to the trees!"

So seeing the other's hasty retreat, Istadris curses quite violently through gritted teeth and steels himself for the struggle. His right hand tightens 'round the hilt of the longsword, and he ventures a brief glance around the tree's trunk to where Morindor approaches.

Burghash continues to circle, keeping his eyes peeled for any humans moving to join the combat. He takes a meandering path towards the camp, hoping to find it ungaurded during the battle.

Staying low as arrows start flying, Xoria waits for the predictable charge that the orcs will try when they run short of arrows, upon hearing that there is a guar umongst the enemy, Xoria reaches up and pulls herself into the trees over head and takes a survey of the battle thus far.

Where, then, is the Gaur?

Nigh the tree which trunk Istadris stands by; certainly. But not where his eyes lie. A thud rises, amidst and above all the clamour further away. And that deep and hollow voice arise, at the woodsmans side:

"Trees again?"

And indeed, two paces or four away; there stands Morindor, eyes glinting with dark humor -- and they both lie intently upon Istadris of the Beorians.

As the orch's path grows erratic, Bran's anger begins to grow and she stops, pausing next to a tree in order to take a shot at him. She watches him for a few moments, trying to guess where his next steps will take him.

"Twang" The arrow leaps from the bow towards the solitary figure and the Doriathrim almost holds her breath as it speeds on its way.

With the longsword's short hilt grasped firmly in both of his ungloved hands now, Istadris at last draws a pace away from the sheltering tree trunk and turns on his heel to face the great beast. His keen grey eyes widen momentarily, as he finds the terrible creature much nearer than just the moment before. "I am told dogs such as you can not climb these trees." He spits out angrily, all the while edging slowly backwards through the drifting snow. His gaze clearly avoids Morindor's fiery eyes, and though he watches the beast's powerful legs and paws, he casts frequent glances aside to his companions and to the surrounding trees--as if seeking shelter or aide.

The long lanky fingers, for an orc of such size, tap against the wood of the bow, eyes peering endlessly into the tree's, as many now upon the approaching Gaur flee to them. Though his eyes spot one...one not so close to the rest, as she moves through the darkness. Hmmm, he looks curious...what is she moving for? Though as she stops, and fires an arrow. Lifting his bow up, he fires...

Finnabair lifts her bow as she pulls her eyes away from the gaur and dart amongst the yrch that scatter for the trees. The Haladin that flees from Istadris' side runs in her direction and she reaches to try and stay him, but her fingers only brush along the shoulder of his cloak before he is quickly past. Gritting her teeth impatiently, she whips round again and finds the gaur is now so close that it has nearly entered the trees under which they stand and only strides away from Istadris. Eyes wide, she lifts her bow, nocking the arrow quickly to the string and centring it upon the great flank of the creature.

Branwyn's target blinks in surprise as an arrow lashes through his billowing cloak. It cuts a long slit across the chest of his tattered leather armor, leaving line of black blood. It snags and falls to the ground some distance past him.

The orc hisses loudly in pain and surprise, turning with blinding speed to look for the sourse of this unexpected attack. His red eyes light on Branwyn, the nearest of his enemies, and he leaps towards her, his leather bound feet carrying him quicly across the distance that seperates them. Even as he charges, he sees one of his fellows shoot an arrow towards her, and increases his speed in hopes of catching her offguard...

Only a growl is what reply the Gaur does offer...

And Morindor the Old crouches; as wild hounds and wolves do when they prepare to leap at their prey -- Only, this beast is so much larger.

But the great leap is never begun.

A loud thud arise; and a sound almost akin to a yelp -- For see! The arrow of Ranger Finnabair, fell archer, has sought its target, and struck well! Into the were-wolves side the arrow flies, and its force is so great, that the Old is forced aside. And lo!

Even brought out of balance. For, he staggers a pace to the side, and another...

But remains upon foot.

Or paw.

Istadris flinches, his stony features contorting with a fearful scowl as he watches the great wolf beast's muscles tense in preparation for its deadly pounce. Yet Finnabair's arrow flies past nearby on his right side, and the Beor tracker lets out a relieved gasp as he watches the expertly fired dart find deep purchase against Morindor's heaving, powerful flank. Without a second's hesitation, the adan swordsman springs forward over the deep drift of snow, his booted feet and long legs propelling him directly upon his momentarily unbalanced and seemingly distracted foe. The sword is raised high up over his head--still gripped quite firmly in both of his hands--and even as he lunges forward upon his right leg, brought down in a straight, swift arch aimed for the Gaur's great brow.

Even as she looses the arrow at the solitary creature, the Doriathrim is hit herself with one from a different direction. It strikes Branwyn's right upper arm, piercing the armor there, but not going in deeply. Her own arrow only seems to scratch the orch she had aimed for while alerting him to her position. With no time to worry about whether the arrow that hit her was aimed or a stray one, she can only ready herself for the one running her now.

Dropping her bow behind her, she draws her longsword. The orch is closing and she has just enough time to set her feet and brace herself for his attack. Her eyes gleam coldly as he draws almost into her reach.

As the elf prepares herself to fight, her assailant moves swiftly towards her. He covers the distance at lightning speed, naked scimitar glinting in his hand. Almost before she has drawn her own weapon, he comes closer, and lashes out with his curved blade. He leans into the blow, putting his weight behind the outstretched arm, and taking several steps forward as he drives the slashing edge towards her upper chest...

Finnabair's bow lowers as she watches the arrow's swift flight, straight and true for the gaur, producing a piercing yelp from the beast when it sinks into the flesh of its great, furry side. With only one arrow loosed and a stoic look on her face, Finnabair plants her bow firmly in the snow next to the birch and reaches for the stout axe that rests on her back, bringing it round into both hands as she advances on the old Guar, to join Istadris who now turns upon with his sword.

As the creature reaches her, Branwyn takes a half-step back, her weight balanced to contain the force of his rush as the scimitar drives at her. The two blades meet with a clang and for what seems a long moment, strain against each other. With a quick twist or her wrist and a push, the elleth manages to disengage. She brings her own blade across and out, hoping to open a slash across her opponents chest. The arrow in her arm brushes against her cloak as the two struggle and is pulled half out, catching on the mail links inside the outer leather. There is naught to be done about it, though, except ignore it.

There is... little time.

Too little time, for that Gaur at the very least. For even as it's eyes, gleaming as flame underneath lids half lowered, flickers toward that same Beorian woodsman, the sword falls.

Yet, all the sound that rises now, is that of steel and bone; for if the Rangers arrows are fell, Istadris's sword is dreadful. That great head is struck down; brought closer to the soil, even as that blade fall, between two stout ears. Blood, red even as Morindors eyes, spurts up once; but rolls then, slowlly; ever downwards.

And though crouched, now, the 'dreaded' beast of malice and flame remains upon all fours.

But stricken with such force. And thus, quite still.

The orc's sword is caught on the elf's, and turned aside. He snarls at her as she swings outwards across his chest, and leans far back, ducking down beneath her blow. He springs back up, bringing his curved blade towards her stomach and vital organs.

Though the battle rages around the two solitary figures, for Branwyn at least, it is something she stays only aware of with a small corner of her mind. Her focus is on the orch in front of her and her mouth is set in a line of determination. Though her own blade misses, she is able to draw back as the creature ducks below. So when his scimitar slashses towards her midriff, she is able to lean back just far enough that it just misses her.

Pushing forward with her left foot, she straightens, feinting towards the orch's chest before suddenly slashing down and to her left with own blade in an attempt to slice open the beasts groin or leg.

A low hiss is let out through Istadris' clenched teeth as he feels the jarring impact of his sword biting down upon the great gaur's flesh and fur-covered skull. His hands only tighten 'round the weapon's hilt, and he heaves another relieved sigh as he looks upon the downed creature. With only a hasty glance over one shoulder to survey the surrounding fray, the Beor tracker steps aside to Morindor's right flank and lifts his bloodied sword overhead once again. With booted feet planted firmly in the snowy ground, and with his body set straight upon bent knees, the swordman brings another blow crashing down upon the gaurhoth. The blade's keen, vicious edge slices in a downwards arch, aimed for the wolf's powerful neck.

Even as the flashing, deadly blade comes down, the orc turns to strike, the blade in his right hand curving around with a flick of the wrist

Even as the flashing, deadly blade comes down, the orc turns to strike, drawing his left leg back and stepping forward with his right. The blade in his hand curves around with a flick of the wrist and he thrusts towards her side.

Even as the flashing, deadly blade comes down, the orc turns to strike, drawing his left leg back and stepping forward with his right. The blade in his hand curves around with a flick of the wrist and he thrusts towards her side. AS he attacks, her blade slices the inside of his leg, cutting deep enough that he yowls and jerks to the side, his blade turning and slashing towards her at an odd angle...

Finnabair steers round the last of the trees between she and the gaur, legs pushing her through the snows in her haste to reach Istadris' side. As she clears the trees, she sees Istadris delivering two swift blows for the gaur, the first enough to seemingly stun the beast but the second going wide of the mark. The axe is down at her side, held in one hand as she crosses the last few snowy yards between the woodsman and the gaur, shifting it into a firmer grip as she staggers to a stop before it.

But!

If brought back to the world of the consious, or granted suddenly a luck greater than that of the Powers themselves...

By only a pace or two to the side, the Gaur avoids that sword; so intent upon drinking the life of a were-wolf this eve. But narrowly, very narrowly. And as such, the does perhaps beast see its chance; gaze flickering from the woodsman, to the ranger that does move dangerously close.

"Cowards," That same deep voice roll forth over tounge and fang; and 'lip' -- if such a term can be used -- stained red, by blood of none other than Morindor's own. And even then, the gret wolf moves backwards, but slowly.

"Men-" The crimson gaze move, from Finnabair to Istadris; ever unflagging, yet Morindor's posture is that of one cornered -- still crouched, but not in the manner as before. More tense, now.

"Nay, men and their females... Cowards, all."

And all the while, he moves backwards...

Branwyn grits her teeth as once more her cloak drags on the arrow in her swordarm, though her stroke at the orch draws blood this time. His own thrust, set at such an unexpected angle, tests her agility. It catches at the armor of her right side even as she tries to twist away from it. The armor is sliced through thinly as is the flesh beneath and a trickle of blood wells from it. But the cut is minor and though she hisses in anger, it slows her not at all.

A half-step back restores her balance and she uses it to put more force into the slash upwards she makes. She aims towards his chest, the blade moving diagonally on its way upwards.

Istadris' sword finds naught but the snowy ground beneath where Morindor had fallen mere seconds ago, and the blade bites deeply into the frozen soil. The impact jars the woodsman's hands and arms, and he spits out a rather violent curse with frustration and surprise at being thrown off balance by the unexpectedly inaccurate strike. Down to one knee he falls--but only briefly, for he is swiftly back upon his two feet with the longsword upraised before him. The sharp tip is aimed low, in the direction of Morindor's bloodied countenance, and the leather-bound hilt held as ever in the firm grasp of both his unclad hands. "Ready your bow, Finnabair!" He calls back in the Beorian tongue, without daring break his uneasy gaze from the terrible beast that slowly withdraws before him, "He is not done yet..."

Finnabair draws herself up before the shadow of the gaur, uttering blackly in return, "Thrall". Eyeing it warily she looks at the blood flowing from its brow and the arrow sticking out from its side, and as it takes a backward step she moves one pace forward after it, readying her axe rather than the bow Istadris urges her to. "I am ready.", she assures the woodsman as she takes a few slow steps around to it's right side, darting in with her axe raise in one hand, swinging it hard around for its shoulder.

The she-elf's blade bites into the orc's side, slashing through the worn leather armor easily. A deep gash opens along the side of his ribs, and black blood runs down the elven blade. He hisses in pain, and throws himself to the inside of her blade. He lashes out with his own blade towards her exposed wrist and arm...

The look of satisfaction on Branwyn's face, brought on by the true strike of her blade this time, disappears quickly. The orch's unexpected move catches her by surprise and though she tries to turn move her arm away, there is not enough time. An ugly slice appears from elbow to wrist and she mutters a curse in Iathrin as she steps back and away.

Shaking her right arm slightly, she bites her lip when the action causes her cloak to catch once more on the arrow, this time ripping it out completely. But it does allow her to see the slice to the same arm to be deep only near the elbow, though the blood from it and the arrow wound as well look much worse than they are. Hoping the creature in front of her will think her more badly wounded than she is, she stays where she is, just out of his reach and pretending to hold her sword weakly. Yet her eyes, under half-lowered lids, study her opponent for signs of weakness from the two wounds she's given him.

And then again, there is that thumping, of steel and bone.

Oddly similar to the sound of an axe upon wood; that which arise when the Rangers weapon sinks into the shoulder of that same Gaur. And indeed, the beast staggers; where it not for that tree that Morindor comes upon, that last of strokes would have led to his litteral fall.

But, that same tree hinders that. For indeed, it holds his faltering step, and he leans upon it. And those eyes turns upon Finnabair, and again that wolves hollow voice roll forth:

"Of fell axe and longbow yew, shall perish yet with youthful hue."

And towards Istadris the woodsman:

"Man of rowan and birch tree, shall fall neath those in which shelter he always seek."

And then, the lids are lowered over those crimson eyes. "By the dark lord, he who is my liege; I curse you both, may you never again have peace!"

And so, a weary sigh. And the Gaurhoth, mighty and terrible, fall.

The orc wavers, pauses, and looks around with wide red eyes. The other orcs have fled and scattered, and the mighty guar is wounded, or slain. He snarls, and takes a halting step backwards. He glares balefully at his opponent, a look of feral hunger in his eyes, but still takes another step backwards. He snarls at her, finally half turning and retreating fromt he battle...

Istadris' advance falter as Finnabair springs past him to bring her own axe against the retreating Gaur's flesh and bone. His keen grey eyes glitter with satisfaction at the deadly 'thunk' of the other's axeblade, though he himself edges towards the dying creature cautiously and with seeming dread. The terrible wolf's words send a shiver up the woodsman's spine, and only then does he once again remember the winter night's biting, penetrating chill. Without a single word in reply to the dying monster, the Beorian warrior paces swiftly around its fallen form and lifts his blade overhead. The deadly, keen steel edge is brought down once more against the creature in a second vicious blow aimed for the wolf's powerful neck.

Even as she moves to leap after the escaping orch, Branwyn is hit again by a random arrow, this one coming from a tree behind her. It strikes with enough force to send her staggering and she drops to one knee. Yet it does it no hurt, for by luck, it hits the buckler slung tightly behind her back. By the time she rises, the wounded creature has disappeared among the trees.

A string of muttered curses escape her lips as she gives a glance back behind her to see from whence the arrow came. But her anger is short-lived, for as she meets the eyes of one of the Haladin in the trees, she realizes it was meant for her fleeing foe, rather than herself. Glancing around the area, she can see how far afield she has gone from the site of the worst fighting, and she cautiously makes her way back, making sure there are no lurkers hiding out here on the flank.

And within the beast there is no life to avoid such a strike. The keen steel of the Beorians pass, as if through water...

The Orcs have been struck down or sent fleeing; adorned with scars and arrow shafts, and neath a tree lies the body of one of the damned. The raid has ended in defeat, verily.

And in the halls of men there may be found one Gaur head.

The shock of the axehead meeting the gaur's shoulder sends a numbing shake through Finnabair's body and she draws back, tugging at the weapon to free it from the thick shoulder, the wolf turns toward her. Staggering back a few paces for fear of a reprisal, she holds her balance her wide-eyed gaze forced down, unable to meet the piercing stare of the gaur as it utters its curse and then falls upon the snow. Only when Istadris steps forward to deliver a merciful death does she look up to see his sword glinting in the dark, rising and falling in one quick movement. Her own weapon hangs at her side and with the deed done she lifts and quickly checks the area around them, finding the rest of the yrch have fled.

The Beorian woodsman flinches as he feels the sword's blade bite deeply through the fallen gaur's furry hide, and the flesh and spinal cord beneath it. With his left boot upon the beast's flank, he tugs the sword out of the deep wound--dark rivlets of blood flow down the length of his blade, and pollute the otherwise pristine snow which Morindor now makes his death bed. "Blasted creature..." He curses, while lifting his blade high once again and aiming another short, vicious hack to sever its head from the body. His nose crinkled from the horrid stench, and his features twisted with a dark scowl, Istadris calls to those nearby. "Fetch a long pike, or spear if any are left!" He says, drawing a pace back to survey the remnants of his company only once Morindor's massive head is separated from his shoulders, and lying half buried in the reddening snows.

Finnabair grimaces and turns away as Istadris goes about hacking the head from the shoulders of the Gaur. One of the Haladin wardens passes her with a spear in hand, planting it deep and firm in the snow by the body of the wolf and stepping over to survey the wreckage of death. Finnabair looks back, "A warning?", she asks Istadris, nodding to the gaur-head and the spear.

With the gaur's great head now free of its body, Istadris turns away from the beast's reeking blood and bends down to clean the sticky substance from his sword's blade. "Clean your steel." He warns Finnabair, as she speaks out in question. A quick shake of his head, and the woodsman rises again with a look to the ranger. "The head is a prize." He utters, before gesturing with the tip of his sword to Morindor's corpse. "The claws shall be hacked off and put upon spikes around camp--those shall be warning to trespassers. The head should be taken to the hill, and offered in tribute to the Haladin lords."

The Beorian warrior's thin lips bend with a wry smile then, as he taps the haft of the standing spear with his free hand and then waves to the Gaurhoth's head. "Go to it, then, and raise it up for us to carry back." He says, before passing by the ranger and hurrying to where some of the Haladin treat one of their wounded comrades by the roots of a great tree.

Finnabair kneels in the snow, lifting a troubled brow as she cleans the head of the axe in the snow, "Tis no prize I would wish to keep.", she says. Rising up, she looks about to protest, but the woodsman quickly passes her, leaving her to take care of the task. With a sigh, she steps forward, saying "Very well.", gesturing for the Haladin to help her lift the head, a look of extreme distaste expressed on her face as they carry the gruesome head toward the spear and set it firm on top. Blood covers them both by the time they are done and while others arrive to bear the trophy away, Finnabair strides off on her own, returning to the forest eaves to retrieve her bow and make her way back toward the camp.