Gladden River, South Bank

 

A land of rolling hills stretches to the south, but the banks of the Gladden river lie directly to the north. In the distance there is a roar as of cataracts, but here the river flows slowly and gently. The ground feels dry and warm, baked in the blistering sun, and the air is very hot and dry, normal for summer, but a little inconvenient. The Anduin valley rolls out to the east, and the path traveling north leads to the steep, fertile and woody banks of the Gladden river, clearly visible and a brief walk away. This is a rich land, teeming with game. Shrubs dot the landscape in all directions, giving this area the look of a heath.

 

Z'macht

Zig

Bozblot

Zoglaaz

Malghruk

Mordral

Fotud (ARB)

 

Linnuial

Isiloteriel

Amarelei

Nimmeril

Arwen

Elywien

Fuinmagl

 

 

Stars twinkle in the dark night sky, and a light breeze flows in from the Misty Mountains to the West. On the breeze, very quiet sounds are carried towards the river... whispered words, the barely audible sound of a party of elves moving, in their midst, a tighter circle, perhaps guarding something specific.

 

The discord of Middle-Earth lurks along the southern banks for the Gladden this night. Fell creatures, their kin twisted and turned to evil ages ago, creep in the dark, their hellish eyes blazing, tiny sparks of hate adrift a see of black. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Z'macht says softly (as softly as an uruk can speak). His baleful gaze sweeps from the east to the west, eying the lines of Morians along the riverbank. 'Wait for them to cross,' he says in the common tongue, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

 

A small contingent of archers squats silently against the cool soil of the riverbank under the direction of a snakish uruk. Malghruk's pointy ears perk up slightly as he notes the command of the Morghash Talashakh. A minute nod bobs the ebony topknot mounted on the crescent of the gangly archer's cranium. A pale, bony hand sweeps the tight company of bow-orc, "On the command of the Talashakh." Subdued hissings and gurglings emit from Malghruk's wormish slit of a mouth as he awaits the order from Z'macht. Quietly, the Morian archer slithers his free hand to his back, producing the hideous, black bow, Sun-Blotter, and a barb to match. Golden, cat-like orbs scan the opposite bank meticulously, searching dangerously for an appropriate target.

 

 

Having adopted the position of left guard for the party, Elywien moves quietly and quickly beside the other elves, nary a sound to be heard by her feet. Wrapped in the cloak that was made by Lorien's best weavers, its hood up over her head, the elleth is easy to lose in the night, especially when she stops moving. And stop moving she does, aware that she had moved too far ahead of the rest of the party. Staying absolutely still, Elywien listens intently to any sounds the night offers, and tentatively sniffs the air, before she begins moving forward again, careful this time to not move ahead of her party.

 

Linnuial moves with the front of the elven party, bow already in hand. The air here lacks the sweetness of that which he breathes in the valley, and his gaze sweeps back and forth along the river and behind every tree. Still, despite his vigilance, he seems yet unaware of the impending attack.

 

Marching silently along with the collection of orcs is Zig, a shield held high, just overshadowing his head, and hanging low by his waist, his mace. He speaks no words and has eyes only for the darkness before him, eyes probing.

 

Narloth walks on the left side of the Elven party lagging behind a little as if with some inexplicable reluctance and resting his left hand loosely on the hilt of his sword.

 

Bow in hand, Isiloteriel walks silently with the party. She is in a state of readiness, and at the slightest command will fire. She walks carefully, slightly bent towards the ground, her ears straining for any sounds of the enemy.

 

A thin breath escapes Amarelei's parted lips, momentarily visible in the cool night air sweeping through the pass. Her gaze is uplifted to the stars, though as the ground grows softer nearer to the riverbank, her attention refocuses on the terrain ahead. A light wooden spear is held loosely within her slender hands as she treads silently over matted grasses, staying toward the middle of the group.

 

Within the collection of elves, near her lady, Nimmeril keeps pace with the others, eyes focused at times on the ground before them, at times on the person near whom she walks. But as a tracker, she is interested in their path and any signals of something amiss, so her gaze moves about often.

 

Next to her handmaid Nimmeril, the Lady Arwen has taken to walking as well, wrapped into a dark green cloak. She seems thoughtful, almost absent. Around her, a ring of guards is keeping watchful eyes open. It has been reported that the mountains are dangerous at the moment. More so at night.

 

Mordral creeps along with the Morian host moving along the southern bank of the river. His eyes peer from within their hollow sunken sockets searching for any sign of the enemy. Taking a deep draught of the night air, he catches what might be a hint of the abominable elvish scent.

 

His steely eyes scanning the north riverbank, Z'macht smoothly reaches into a pouch at his side, his cruel fingers slightly trembling, and brings forth an orcish arrow with sadistic delight. To those inclined to notice such thing, his gaze may seem to flicker. In the moonlight, he can see the black and red shaft in exquisite detail. Of a larger diameter than its elven counterpart, the Uruk chieftain fits arrow to bow and addresses the creatures at his flanks. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

 

 

The orcish bowmen stop, knee to knee, innumerable ironshod orkfoot pistons pound the last of their advance in unison. As a sheer wall of blackest shale the orcforms line themselves, rancorous plumes of steam poisoning the night air as the hundred-bodied engine of hate exhales all at once. Tendons draw taught, knuckles whiten about the bows, fangs grind fangs and sickly-set joints crack in tangible anticipation... malice reacts with adrenaline, and the venomous cocktail is pumped to the furthest inklings of orcflesh by a hundred black, black hearts.

 

With little to disturb his repose, Zoglaaz remains seated with his back against a tree amidst a small group of archers. "I'd learn ya to make some bows, maggots..." he says between draughts from a liquor-sack, and amidst his fog, utters, "If'n you could drop some Deer or Moose... we could make better sinews fer yer bows!" With one eye open, looking toward the movements of Z'macht, he motions to one of the few scouts afforded him, and points, "Find out if somethin' be up... "

 

The lanky archer crouched at the riverbank catches the flicker of moonlight on the black shaft in Z'macht's hand. Barely able to contain his pleasure at being able to once more wreak havoc upon the light-lovers, Malghruk snakes his thin arm out once more, and a myriad of short, orcish bows are brought to the ready, small, messengers of death aimed across the river.

 

Approaching the river, Elywien slows, letting the rest of the elvish traveling party begin to move past her. Assigned guard, she will not be the first to cross the river, and perhaps not the last but close to it. Almost coming to a stop, the elleth clad in cloak and shadow starts to move away from the rest of the party, fanning out, if you will, her gaze on the opposite bank. Where some would curse their vision for being defeated by the night, Elywien does not, rather she just concentrates harder, urging her vision to pierce the veil of shadows and reveal what the night may hold hidden in its dark embrace.

 

A sense of disquiet sits on Nimmeril as she keeps pace with Arwen, but she could not say if any foreboding were from her heightened senses, well-honed from centuries outdoors, or from the worry that has embraced her in the hours since last she saw the Valley. A glance at the Lady affirms that, so far, all is well, but worry sits heavy on Nimmeril's heart. Nighttime is when evil is most at home, and the Barunnur is guarded against it as best she may be, in whatever guise it may choose.

 

And woe to any elegant pair of eyes that should succeed in leering through the looming doomweave of shadow and steam, for the orchost readies in half-step; a hundred heels dig into the field, and turf turns over in a wide, wide scar across the field-floor.

 

Noticing a scout approach from his right, Z'macht gives him the order to lower his voice and then continue. The messenger speaks in hushed tones, kneeling in the soft earth as he does so. "Master Zoglaaz would like to know of any developments..."

 

Z'macht growls under his breath before replying. "Tell Zoglaaz that the Talashakh realizes his weariness from the trail, and of war... However, the Gothshaka is to be obeyed. Tell him that we have orders to block passage across the Gladden... Pray to the flame no paleskins have crossed before our arrival!"

 

Linnuial, still in front, now reaches the crossing to the river. He pauses then, letting out a slow, quiet breath. Then, hesitantly, he begins to cross the river, large feet splashing slightly in the shallower water of the ford. He steps cautiously, eyes occasionally moving down to check his footing.

 

Approaching the river, Narloth grants a silent nod of appreciation to Elywien guarding the Elves' crossing of the river. He then pulls his cloak around him a little tighter to keep it from getting wet in the river and steps into the water.

 

Head still bowed in silent thought, Elrond's daughter walks on, then suddenly stops as the first elves start to cross the river and turns to Nimmeril. "You are worried." she says, very quietly. And then, without waiting for an answer, she adds with a glance backwards at the mountains, "It is understandable."

 

Isiloteriel approaches the river, her bow still ready. She draws in a breath, as if preparing herself, and steps in the cool water of the river.

 

Moving up quietly, Zig positions himself just barely before the orc archers, however dangerous that may be. He turns his head and glances back at the collection of archers and swings his shield to his back, "Won't be hitting me," he murmurs in a low voice; and turns his head back to the forefront.

 

Amarelei's throat clicks softly as she attempts to swallow the lump growing in her throat. Heavily booted feet splash softly into the shallows at the river's edge, following closely behind Linnuial and Narloth. Her movement in the water is smooth and graceful, for in the rivers and lakes of Elrond's valley does she spend her hours. But now she is far from home, and the Lhimbadhril's apparent calm is betrayed by the manner in which her eyes dart from tree to tree on the opposite bank.

 

A wince marks Nimmeril's countenance at the sound of Linnuial's steps in the water, and to Arwen the elleth nods but once. "My heart sits cold and heavy, Hiril, and I fear warmth will surround it only when we are in Lorien," breathes her handmaid, voice feathery light. "Something..." But there the thought stops. For now.

 

"The Gothshaka mentioned me by /name/?!" Zoglaaz cries in demand as the hapless messenger returns. "Aargh!" he grunts, rising to his feet and brushing his filthy cloak, "What could be more pressing than the Gold-Tree Elves?!" he snarls, to no one. Putting his drink-sack aside, he assumes the demeanor of a field marshall, "As he says, this *curse* Gladden river will not be breached what that OUR bows make whatever pay the price!"

 

Turning his wicked visage back northward, Z'macht hears the huddled scout scamper off with his news for Zoglaaz. However... What is this? Splash. Gloomp. Plop. So minute a disturbance - could be a waterfowl - but at night? Z'macht's pale orbs strain across the ford at the Gladden. Indeed! A cruel smile slithers across the Talashakh's face as he makes out the gloomy silhouette of Linnuial materialize across the river. Then more: two, three, how many? He slowly rises, draws his weapon to full length and shouts, "Fire!" Releasing his bow, the Talashakh roars, an attempt to rally the war-weary horde of Moria. "Attack! These elves will meet a watery death tonight!"

 

Z'macht launches an arrow...

Z'macht's bowshot hits Linnuial, lightly wounding him.

 

 As an elongated artery yanked from a flank of rancid gristle, peeled to ruin and poked with holes, the wide, wide line of orcish irises spill their cadmium contents; blood-red glow smears itself across the collective glower of the darkling miners' line, for this night, the darklings mine for warm and viscous liquid treasures, and they will have them.

 

Sinus passage blasts, and boneholes pop as the horde holds fast, for they /will/ have their treasures. They will smear their payload down the breastfields of their leathers and rags, and they will drink their fill, for the night breeze is thick with the scent of their bounty.

 

At the Talashakh's command, Malghruk slithers up to a kneeling position in the tangled reeds about the riverbank, offering a salute to the Talashakh's figure with his bow. Whispering down the line of bow-orcs in violent hisses, the slinky uruk motions the archers to do the same. Drawing Sun-Blotter back until the taught string quivers slightly, the Morian pauses momentarily as he steadies his breathing, and locates the first intended casualty of his aim. Spotting the elf maiden guarding the elvish crossing, he sighs deeply as he lowers the thick, rune encrusted bow slightly to accommodate for her distance. Narrowing his lynxish eyes abruptly, Malghruk releases the black barb into the brisk, night air, leaving but the softest *twang* of vibrating bow-string to tell of the arrows flight.

 

Malghruk launches an arrow...

Malghruk's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

Isiloteriel's stance stiffens, as she hears the sound of the orcs. She raises her bow and nocks an shaft to the longbow.

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

Linnuial looks up sharply from his own feet, the twang of a Malghruk's bowstring catching his ear more easily than any other sound. Instantly twists down into a kneel, and Z'macht's arrow shreds his tunic and slices his shoulder instead of piercing his heart. He lets out a grunt of pain and cries out, "Ambush!" before bringing up his bow. The faint moonlight illuminates the arrow that he heard fired, and he takes aim back along its path toward the shooter, trying to estimate the right strength to put behind his own shot.

 

Elywien's eyes widen when she hears the yell of an orc, and a terrible cry it is indeed. Grateful indeed that she has not yet crossed the river, Elywien steps nimbly to the side as an arrow flies through the air which her body once occupied. The attackers become clearer to the elleth, not so much to her eyes but her ears...the sounds leading her to their positions. Raising her great bow, Elywien lowers to one knee, plucking back the string of her bow. Estimating the area where the arrow came from, Elywien shifts her body so she is not facing the exposed elves in the river, and carefully lets her first shot fly.

 

Elywien launches an arrow...

Elywien's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

The whooshing sound as arrows take to air tenses every muscle in Amarelei's body, freezing her feet to the riverbed in midstep. She appears now as a mere statue of an elf maid, still standing a few steps from the southern bank, breath withheld. Only the nervous sparkle in her green eyes and the subtle quaking of the spear clenched tight in her hands testifies that she lives. Yet as Linnuial is hit, she is animated once more, eyes flashing frantically from the Thandir to the Heryn, still behind her.

 

Linnuial launches an arrow...

Linnuial's bowshot hits Malghruk, badly wounding him.

 

The horde-line hoists but one wide rib of its hoary host's nest, as a hundred bows clatter to attention. The ribline ribbons and Morian night-whine fills all the air, as a hundred black hornets hunt down windy paths and pillowy pockets of night-sky.

 

Startled by the sound of bowstrings and arrows hitting the water of the Gladden River, Narloth stop and looks to and fro between the near and the far side of the river. He stops and draws his sword retreating slowly and towards Arwen and her maid.

 

In this foreign environment, Nimmeril has reduced skills that are nonetheless sharp by comparison to most, and she realizes that her sense of impending doom was on target; in the heartbeat before Linnuial's cry she realizes what is happening. Too late, too late. As arrows from orc bows whistle hither and yon, she takes her bow from her back to ready an arrow, at the same time moving as if to step in front of Arwen. The handmaid will serve her lady in any and all respects, even to offer her body as a shield.

 

Zoglaaz's wrinkled fingers grasp his bow, slung around his left shoulder. "Argh..." he grumbles to himself, "Elves...!" he yells at his small platoon of archers, "Make 'em pay to cross the accursed river" and he snatches some few arrows as he has left, "Let loose all!" is his last order, as he stalks closer to the Gladden, nocking an arrow.

 

Rising from his cover to boldly stand against the south shore of the Gladden, Z'macht does not knock his bow immediately but instead shouts directions loudly into the night, his harsh voice contrasting with the gentle aire of the nocturnal river. 'Spearman first into the river,' his left arm makes a circling motion, 'And blades circle on this side - Archers - prepare for another volley!' The Talashakh glances at Mahlgruk nearby. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

 

Malghruk shrieks horrifically in rage as his aim is untrue. Rising to his full, dizzying height, he bares a plethora of sharp fangs to the night, offering quite a vivid target to the ambushed elves. It seems the elvish archer's aim isn't as weak as he thought as his left hip suddenly sprouts a silver shaft. Sighing lightly in measured gasps, the archer regains his composure and calmly breaks the arrow in half, sliding both ends from their painful perch. Dropping the wooden pieces to the ground, he deftly, but carefully flits behind a nearby tree, and in the same movement aims his bow upon the now clearly visible elf maiden with the audacity to fire upon his precious hide.

 

Malghruk launches an arrow...

Malghruk's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

In unison, the Lady's guards close their circle around Arwen and Nimmeril, swords drawn, not moving towards the orcs. That task is for others. With a startled movement, Arwen looks up as she is pushed behind the living shield formed for her, eyes widened slightly.

 

Linnuial smiles wryly as he hears his arrow dig into flesh, and he turns rigidly, a newly knocked arrow pointing toward Z'macht. However, hearing the order for spearmen shouted in Westron, he backsteps slowly toward the shore from whence he came. Sighting his arrow at Z'macht's skull, he waits until the orc turns to address his companion. Linnuial then refines his aim to Z'macht's ear, letting loose another arrow.

 

Linnuial launches an arrow...

Linnuial's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

As per Z'macht's order, dozens of spear wielding uruks crash into the Gladden, dark waters splashing about their bowed knees. The creatures' voices are a testament to the taint of evil that smolders in their kind, vile and ruining.

 

      "For the Flame!" one yells.

      "For the Morghash!" goes another one.

      "After this we return home!" adds a third, though noticeably of weaker stature.

 

The orcs ever close, sloshing and yelling, and scimitar-wielding orcs can now be seen filtering into the river on the West of the battlefield.

 

 All above the breezy shadowpaths of eve', where the cicada's chorus slowly capitulates its noisome reign to the hidden hoists of crickets-in-waiting, a dread-tapestry loom begins its weaving. Silver shafts, and blackest needles marr the threads of moonrays with their umbre tints and lettering of deepest blue... soon the craftsman, fate, will ornament his fabrics with blossoms of red, soon the flower-children will meet their deflowering with blooms of blood... and the orchost will ever seep its black sap into the ground beneath.

 

Zoglaaz drops down at a boulder, nigh to the riverside and if it is lower than the invading foe, it offers an excellent vantage point from which to fire, and possibly assail any who test the defense of the River. The first arrow he places on the string of his bow is a longbow shaft recovered from Lorien. Z pulls the string back...then lets it loose...

 

Zoglaaz launches an arrow...

Zoglaaz's bowshot hits Isiloteriel, moderately wounding her.

 

Isiloteriel cries out in pain as she is hit in the leg. She kneels towards the ground, wincing in pain. But, she musters up enough strength to pick up her bow and nock an arrow to it...

 

Elywien's face becomes quite grim as her first arrow misses its target. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, while no further arrows come flying at her location, the elleth's sharp eyes are drawn to the orc who seems to be commanding the others. Nocking another arrow, Elywien pulls her bowstring back far, sighting on Z'macht's center mass. She feels the wind blowing and compensates against it, further adjusting her aim as far from her companions as possible before letting the arrow fly.

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's bowshot hits Zoglaaz, mildly wounding him.

 

Elywien launches an arrow...

Elywien's bowshot hits Z'macht, lightly wounding him.

 

"Ha har!" Zoglaaz snarls, gesturing to his charges, "Down here.. shoot all!" he cackles, adding, "They will run back whence came they..!"

 

Z'macht growls as Linnuial's shaft flies wide, two feet to the left of his helmeted head. He produces another arrow from his hip, loads his weapon, and then pulls back... Hard! The Talashakh aims down the length of his missile, takes a breath, and releases, doing his best to ignore the din of battle.

 

Z'macht launches an arrow...

Z'macht's bowshot hits Linnuial, lightly wounding him.

 

Malghruk bows his topknot mounted head in quiet meditation. It seems his aim is not blessed by the Flame this night. Stretching his necks to the heavens, he works the crinks out as he bobs his skull from side to side. Closing his golden eyes. He slowly brings Sun-Blotter to his shoulder once more as he attempts to down the pesky elf maiden once more. Opening his eyes abruptly, he looses another shaft.

 

Malghruk launches an arrow...

Malghruk's bowshot hits Isiloteriel, moderately wounding her.

 

Found within the spear-wielding orcs is a lone mace wielder; Zig. He rushes forward and jumps into the river, waving his mace above his head, "The river will run with elven blood," he roars in the common tongue. He whips his shield around to his front, no longer concerned with the array of falling arrows.

 

Isiloteriel cries out as she is again hit with an arrow. With a vengeance in her eyes, she launches another arrow...

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's bowshot hits Malghruk, severely wounding him.

 

Isiloteriel returns her gaze to the archer who shot her the first time. Her eyes narrow as she raises her bow and draws the string back...

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

With a graceful flick of his left arm, Narloth slips out of his coat and flings it around it. He turns his head back at Amarelei shouting, "<Sindarin> Retreat, back to the bank." After that he turns back northwards to face the orc's charge.

 

Linnuial makes the mistake of watching Elywien's arrow as it flies in an arc toward Z'macht. However, as his eyes follow it to the target, he finds an arrow already flying toward him from Z'macht's bow. He stumbles back in the river but the arrow still manages to stick in just above his knee, causing him to fall to one knee. Still, he manages to tilt his bow upward to lob a shot toward his assailant.

 

Linnuial launches an arrow...

Linnuial's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

Zoglaaz's thick, swarthy lips can barely stifle a chuckle of disdain, "All of you, on my order, fire t'wards wot'evr the Elves are guardin'! The night is ours, boys!" he shouts, and adds, "Ai Khazad Dum! Doorin rules! Ha ha!"

 

Zoglaaz's group of archers let a flurry of arrows fly...

 

Zoglaaz launches an arrow...

Zoglaaz's bowshot hits Linnuial, moderately wounding him.

 

Mordral surges forward with the rush of living black hatred that charges into the Gladden, "For the Flame", he bellows, his voice joining the shrill battlecries of the many orcs about him. Driven onward by his loyalty to his commanders and his hatred of the enemy he joins near the front of the forward grouping. Looking ahead he begins to see the faint outlines of the enemy, the sight of which spurs his frenzied attack and heightens his craving to tear at the pale flesh of the light lovers.

 

An arrow is nocked in Nimmeril's bow, then drawn and aimed, but with the shield before her, she has nothing at which she may shoot as yet. A quick glance over her shoulder goes toward Arwen, but nothing more. She is waiting for something to shoot, and resolution settles in her pose and countenance. It is her duty to take care of the Hiril, and so she will as best she may.

 

Malghruk shrieks loudly as his craning neck is punctured by a cursed silver arrow. Losing all the composure he desperately tried to hold on to, Malghruk rips the protruding arrow from his flesh and fits the bleeding hunk of wood to his own bow. Inky black blood spurts nicely from the grisly wound in his gullet, slightly obstructing his aim, but the wiry archer pays it little mind as he fires on the pesky little elf once more.

 

Malghruk launches an arrow...

Malghruk's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

Armed with neither bow nor arrows, Amarelei makes haste for the southern bank, crouching low against the muddy shore to guard her willowy, unarmored frame from the arrows raining down from the enemy's stronghold. Yet as the uruk splash heavily into the waters of the Gladden, her pulse quickens beyond whatever presence of mind she has can control. Green eyes widen, spear readied only with the skills of a fisherwoman. At Narloth's call, she springs to her feet, lunging back towards the opposite shore, legs straining to reach it before the uruk spearman draw to near.

 

Grimacing as an arrow embeds itself into his thigh, Z'macht wades further out into the river. On his right, spearman splash their way forth, raising gruff shouts along with their black-hafted weapons. On the chieftain's left, a company of scimitar wielding orcs sloshes into the Gladden. Z'macht pauses in his bow-fire again to shout orders. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Snarling, he reaches down and tries to break off the shaft in his leg.

 

Z'macht tends to the injuries on his own person.

 

"Out of the way, Nimmeril." Arwen says sharply, pulling the maiden back and further into the circle of guards just as the orcs start to come closer, closer...

 

Isiloteriel grimaces with pain, and raises her bow with an arrow ready. Her hands shaking, she tries to aim for the orc who tried to shoot her, and misses.

 

Linnuial lets out a curse under his breath as his sloppy shot misses Z'macht again. Just as he pushes himself back to a standing position, Zoglaaz's arrow strikes him in the side. The arrow sticks, but Linnuial quickly rips it out with a growl. Still retreating out of the river, but moving much more slowly, he takes aim at the newest orc to shoot at him--Zoglaaz. He pulls back an arrow until both he and his bow groan with agony, letting it loose with a vicious jerk.

 

Linnuial launches an arrow...

Linnuial's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

A relieved air seems to flow about Elywien as she has the satisfaction of watching her arrow imbed itself in the orc commander's thigh. It is short lived though as she sees arrows fly into the other archers, and the elleth's eyes watch Isiloteriel wound one of the orcs. Yet he still fires! Elywien sights Malghruk with her longbow, and hidden by her cloak she lets the arrow fly, content to take dispose of the orc archers one by one.

 

Elywien launches an arrow...

Elywien's bowshot hits Malghruk, badly wounding him.

 

Relieved of the arrow in his thigh (and a great deal of pain!), Z'macht concentrates on his attempt at making an elf pincushion. Smoothly, he retrieves an arrow from his hip and fits it to his bow. Sighting his weapon and drawing it to full length, the orc chieftain reactively shoots in the direction of the most recent elf bow-fire.

 

Z'macht launches an arrow...

Z'macht's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

"I have seen their ilk before, Hiril, and I will not let them touch you," responds Nimmeril, though she is lured back from the guard who still encircle Arwen and her handmaid. A keen silver gaze focuses down the shaft; should any of these orc try their luck with those who protect the Heryn, she is ready to fire.

 

Within the river, wading in the deeper waters, Zig shoves his way to the forefront of the spear orcs. "What ... ELF ... has the courage to try and pass me," he roars in challenge. He gives off a great roar, both arms reaching into the air.

 

 Again the darkling shelf of bow-orcs buckles and breaks, and dumps its contents into the air. Again the sky is pocked with sheets of hell-hail, and victims of the storm drop and pass to shelters beyond this world...

 

"Volley fire hooo, fire at will ladz, fill'm with pins!" Comes a hot hiss from behind the horde-line... Bows bend in bloodlust, and bedlam beds with many a ranking archer-orc. The mountain horde begins zipping away the fruits of its quivers with hedonistic haste. Their arms ply their instruments of ash with ardor worthy of song, but the hell-hail does their singing, and the curdled screams of those that fall away beside them.

 

Zoglaaz calls in more Orcs, "Yeah you Snagas! Guard the River! Drown any-an-elf who tries to cross!" he snarls, laughingly. But with a wistful look across the river, he adds quietly. "An' scream as loud as yer mother if'n Gold-tree Elves stalk in..."

 

Isiloteriel stands up shakily, and gasps as she yanks the arrows out of her body. She then limps back to the bank, but not before aiming her bow at another orc...

 

The wiry archer sinks to a squatting position by his tree as his calf is ripped open by Elywien's arrow. Cursing under his breath, but not really seeming to care, Malghruk languidly fits another black shaft to his bow and prepares to fire anew. The blood is too much. Bringing an irritated appendage to his mangled neck, the Morian shudders slightly as the blood oozes rhythmically with his heartbeat, oozing steadily between his bony fingers. Sighing audibly, the archer gives up on his wound, and diverts the little attention he has left to ending the pathetic life of the cursed light-lover that seems intent on his demise.

 

Malghruk launches an arrow...

Malghruk's bowshot hits Z'macht, mildly wounding him.

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's bowshot hits Zoglaaz, mildly wounding him.

 

Zoglaaz kicks at the fallen bodies of Orc archers who have less skill, and armor than he. "Gar..." he snarls, "I'll shoot 'em all me-self, then." and he fires another arrow.

 

The elven guards that surround Arwen have shields available to protect themselves from some of the arrows incoming, but naturally some of those bolts will find their mark. Any breach in the ranks is closed quickly, confirming that whatever they protect is precious indeed.

 

Zoglaaz launches an arrow...

Zoglaaz's bowshot hits Elywien, lightly wounding her.

 

Elywien yelps with pain as an arrow flies through the air to graze her side. She looks down, surely thinking the arrow would've passed right through, but is dismayed to find it sticking from her side, well below any vital organs. Not about to risk removing it herself, Elywien catches sight of the stubborn orc Malghruk still carrying on the fight. She shakes her head...figuring the creature foolish for carrying on a hopeless battle. With practiced ease that is hampered little by her recent injury, Elywien fits an arrow to her bowstring, pulls it back and releases the projectile into the air.

 

Elywien launches an arrow...

Elywien's bowshot hits Malghruk, badly wounding him.

 

It will be some time until Linnuial again decides to be the first to cross a river, though he finally reaches the safe shore. Clambering up onto the land he grabs at the wound to his lower left side, blood on his hand when he brings it up to nock another arrow. His gaze briefly settles on Malghruk, but a sense of pity for the beast's grizzly neck wound causes Linnuial's target search to continue. Again his aim settles on Zoglaaz, though as he pulls back to shoot, his face is mask of pain.

 

Linnuial launches an arrow...

Linnuial's bowshot hits Zoglaaz, mildly wounding him.

 

"None answer my challenge," Zig cries, staring down the elves, "Then I will challenge one of you!" He wades onward, toward the other side of the river, shield at the ready, mace in the perfect attack position.

 

Amongst the charging orcs in the river one is felled by a stray arrow. Falling before Mordral the unfortunate orc's bloodstains the river red as he begins to float lifelessly down stream. Before he travels far Mordral grabs the scimitar still clasped in his hand and wrenches it free. "This will serve my purpose," he snarls, before raising the newly obtained weapon above his head whilst screaming into the darkness "Death to the lightlovers."

 

Thud! Z'macht grabs his back as an arrow slams (painfully!) into the Talashakh's posterior... Oddly - it seemed to come from the Morian side of the river! Turning, Z'macht roars, "If I find the uruk who nearly took my head off, he'll be flayed and hung outside my quarters for two weeks!" Grimacing, Z'macht turns once more to the battle and knocks and arrow to his bow, searching for a target.

 

Z'macht launches an arrow...

Z'macht's bowshot hits Elywien, lightly wounding her.

 

Zoglaaz sees the arc-flight of an incoming arrow, yet cannot dart out of the way. The longshaft makes a ringing sound on his helm, and a cratered DING as it is almost comically stuck there. Before pulling the arrow out, he fires back in the direction it came from.

 

Zoglaaz launches an arrow...

Zoglaaz's bowshot hits Linnuial, mildly wounding him.

 

No, the sword-wielding pack will not answer Zig's challenge, nor will they move from their stalwart pose. Their swords and shields stand ready for any challenge, however, and behind them stands a single elleth with an arrow drawn and at the ready. They seem scarcely to be moving.

 

The splashing hoard of uruk draws closer to Amarelei's heels, casting river water over her in their clumsy pursuit. As bellowing deep from the throat of the bloodthirsty mace wielder reaches her keen ears, she ventures to look over her right shoulder, only to see the uruk poised for an attack. A whimper escapes her lips, though certainly inaudible over the clashing of weapons, as the elleth sets her sights on the Heryn's armed guard. Her retreat is desperate.

 

Having just dealt a deadly blow to an Orc charging his way, a black arrow pierces Narloth's upper right arm. He clenches his teeth half in pain half in anger almost dropping his blade into the river. With a grim frown he pulls the shield from his late enemy and tries to ward off the rain of arrows with it as best as he can while retreating to the northern bank more quickly now. His sword he holds firmly again, the arrow still stuck in his arm.

 

Still no answer to his challenge arises and Zig finds himself near the opposite shore, amongst the elves. He lashes out and smashes his mace into the side of one elf and keeps coming, "Fight me you cowards," he roars, pointing his mace at the group of guards in a tight group, "Or are you to scared of the great Zig!"

 

Malghruk's shaky figure rockets into the air, twists slightly, and falls heavily on its emaciated chest from the impact of Elywien's arrow. Black blood cascades slowly from the broken archer's neck and mouth, forming a steady pool of juice beneath the Morian's abdomen. A long, silver barb protrudes from the back of Malghruk's crushed shoulder blade, the arrow having spitted the entire frame of the lanky uruk's now quivering body. Vainly attempting to push his crumpled figure to his knees, the archer struggles to hiss in bloody bubbles, "My lord, Talashakh... I have failed you! I am now rendered useless to the Flame! End it, my lord!" The white knuckled grasp of the injured orc suddenly releases itself from the thick, black bow as Malghruk sinks away from consciousness, and further pushes the elvish arrow through his skin as he falls haphazardly to the blood-soaked earth.

 

Another arrow grazes Linnuial's skin, this time his right hand--though he hardly notices in all the rain of arrows around him. Zoglaaz seems to be his target of choice now--perhaps the other orc archers will falter once their commander falls. Or perhaps they will celebrate. It is not for Linnuial to know. Regardless, he nocks another arrow, stretching Brantoril to its limits to increase the range and power of the shot. He centers his aim on Zoglaaz's fiendish face and releases.

 

Linnuial launches an arrow...

Linnuial's bowshot hits Zoglaaz, lightly wounding him.

 

Isiloteriel crawls up the back and rests her back to a rock. Her breath coming in gasps, she pulls back an arrow on her longbow...

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's bowshot hits Zoglaaz, mildly wounding him.

 

One of the elven swordsmen beckons to Amarelei, stepping forward a few paces to encourage her to join Arwen and Nimmeril within their protective circle. Through the gap this elf has created, the handmaid of the Heryn finally looses her long-drawn arrow in the direction of the nearest threat: the mace-wielding Zig. Her features are steely, like the hue of her eyes, in determination. No, these creatures are no strangers to her in the years and years she has spent keeping safe the lands of her people. And they are unloved.

 

Elywien delights in watching the target of her arrow give up its fight, and thus does not see the arrow flying for her till it is nearly too late. Twisting, the arrow zings through her tunic, leaving a bloody streak on her side. Scowling, she does not return fire to Z'macht, rather sighting another of the orcs party and letting her arrow fly into their ranks.

 

Elywien launches an arrow...

Elywien's bowshot hits Zoglaaz, moderately wounding him.

 

Still standing between her guards, Arwen glances between the orcs, her own guards, Nimmeril, and Amarelei, paling as she does. Again, she reaches out as if to grasp her maid's arm, but then seems to think better of it..

 

His seemingly unstoppable charge is stopped. Zig finds an arrow in his left shoulder and his shield droops slightly. He reaches over with his mace and brings it down on the shaft, breaking it off, but turning the head upward, the pain reflecting in his eyes. "You will die for that," he hisses, raising his mace and shield back to position; though his face crunches in pain.

 

Sneering coldly, his eyes as hard as the granite beneath Caradhras, Z'macht knocks another arrow to his bow. His lips are drawn back like those of a rabid dog, wild and menacing. Malghruk's words, wavering and barely audible, reach his ears. Without looking back, the chieftain growls over his shoulder to the wounded uruk, now unconscious. "End it? End it? Skai!" He aims across the river at the dealer of death. "You'll die soon enough, Malghruk... Don't pray for it now." Twang! He lets loose his bow at Elywien.

 

Z'macht launches an arrow...

Z'macht's bowshot hits Elywien, badly wounding her.

 

Zoglaaz's huge frame, and prominent, exposed location near the river, begin to work against him as the lion share of arrows find their mark, driving beneath the rings of his chain mail. "Curse that Gothshaka, Z'macht!" he grunts, "What sort of league is he in, to cause us so much *curse* hurt!" Another arrow he nocks, yelling into the fold of Elven trespassers, "I've a blade for you, to cut your *string of curses* necks! Go back, faeries!" Enraged, he fires.

 

Zoglaaz launches an arrow...

Zoglaaz's bowshot hits Elywien, badly wounding her.

 

Isiloteriel drops her bow momentarily, clutching at her leg where she is bleeding profusely. Then, her eyes catch sight of the orcs firing at Elywien, badly wounding her. Her countenance turns to one of rage, and she fires.

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's bowshot hits Zoglaaz, moderately wounding him.

 

Amarelei springs nimbly from the river, leaning her moderate weight into the jump, praying for her feet to reach the muddy ground. And alas, her right foot strikes solid earth, but only as her left is grabbed by a large, dirty hand. All air in her lungs is expelled as the Lhimbadhril falls to the ground, hands clawing frantically for some kind of hold.

 

From her quiver Nimmeril draws another arrow and nocks it with the smooth confidence of a longtime archer, but the opening created by Amarelei's would-be rescuer is sealed once more. So the elleth is left with yet another period in which she must wait, staring down the orc that she has just wounded, for the time being secure behind the line of shields that exist for the sake of Arwen.

 

The elf who left that circle to help Amarelei springs forward further to rescue her, frenetic in his intent to take her to safety.

 

Zoglaaz rallies the remnants of his platoon, "Fire, fire, fire! A volley upon them!" he shouts, though he sneers at the sight of the battle. Dawn approaches, and yet no ground is lost or gained.

 

Zoglaaz launches an arrow...

Zoglaaz's bowshot hits Linnuial, badly wounding him.

 

The pain still clear in Zig's face, he charges Arwen's guard; mace above his head, shield lowered. First contact finds one elf bowling over from the impact with the orcs shield. No more than a second later, he feels the cold steel of elven sword in his side. He spins wildly, lashing his mace in the direction of his attacker. His mace is handily blocked by a shield and the tip of a spear catches Zig in the back. The orc's shield is sent in a backswing and catches the elf on the shoulder, tearing out the spear.

 

Blood freely flows from Zig's wounds and he backs from the elven guards, the pain within his eyes screaming at the elves. His shield is kept before him and his mace held high, ready to attack. "You have the upper hand," he snarls, "Come, finish me off." He halts in his withdrawal only a few feet from the reach of the longest elven spear, awaiting their attack.

 

 The volley comes....

 

The char-black rib of orcish archer line begins to break... and now it shatters... and now a plague of seething splinters is spat from the swoop of some unseen brushtip... the black lesions spot all the riverbank before them with their wiry contagen, and the chords plucked from their bowstrings up into the night a baleful threnody of woe... of death... of broken bodies and of carnal-red distillate welling up from all the land.

 

Pausing once more from his bow-fire, Z'macht wades further into the river, feeling the swirling waters slosh against his knees. Oddly, it feels refreshing against the arrow-wounds on his right leg. The spearman and scimitar wielding uruks have now reached the northern shore, and Z'macht is able to see small groups of skirmishers break off from the main melee. It seems the uruk forces are becoming increasingly fragmented. The Chieftain, looking at the sky with a curious expression, yells across the river. "Do not dilute yourselves, fools! The sun may come soon and prove to be a worthier foe than these Elves!"

 

Mordral reaches the muddy ground at the far side of the river and watching Amarelei scrambling for the dry earth, manages to grab left foot knocking her to the ground. He grasps tightly, his claws digging into the elvish flesh, attempting to drag the elf witch back into the river and to her doom.

 

Her arrow sinking into Zoglaaz, Elywien again does not see the return fire coming, and lets out a sharp yelp as her thigh is pierced by arrow shot. She stumbles back, looking down at the large shaft protruding from her thigh when the next arrow hits her high on her left shoulder, more than a few inches offset from her heart and lungs...causing what could've been a near fatal blow to be reduced to a very painful one. The impact from that second shot knocks the elleth right off her feet. Sharp presence of mind lets the elleth roll over towards her side, trusting in her cloak to hide her from any more opportunistic arrow shots as Elywien tries to conjure up a plan.

 

Isiloteriel's eyes narrow as she once again nocks an arrow to her bow.

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

Linnuial gasps as he sees Amarelei being grabbed, and even though another rushes to help her, Linnuial also forgoes shooting any more and rushes toward her. This makes him blind to Zoglaaz's next shot, which drives deep into the center of his back. He lets out a choked sound of pain, staggering two steps forward before crumpling forward onto his stomach, face buried in the dirt and arrows still imbedded in his back and leg.

 

Amarelei grits her teeth, face contorting as Mordral's claws pierce the fair flesh of her ankle. Somehow the elleth rolls over on her back to find herself face to face with a particularly nasty uruk, her presumed assailant. She inhales the air back into her lungs, gripping her spear tightly with a new intensity brought on by the imminent danger she now faces. Shoulders flexing with all the strength an elleth of her stature can muster, she thrusts the spear towards Mordral's arm, hoping to strike the very flesh that impedes her retreat.

 

Zoglaaz ducks aside from another arrow, which *thwaps* into the neck of an Uruk behind him. One more casualty of the war between Evil and Good. "Gahr..!" he quips in eulogy, "A 'nother for Morgoth's feast!" and he laughs, but his mood is interrupted as Z'macht and his guard are backed into the river. "Stand firm, boys!" the field marshall in him can muster, "Tonight may not be the night, yet make yer mark!"

 

Zoglaaz launches an arrow...

Zoglaaz's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

Narloth scrambles up the southern bank of the river. The shield he has taken from the fallen Orc looks like a pincushion now, thick with black arrows. As he climbs up he has to lean on his sword, two more arrows stuck in his left leg.

 

The arrows showering down on the Elentiri and the ones they are guarding do not all miss their aim... a few of the swordsmen fall to their knees, an arrow pierces Arwen's cloak and pins it to the ground.

 

A clear command in Sindarin sends two or three of the small group towards where Amarelei is still struggling...

 

As the black blood spills slowly out onto the land, Zig stands patient, awaiting an attack he feels as evident. Yet, no attack comes. A wad of spit flies from his mouth and lands on the ground before the elves and he slowly begins to step backward, to the river, eyes burning in pain, burning in hate, burning for elven blood. Zig stops only a short ways back into the river where his black blood fans out and joins with that of his fallen comrades and that of the elves. His mace held ready in one hand and his shield sagging slightly in the other.

 

Z'macht continues to sludge his way through the Gladden, the first rays of a new morning peppering the sky to the west. An arrow rests against the chieftain's bow, but he does not draw his weapon. Instead, the creature's hateful eyes keep tabs on the progress on the battle raging to the north. Scattered bands fight and orcs are slain in plenty. The numbers of Moria, however, are great - more four-foot orcs streaming onto the riverbank every second. Straight ahead of him, perhaps fifty to a hundred yards, is the thickest part of the battle. There, Arwen and her valiant guard make a solid stand, repelling any orcflesh like oil to water. One uruk dies with a gargling sound while another's head is swept clean off his shoulders.

 

Isiloteriel sees Linnuial crumple to the ground as he is shot again by the foul orcs. She grits her teeth against the pain in her leg and shoulder and grips her bow with white knuckles. With bloodstained hands, she draws back the string...

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

 

Mordral intent is to gut the foul creature before him, his bloodlust rampant as his grip holds the elf tight. Wriggling and squirming, the elf turns, Mordral now looking directly into her eyes as the rabid foam drips from his fangs across her pale face. A sharp pain then shoots through his arm as the spear of the elf drives into his flesh. Enraged further he grasps his scimitar, lashing out at her in fury.

 

 

Zoglaaz grimaces as both the imminent morning and thrust of the Elven trespassers threaten to clinch the day, as the Orcs will falter as She rises. "Fall back... tonight is no victory for us!"

 

A vile island in the Gladden, Z'macht's bloodied lips curl once more in concentration as he draws his bow. The yew wood creaks under the chieftain's monstrous strength as he sights Isiloteriel down the length of the shaft. "Skai!" Z'macht only has the will to mutter. Golden sunbeams filter through the vegetation around the river. The promise of a new day? Or the promise of an uruk withdrawal? Twang! The Talashakh's attack is clearly compromised by the light, as it wobbles visibly in the air.

 

Z'macht launches an arrow...

Z'macht's bowshot hits Isiloteriel, lightly wounding her.

 

The coming of day causes Zig to visible pain more and his stature lessens quickly. The elves before him are forgotten and he moves backwards to the deeper parts of the river.

 

The arrow grazes Isiloteriel's side and lands on the ground behind her. She puts a hand to her side and winces, trying not to drop her bow. When the pain somewhat subsides, she stands up straight and fires an arrow at the direction of her attacker.

 

Isiloteriel launches an arrow...

Isiloteriel's bowshot hits Linnuial, badly wounding him.

 

Fury and fear light Amarelei's eyes as her spear hits its mark in Mordral's arm, thus loosening his grip on her foot. As the uruk forces crumple back into retreat at the light of day, she frees herself and manages to scramble back to safety, running into the arms of the Heryn's guardsmen. As peril begins to subside, her eyes turn back to the riverbank, only to see Linnuial fallen not far from where she struggled with Mordral. Amarelei lurches towards him, calling as loudly as she can manage in her exhaustion. "Linnuial!"

 

Pulling the arrow out of her cloak, Arwen looks towards the east, breathing a relieved, "Ah..." as the sun starts to rise, and still she is trying to see past her guards, searching for the wounded, for the dead...

 

Turbulent water rushing at his knees, Z'macht despairs as his world slowly melts into a hazy concoction of colors. "Give a fighting retreat!" he yells, the strains of dejection thick on his voice. "The fools won't follow us, but no uruk needs an elven arrow in his back!" Slowly, Z'macht begins to wade backwards towards the southern bank of the river. The summer heat brings beads of sweat to his brow.

 

 The Morian dush, boxed beneath their shields, now issues forth. Iron hooves away sediment as the rearguard carves away the paces to the sullied shield wall of the elven elite in virile, trenchant troughs... "One last push! One last, one for the dush!" the Morian-guard cries, claming routed orcs as tributary to their swelling size.

 

Kowed beneath the day-dyke's weight, the orc-guard floods from behind their scant boulder-cover as small pool hunts out the lowest-ground to spill into. The ragged platoon answers to the gravita's of Arwen's guard, though lunacy spokes their speed, and not the zeal of valiant challenge.

 

As Linnuial lies in the dirt, he begins to stir, until a nother arrow rains down from one of the volley's thrown by the two sides. It strikes him once more in the back, also driving deep into the flesh. Any hope he had of getting up under his own power is now gone. He appears from afar to number amongst the dead.

 

The creeping daylight combined with the wound inflicted by Amarelei causes Mordral to loosen his grip, allowing her to escape his clutches. Cursing and spitting as she scrambles to safety Mordral can do nothing but retreat to the river. As he does so he stumbles, falling beneath the current, and in the confusion dropping his weapon, losing it to the depths beneath. Finally rising his head above the water level, he gains foothold and head toward the southern bank.

 

Elywien is lying on the riverbank opposite the orcs, covered in her elvish cloak...quite hard to see even in the daylight. The only thing that draws attention to her form are arrows sticking out her shoulder, side and thigh. Other bloody cuts across her chest from arrows that didn't stick, Elywien is in bad shape, but she's breathing well enough...gathering her strength.

 

With clothing torn asunder and haired frayed and messy, does Fuinmagl run across the battlefield with naught an arrow in his quiver or a bow in his hands. His face fouled by blood and dirt, his eyes glowing mad with battle-lust, and his feet carrying him swift like a raging and powerful tempest. His travels bring him across the river bank, searching for the injured with an unrelenting zeal "Raise your hands, compatriots, so that I may bring you safely!" he shouts in the midst of all this and his eyes spy Elywien, crumpled and injured, and that is where he next speeds off to.

 

As another arrow pierces deep into Linnuial's back, Amarelei squirms away from the elven guards to stumble towards the fallen Thandir, her clumsiness more from weariness than injury. She falls to her knees at his side, hands hovering helplessly above his body, the will to help far more present than the ability to do it. "Linnuial?" she whispers firmly.

 

Finally reaching the southern shore, Z'macht scowls as he casts his glance over the water. What does he see? The once-raging battle has dwindled. Fuzzy shapes peel from the north shore and make their way back across the water, growing more distinct as they do so. Many of those forms, however, suddenly slump over and fall beneath the water, into airless kingdom of Ulmo, elven arrows peppering their backs. Inky swirls of black blood, too, flow downstream.

 

"We have left our share dead and wounded," the chieftain roars. "The Demon will be proud - now we shall escape to brutalize these light lovers another day!"

 

Zoglaaz tends to his wounds, long elven shafts have rent his armor and broken his thick skin. He looks about, scanning for the leaders, particularly Z'macht, who is pushed amidst the river. "That rat-turd took on an Eagle.." he mumbles to himself, "an' that's good enough for me.." He stows his bow aside, leaving his shield upon his back as he wades into the Gladden.

 

Resistance is not easy, but the Elentiri are trained to protect their Lady. Shields raised, swords ready, they grimly await the last charge.

 

Elywien rolls to her back when she hears Fuinmagl's voice on the air. Taking a deep breath, Elywien pushes herself a sitting position, wincing as the arrows shift in her body. Raising her bow gingerly, her eyes search out any orcs that may be bearing down on her even as Fuinmagl approaches closer.

 

Mordral makes his way toward the southern bank, casting aside the corpses that float before him. The dark stained current flows across his path, bringing with it the flotsam of battle. He pays no notice to the silent parade of gore and seeks only shelter from the daylight. Reaching the shore he looks for orders and direction.

 

The orc-guard oscillates with every opposition met, and falls away ever towards the elven elite. Many are cloven from the undulating mass of orcflesh, metal, wood and thalophyte, but the platoon thunders on even as it's whittled away at either side. Their metal helms bend back the young rays of Yellow Face in an undulating canopy of Morian-metal nodules; the orcheads beam in blasphemous half-light... soon the orc-guard will break upon the elven tide-cliffs of steel and coiled-coral elven strength.

 

Linnuial fails to respond at Amarelei's urging, though his body quivers slightly, twitching as occasional sensations pierce through unconsciousness. His breathing is slight beyond perception, and blood dribbles from his many wounds and his mouth. The arrow in his leg was driven in more deeply by his falling on it, and his leg awkwardly propped up on its shaft.

 

Retreating to the southern shore, Zig casts one last look back at the force of elves. Cowed beneath the daylight he scrambles upon the dry land and squats low, glaring across the surface of the water. Mace and shield sagging at his side.

 

In leaps and bounds does he navigate the bodies of Orc and Elf that litter the shores of the Gladden and in such a manner does Fuinmagl, squire of the Galadhrim Guard, reach his destination of which is most naturally Elywien. He halts then, kneeling so that his form covers Elywien, and he speaks to the injured lady-knight, "Grab onto me, come now, swiftly! But you must get onto my back, I shall bring you to safety!" Though even if he speaks as such does he go to grab the form of Elywien and hoist her across his shoulders. "The pain will be intolerable but tolerate it, that is all I can say."

 

Z'macht casts one last glance to the blood-soaked north shore before he turns his back to the battle and begins to lope for cover. Jaunting to the south, the calls over his shoulder to all who will hear. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" The uruk chieftain covers his eyes and disappears over a nearby ridge.

 

The command of Z'macht floats through the air and to Zig's ears. Without so much as a word, he turns and saunters away to the south, shield swung to cover what he can of his head from the painful daylight sun.

 

Elywien looks at Fuinmagl, and shakes her head firmly, trying to rise on her own. Her leg buckling from the injury it acquired, Elywien reaches for Fuinmagl to use him to rise to her feet. "<Sindarin> I will leave here by my own feet, Fuinmagl. Tend to others who are in more need than me!"

 

Zoglaaz, rallying to the cry of Z'macht, pulls his blade and directs the withdrawal of the Orcs. "Back, that way... south and west maggots!" he bellows. One last glance is directed toward the Faerie Arwen...and his gaze is distant for a bit... yet his evil nature returns soon enough and he too tromps off.

 

Hearing the command of Z'macht Mordral looks for cover, heading southward he hopes to find shelter from the brightness. The wound to his arm is not severe, only a passing glance which will not hinder him in any way. It is but a throbbing reminder of his boiling hatred of the enemy, and his desire to destroy them.

 

Even the last of the storm on the Elentiri are defiantly resisted, and as they fall, some of the guards set out immediately to search the area.

 

As if waking from a dream, a nightmare, Arwen moves towards and between those who have fallen, studying the faces of the dead, tending to those who have fallen and are yet alive.

 

"<Sindarin> I will not have it!" shouts Fuinmagl over the roar of battle of which is gradually dieing out. "<Sindarin> At best sling your arm across my shoulder! Swiftly! We don't have much time! There are others to save!" The squire actually forces such, for he grabs the lady-knight's arm and drapes it across his shoulder, one arm gripping about her waist to force her a way. "<Sindarin> Amarelei! I'm am coming!" He shouts as he notices her and the fallen Linnuial and oddly enough he seems to have the urge to save them both, despite some qualms with Linnuial rather recently.

 

Slender fingers search Linnuial's neck for a pulse, though in Amarelei's frustration, the efforts are in vain. Her head whips back and forth across the blood-soaked riverbed, frantically seeking out the Heryn.

 

 As reeds of bogweeds the last orc guard is hewed, and their dark-milk oozes down the last of their stocks. Most turn in the end, to scurry back to the mines, so at least the Misties dissipate beneath their lids as their eyehoods curtain the last of their vision.

 

Elywien gasps as she is forced along by Fuinmagl, trying to assist the squire in moving forward, but her leg buckling time and time again. Still she does not dare to attempt and remove the arrow, and taking a deep breath she forces her legs to work and with Fuinmagl's aide, the two move towards Amarelei and Linnuial.

 

A certain focus remains about Amarelei as Linnuial ails. To Fuinmagl she speaks, her voice tiny and strained, threatening to break. "Fuinmagl...I do not know if I can lift him..." Her words are weak, but her wide green eyes plead with his. "Can you help? I will help Elywien..."

 

Elywien swiftly snatches the arrow from her longbow, replacing the arrow in the quiver upon her back with one hand, and setting the bow across her back with the other.

 

Elywien removes her uninjured arm from around Fuinmagl, and attempts to stand still on her own, freeing the Squire from her burden so that he may attend to Linnuial. To Amarelei do Elywien's eyes get cast, and she looks over her friend concernedly, for the moment paying no heed to her own wounds.

 

Fuinmagl says in Sindarin, "Amarelei I can lift him," says Fuinmagl even if he himself is unsure, though that matters not in the heat of battle, "yes, help me with Elywien, though I can help both if need be!" He then grabs Linnuial with a mammoth strength summoned from within to hoist his body up with but one hand, though naturally some worsening of his wounds is inflicted by such desperate means taken by Fuinmagl. "He is heavy yes...but I have him!" The form of Linnuial is then draped across his shoulder with his recently freed other arm the injured Elf supported in such a matter that there is little fear that the one this Squire helps should be dropped. "Elywien! Amarelei! Grab onto me! I shall support all three of you if ever there is a need for your assistance! Onward!"

 

 

Amarelei musters a weak smile for Elywien. "No more than a few scratches and bruises, Elywien. Nothing of consequence." As Fuinmagl steps away from Elywien, Amarelei rises to stand on her other side, now helping to bear the injured Knight-bachelor's weight. "We are fine, Fuinmagl. Just get him camp.... please." Her last word is barely whispered. She takes a slow, deliberate step forward, ready to adjust to whatever gait is most comfortable for Elywien.

 

Linnuial's right hand, which still gripped his bow, now releases it, and Brantoril falls to the ground. Fortunately, his quiver remains upright and does not spill. Linnuial makes a soft sound of pain, and blood still drips from his mouth. The arrows in his back stick up like flagpoles as he is draped across Fuinmagl's shoulder.

 

Elywien takes a step forward, then another before her leg gives, and stumbling Elywien reaches forward to latch onto Amarelei, a soft whimper from her lips as the arrows still in her body are further aggravated. But once supported by the other elleth, Elywien seems capable of a more or less decent pace.

 

Amarelei pauses to scoop up Linnuial's bow, supporting Elywien as best as she can as she stoops for a moment. A few tears of exhaustion slide down her mud-splashed face, mingling with the river water soaking the elleth from head to toe. Her limp is now more pronounced as she continues on behind Fuinmagl, but she chews on her lower lip to mask the pain with strength.

 

The pace of Elywien is matched by Fuinmagl though not in need, even if the weight upon his shoulders is great, but for the general support of Elywien if she or Amarelei should falter. The path back to safety is a gruesome one, the smell of blood and gore filling the air with the noxious fumes of death. The entrails of Elves and Orcs do litter the scene, dirtying the boots and pants of all that may tread along this field of death. The mud, the mud, the mud is slick and wet...and oftentimes does Fuinmagl himself slip only to steady himself as he navigates the path back to camp. "We draw near! Just a bit more!" The squire speaks not a lie, for but a moment or three later then do indeed reach sanctuary in the waiting arms of the battle-worn campsite of which is now nothing more but a field hospital of which is littered by the withering bodies of the injured and dying.