Elendor
Stag's wolf hunt
Coenred's Stag patrol (of Rohan) smoke out some wolves
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Gap of Rohan
Game Date: 6 of June in the year 3046
IC Time: Dawn
Description: Old South Road - Gap of Rohan
The wide expanse of the Old South Road runs through the Gap of Rohan toward the land of the Dunlendings. The White Mountains rise up to the south, and the towering peaks of the southern end of the Misty Mountains rise up to the north and northeast. Between the two ranges is the Gap of Rohan: a land of lush green, rolling hills and rivers.
The road runs eastward into Rohan and westward toward Dunland and the north.
Obvious exits:
West leads to Old South Road - Gap of Rohan.
East leads to Intersection of Great West Road and Old South Road.
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Dunland Time and Weather Forecast
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Real Time is: Sat Mar 14 15:23:43 2009
IC weather is: Wind: breeze - Clouds: moderate
IC Moon is: Not visible
IC time is: Before Dawn
IC date is: Monday, Day 6 of June in the year 3046.
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[Coenred(#30388)] The sun is about to rise beyond the river Isen on this lush summer day. A gentle morning breeze is blowing across the plains of the Gap of Rohan, early birds chirp in the yet cool air and there is some other, artificial sound. The sound of hoofbeat and iron is coming from the east as well as a number of mounted men make their way along the road. Clearly their dark silhouettes are visible against the purple morning sky.
The gentle wind stirs the grasses, sending waves rippling across the sea of grey-green and rustling at the bushes.
The wind is not the only thing that parts the green stems, however. In the shelter of a patch of brush atop one of the ranks of rolling hills there is movement of another kind, as a swarthy hand pushes grasses aside. The watcher, a young and leather-clad, stares toward the paling eastern sky, and mutters a single word in harsh Dunael, one with the ring of an oath to it. Barely more than a murmur, loud enough only to be heard by his three companions.
[Coenred(#30388)] Neither sight nor sound betray the Dunlendings to the approaching riders. Suddenly one of them nudges his horse into a gallop to sprint ahead of the group. As he flies past the hidden men in the shrubs, long blond hair flutters below the helmet's rim over a cloak of green. No foubt, these horsefolk have come from across the river, from Rohan.
At the sight of blond hair, one of the men crouched in the brush atop the hill stirs a little, raising the tip of the spear laid at his side, so that it catches the red of the rising sun for an instant. Just an instant.
The lead watcher, the young man with dark curls straying from beneath his leathern helm is swift to react. Amber eyes fix his companion in a glare, and with his right hand he makes a short, sharp gesture in the negative. 'No. Wait.' He turns back to watch the progress of those below, marking their number and the arms they bear, and as the dawn breeze stirs the curls resting on his forehead, sweat glistens there.
[Coenred(#30388)] Right now the sun flashes across the horizon, revealing more details of the riders. They are clad in mail and leather, spears and long blades and the occasional bow can be seen. Next to one older man with a silver bandolier across his cloak, a herald is riding with a white banner at his spearhead. And look, much like the well-known Dunlending clan, their symbol is a stag!
The movement of the Dunlending spear has seemingly gone unnoticed, and the fellow who holds it lets out a sigh. "No attack?"
The young man with the dark curls is tugging a piece of folded leather and cord from his belt, looping that cord round his fingers as his other hand draws something from his belt pouch. His own spear lies untouched on the ground at his side. He shakes his head first, then risks a quick burst of hissed speech. "I mislike those odds. We watch - and we follow. In ones or twos, we might pick them off." He grins, and mimes thrusting a spear.
[Coenred(#30388)] While the riders approach them, they speak to each other in the rolling and earthy language of the Mark. "Theodred Prince's men are being gathered in Helm's Deep," says the one with the bandolier to his standard bearer. "But I doubt that they will be needed. Our eored should suffice for now." The other nods silently.
At the sound of the rolling speech the grin fades from the young man's lips, and the sweat starts anew from his brow. Yet whatever is said has the measured cadence of speech and not the rapid bark of orders. One hand raises briefly to his lips, gesturing silence. Then he is still, trusting in his fellows to do likewise. Will they pass? Or will some sixth sense turn them aside, toward that patch of brush?
[Coenred(#30388)] And indeed the group of horsemen slows down before they reach the brush. The horses seem to be uneasy and it takes the riders some soothing words to convince their mounts of continuing their pace. But whatever conversation was going on before has now ceased and bright eyes skim the surroundings. Slowly one or two riders lower their spears.
The leader raises his hand to make them halt and so the patrol stands still, only the horses snort and shake their heads, stomp their feet.
[<#32426>] Jatvig says in Dunael, "What? I don't think we should even think about taking down the Forgoils right now. They're too great in number, and we're only three men."
One of the companions speaks up in a hushed tone, having been silent for the last few minutes. Lines of worry are etched on this man's features, and he glances backwards in a westerly direction from whence they came, as if to see whether a group of reinforcements might be on their way by some unlikely chance. The raven-haired youth crouches backward upon seeing the Rohirric horsemen halt, and he says nothing more remaining frozen on the spot.
"
The young man with the dark curls dips his head imperceptily in a nod in response to his companion's words. Any response of his own is curtailed by the actions of the Rohirrim.
And then it comes. Not from the small hill topped with brush, but from further away, back in the foothills. A sound that echoes across the plains, low and mournful - a wolf's howl. A blink of amber eyes is the young Dunlending's only reaction, for his gaze is still fixed on the patrol leader.
[Coenred(#30388)] Wolfs! Could that have distracted the horses? The archers among the riders ready their bows, but the general mood seems to be lifted. Wolfs, a nuisance, but no danger. The older rider signals his men to continue, and so they ride on - albeit in a slow trot.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
The raven-haired lad's response to the wolf howl is akin to his companion's reaction he seems for the most part undistracted by the sound. A few seconds later, though, he casts a cautious glance backward, then to his left, and finally to his right, again as if on the look-out for some unseen entity that might be approaching them. Leaning towards the leader of the small trio, the young man whispers something in his native tongue.
[<#32426>] Jatvig +whispers to you, " Should we let 'em go, and report back to Carac? That'd be the best thing to do, I think."
[Coenred(#30388)] As the call is answered from the hilltop though, the riders speed up their pace and one of them aims his arrow at the thicket while easily riding on. It seems like these men and their movements are one with the beasts they sit atop.
The young Dunlending with the dark curls watches, letting out a breath he had been unaware of holding. When he judges that the riders are far enough away, he responds to his companion's whispered speech with a hissed discourse of his own. "Aye, but ... They're ahorse and we're on foot." He falls silent until the riders speed their pace, then continues, decisive now, "Split up. Maybe we can lead them a dance, keep them away from Carac. Kiern knows I've no chance of taming one of those wretched horses." His mouth twists wryly at that. "But these are just men." Just men, clad in metal and riding fearsome beasts.
He inches away from the crest of the hill, switching to a crouched run when he judges he is out of Forgoil view. He takes up a new station part-way downslope, at a place where that expanse of rolling green is broken by a rocky outcrop, then cups his hands to his mouth and lets out a passable imitation of the earlier howl.
[<#32426>] Jatvig says in Dunael, "%R The young man, while exchanging hushed words with the older companion, had kept his gaze focused upon the horsemen now riding off and away from the small group. The arrow aimed in a direction unlike the other horsemen's causes the young man to stir slightly, sending the leaves among the thickets to rustle somewhat unnaturally. "Alright. Watch out - they might've spotted us," he speaks up once more, this time in a much more cautious tone. Inching to the side, he then begins to crouch back to a more dense region of the thickets.
[Coenred(#30388)] "Strange wolves are these," mutters a stout rider and points his lance into the direction of the latest howl. "They sound hungry in the midst of summer! They follow us!" And their leader frowns mightily. His arm is extended to the hillslope and the riders turn like a swarm of birds. Metal scratches as swords are drawn.
The raven-haired youth's warning comes too late. The burst of speech followed by the scrape of metal is proof enough of that. The Dunlending with the dark curls scowls, and moves on, trusting to his companions to have done likewise. He stares mistrustfully down at the sea of waving green that would offer easy passage to any rider, and keeps instead to the hill-slope, always the broken ground.
The fourth Dunlending, this one cradling an axe, follows Jatvig's example, though in a different direction. The older Dunlending, the fellow with the spear, lets out a huff of breath as he finds himself - quite suddenly - alone.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Eyes still watchful of the Forgoil, who now seem to have changed direction and are headed toward the spying group upon the hill. Casting a brief glance towards the newly approaching companion wielding an axe, the black-haired youth motions for him to follow, before turning his back to the other man and scurrying off in a direction opposite the horsemen. Again, the shrubs and leaves emit a slight rustling sound from the movement.
[Coenred(#30388)] "Aha," comes the shout of one rider as the form of a human being can be seen rushing across the slope. A bowstring sings and an arrows comes whistling towards the fellow with the axe. The group of riders forms a square now as they ride uphill.
A moving target is a hard one to hit. The arrow slips past its mark, bringing a grunt as the axe-wielder tries to drop down further while keeping moving in a zig-zag fashion.
But then once again the wolf's cry comes from round the hill slope, this time further away, where the young dark-curled Dunlending has continued moving at a crouched lope, his spear cradled in his arm and the cord still twined in his right hand. One against twenty - few would start a fight at such odds. But there is little choice, if he wishes to draw the unwelcome attention away. Perhaps the Forgoil may think it reinforcements. And if not ... let them have their wolf-hunt.
[Coenred(#30388)] The hunt is on! All of a sudden, the riders break their formation to form a wide crescent so as to trap one of the wolves between them. "In the name of Theoden King, I bid you stand!" The leader calls out in the Common Tongue, even though this might be futile.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
The sound of the whizzing arrow has not gone unnoticed by the black-haired youth, who now runs several yards ahead of his axe-wielding companion. He dares not glance backward to see the outcome of this sudden attack he carries on for another good long moments, before reaching up and behind his shoulder to reach for a bow which had been strapped to his back all this time. Another hand reaching to retrieve an arrow from its container, and he crouches downward, closer to the ground. Brushing aside a vine blocking his view of the encircling Rohirrim, Jatvig remains silent, even at the calling of the horsemen's leader. Pulling at the bowstring, the young man affixes the arrow between two fingers and attempts to steady his aim.
But wolves do not know the name of Theoden King. The rising sun is blood-red, and casts wavering shadows across the landscape of grasses and scrub, rock and plain. They fall also on a weaving blot of greyish dun, melting in and out of the shadows as it attempts to cover ground. Away, always, from that hilltop where others may yet escape the net.
[Coenred(#30388)] Slowly the horsemen make their way towards the hilltop, eagerly skimming the brush and vines for any sign of human life. And soon the outer left flank comes close to Jatwig, who remains still unnoticed by the riders. Even now a tall young man on a chestnut mare rides past him.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Another rustle, this time from the slight bending of the bow as its string is pulled back even further Jatvig's hold on the bottom of the arrow still locked tightly between his fingers. Perhaps somewhat prematurely, the Dunlending archer then releases the wooden shaft, letting the arrow fly in the air with an aim for the horsemen's leader. He then ducks even closer to the earth, and begins crouching his way backward, but only a few inches.
The 'wolf' turns and then straightens, realizing too late that the bait offered has not been enough. It has not been taken.
And then comes opportunity: a single rider silhouetted against the side of the hill. Still the Dunlending holds that twined cord round his fingers now, for a moment his spear is rested slantwise in a cleft in the rock as he draws back his arm and casts a stone from the sling in a single fluid motion. As the spear is retrieved, words carry on the wind, words of Dunael sounding very much like barked orders.
[Coenred(#30388)] The slingshot hits its mark! Crashing into the rider's cheek, the stone knocks the man off his horse. But as soon as unlucky Brodhelm hits the ground, a new arrow comes flying across his lone horse, right at Jatwig's position!
[Coenred(#30388)] The Dunlending arrow meanwhile hits the ground just in front of Coenred's mount. Coifi squeals and stalls at once, forcing Coenred to stand in the stirrups. "There! There is another one," he calls and points at where the missile came from.
The arrow finds its mark - in a sense, for as the young Dunlending with the dark curls, Brev, straightens with spear in hand it catches in the folds of his dun cloak. It is ignored as he seeks for a new target - which means returning to the hilltop he had so recently forsaken in the false hope of drawing the horsemen away. The chestnut horse, oddly, is not targeted, though his lope takes him back toward it.
And what of the other Dunlendings? The fellow with the axe has continued his zig-zag running, whether or not he is about to be ridden down. The one with the spear remains, very sensibly, hid.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Jatvig immediately pushes himself back onto his knees, and seems about ready to begin running off to avoid pursuit by the Rohirrim, but not without reaching for another arrow. In mere seconds, the wooden missile is adjusted between his fingers, and the creaking sound is heard once again as he pulls on the string. Suddenly, the arrow is released, this time aiming closer to Rohirric leader's head. Clutching onto the bow with one hand now, Jatvig wastes no time in waiting to see whether the attack succeeds or not. Instead, he crouches forward, even closer to the bewildered horse. A few seconds of silence from within the thickets before the young man leaps out, his arms outstretched in a scarecrow fashion as he utters a fierce battlecry, intending to scare the horse.
[Coenred(#30388)] His battlecry is echoed by both horse and man, and another answer comes in form of a nine foot long spear that is now driven towards Jatvig as Coenred regains control of his steed, even as the arrow hisses past his head. The other riders continue their way to the hilltop, safe for one who has dismounted to aid his unconscious companion further downhill.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Jatvig is quick to dodge the oncoming spear, at the same time ducking and sidestepping away from its point and closer to the horse. The young man attempts to grab hold of the steed, leaping upward in an attempt to half-mount the horse from the side. In doing this, however, he risks having the spear rammed towards him. His bow has been dropped and abandoned on the ground by now.
[Faestred(#31903)]
A tall stallion, long-limbed and silver-dappled is among those pushing further up the hill. The horse gains clearance of the underbrush just in time for his rider - helmed and shielded with spear hefted at the ready - to mark the Dunlending retreating towards the hilltop. Without urging, the stallion gathers himself and bounds up the hill, charging towards the withdrawing Brev with alarming speed for the grade of the slope.
The young man with the dark curls, Brev, is already headed toward the most obvious target, the Rohirric leader, when a horse and rider charge him, seemingly out of nowhere. The sound of thundering hooves gives the Dunlending just enough time to twist aside, and his own spear is brought up reflexively to stab toward horse flank or rider flank, whichever presents itself.
Without looking round - who, after all, would take their eyes off an opponent? - he tosses off toward Coenred in sing-song Westron. "Best run while you can, Strawheads. My men outnumber you." Spoken with utter confidence - or else utter bravado. And then, in the same breath, a burst of guttural Dunael that is presumably for Jatvig. "Run, for Kiern's sake! Grab one of their damn beasts and run. No sense all of us going down with them."
[Coenred(#30388)] As the Dunlending archer tries to get a hold of his mount, Coenred kicks deftly at Jatvig and drives his horse in a circle to shake off the attacker. "I see no men, just bandits who hide themselves away," he calls back to Brev.
[Faestred(#31903)]
The grey has his own reflexes, and any war-horse knows to keep an eye on the keen point of a spear. He ducks to the side - a move for which his rider seems prepared, for it does not unsettle the flaxen-haired man. Yet the terrain here is not what this charger of the East is accustomed to, and he slips on the steep grade, Brev's spear skimming his haunch and coming off with a tuft of grey fur.
As soon as his mount recovers his footing, however, this Rider wastes no time in swinging his spear back in a sweep to try and toss the Dunlending to the ground.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Coenred's boot collides with Jatvig's side, knocking the wind right out of the archer. He eventually loses his grip on the steed, both from the sharp pain and the unsteadiness of the horse, with it going in circles and all. Falling down to the grassy earth with an audible thud, Jatvig lies on the ground for a few moments, before attempting to push himself back up to his two feet with noticeable difficulty.
The dark-curled Dunlending, Brev, forces a chuckle. "Ah, but how many do you see? And how many do you not?" The Westron words are presumably aimed again at Coenred, though he does not turn his wary head from scrutiny of the silver-dappled stallion and his rider. Just as well ...
A sweep is less easy to dodge than a stab. Quick reflexes or no, the spear-tip slides across the young Dunlending's side. The cut may be absorbed mainly by cloak and leather, but there is enough force to make him stagger. The stagger is turned into a lunge, though, as he stabs the spear overhand toward the rider's leg.
Somewhere out there, at least one riderless horse must remain somewhere, also, over a dozen more Riders. He does not look. "Run," he snaps out again.
[Coenred(#30388)] As Jatvig falls to the ground, Coenred forces his horse to stall and then makes the large steed trample upon the unlucky Dunlending. "Set fire to the brush," he calls out to his men. "We shall smoke the wolves out"!" One rider near the hilltop dismounts quickly to nestle with a flintstone and his knife. And soon, there are sparks flying onto dry grass.
[Faestred(#31903)]
The breath's moment in which Brev's stagger turns into a lunge is only just enough time for the Rider to urge his horse forward, yet the spear tip still finds a mark, grazing the man's leg and puckering into the thick leather of the saddle, now edged with a trail of the Rohir's blood. He brings his own spear around not to strike at the Dunlending, but rather to brace Brev's spear as he wheels his horse about. The steed's speed and strength against the unbalanced Dunlending may just be enough to tear the spear from Brev's hands, and that seems very much to be the intention.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Jatvig seems as if he may escape at first, succeeding at regaining his balance on his two feet. This feat is short-lived, though, and Coenred's steed comes at him too fast for the man to dodge he merely outstretches his arms infront of his face, as an instinctive reaction. He lets out of a blood-curdling cry upon the sight of this unavoidable death, and is knocked back down to the ground with one blow from the horse's hooves. The unfortunate Dunlending man's cries are muted shortly after, having been violently trampled by the Rohirrim's steed.
Brev, who appears to have an athlete's swiftness rather than great strength, is dragged by the motion, but maintains his grip on the spear. Eventually his twisting and tugging pays off and the spear is yanked free, sending him flying backward and downslope in a roll. The hard-won spear is not relinquished.
Coenred's stream of Rohirric is not heard, let alone understood, but the cry from Jatvig is, for it is echoed by a single word with the cadence of a curse.
[Faestred(#31903)]
Even as Brev tumbles down the hill, the grey stallion bounds after him, his Rider again hefting his spear. Both man and horse seem intent upon finishing this: the stallion's ears pricked and the Rohir's gaze locked upon the Dunlending, raising his spear as though to drive it finally through the betumbled Brev. Rocks and dirt are sent flying loose by the stallion's charge, his hooves thundering on the earth.
Yet fate seems with Brev today, for a wind gusts, and the very fire meant to entrap the 'bandits' is swept up, igniting the grass between the Dunlending and the oncoming rider. The stallion suddenly sits on his haunches, straining to stop before he goes headlong into the flames, his rider having to lower his spear to brace himself. The stallion trumpets in frustration, rears and strikes at the air, but there is no passage now and safe ground is diminishing fast as the fire licks up the grass and brush.
[Coenred(#30388)] "Retreat! Leave them to the smoke!" Coenred orders his men to leave the hill and as slow as they were ascending, as fast can the Stag Patrol be seen riding downhill, away from the flames. Only Brodhelm is hanging limply across his horse's back, whether life will return to his maltreated head cannot yet be determined.
The Dunlending is perhaps dazed by his fall, for when he comes up from the roll he ramains at a crouch, not even attempting to turn and strike at his foe. When the wall of flame rises up he stares into it. Slowly, deliberately, he spits into the flames. Then instinct takes over and he is fleeing the fire in a crouched run, bent over and with a hand to his side. His path takes him not west, where Dunland lies, but north, toward the mountains.
[Faestred(#31903)]
As the Aethelwigend's orders ring out, the grey and his rider waste not what time they have to spare themselves of the fire. Turning, the horse still tossing his head unhappily, the pair pick up a brisk canter and wend a path around the flames to rejoin the rest of Coenred's men in their retreat.
The wide expanse of the Old South Road runs through the Gap of Rohan toward the land of the Dunlendings. The White Mountains rise up to the south, and the towering peaks of the southern end of the Misty Mountains rise up to the north and northeast. Between the two ranges is the Gap of Rohan: a land of lush green, rolling hills and rivers.
The road runs eastward into Rohan and westward toward Dunland and the north.
Obvious exits:
West leads to Old South Road - Gap of Rohan.
East leads to Intersection of Great West Road and Old South Road.
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Dunland Time and Weather Forecast
===============================================================================
Real Time is: Sat Mar 14 15:23:43 2009
IC weather is: Wind: breeze - Clouds: moderate
IC Moon is: Not visible
IC time is: Before Dawn
IC date is: Monday, Day 6 of June in the year 3046.
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[Coenred(#30388)] The sun is about to rise beyond the river Isen on this lush summer day. A gentle morning breeze is blowing across the plains of the Gap of Rohan, early birds chirp in the yet cool air and there is some other, artificial sound. The sound of hoofbeat and iron is coming from the east as well as a number of mounted men make their way along the road. Clearly their dark silhouettes are visible against the purple morning sky.
The gentle wind stirs the grasses, sending waves rippling across the sea of grey-green and rustling at the bushes.
The wind is not the only thing that parts the green stems, however. In the shelter of a patch of brush atop one of the ranks of rolling hills there is movement of another kind, as a swarthy hand pushes grasses aside. The watcher, a young and leather-clad, stares toward the paling eastern sky, and mutters a single word in harsh Dunael, one with the ring of an oath to it. Barely more than a murmur, loud enough only to be heard by his three companions.
[Coenred(#30388)] Neither sight nor sound betray the Dunlendings to the approaching riders. Suddenly one of them nudges his horse into a gallop to sprint ahead of the group. As he flies past the hidden men in the shrubs, long blond hair flutters below the helmet's rim over a cloak of green. No foubt, these horsefolk have come from across the river, from Rohan.
At the sight of blond hair, one of the men crouched in the brush atop the hill stirs a little, raising the tip of the spear laid at his side, so that it catches the red of the rising sun for an instant. Just an instant.
The lead watcher, the young man with dark curls straying from beneath his leathern helm is swift to react. Amber eyes fix his companion in a glare, and with his right hand he makes a short, sharp gesture in the negative. 'No. Wait.' He turns back to watch the progress of those below, marking their number and the arms they bear, and as the dawn breeze stirs the curls resting on his forehead, sweat glistens there.
[Coenred(#30388)] Right now the sun flashes across the horizon, revealing more details of the riders. They are clad in mail and leather, spears and long blades and the occasional bow can be seen. Next to one older man with a silver bandolier across his cloak, a herald is riding with a white banner at his spearhead. And look, much like the well-known Dunlending clan, their symbol is a stag!
The movement of the Dunlending spear has seemingly gone unnoticed, and the fellow who holds it lets out a sigh. "
The young man with the dark curls is tugging a piece of folded leather and cord from his belt, looping that cord round his fingers as his other hand draws something from his belt pouch. His own spear lies untouched on the ground at his side. He shakes his head first, then risks a quick burst of hissed speech. "
[Coenred(#30388)] While the riders approach them, they speak to each other in the rolling and earthy language of the Mark. "
At the sound of the rolling speech the grin fades from the young man's lips, and the sweat starts anew from his brow. Yet whatever is said has the measured cadence of speech and not the rapid bark of orders. One hand raises briefly to his lips, gesturing silence. Then he is still, trusting in his fellows to do likewise. Will they pass? Or will some sixth sense turn them aside, toward that patch of brush?
[Coenred(#30388)] And indeed the group of horsemen slows down before they reach the brush. The horses seem to be uneasy and it takes the riders some soothing words to convince their mounts of continuing their pace. But whatever conversation was going on before has now ceased and bright eyes skim the surroundings. Slowly one or two riders lower their spears.
The leader raises his hand to make them halt and so the patrol stands still, only the horses snort and shake their heads, stomp their feet.
[<#32426>] Jatvig says in Dunael, "What? I don't think we should even think about taking down the Forgoils right now. They're too great in number, and we're only three men."
One of the companions speaks up in a hushed tone, having been silent for the last few minutes. Lines of worry are etched on this man's features, and he glances backwards in a westerly direction from whence they came, as if to see whether a group of reinforcements might be on their way by some unlikely chance. The raven-haired youth crouches backward upon seeing the Rohirric horsemen halt, and he says nothing more remaining frozen on the spot.
"
The young man with the dark curls dips his head imperceptily in a nod in response to his companion's words. Any response of his own is curtailed by the actions of the Rohirrim.
And then it comes. Not from the small hill topped with brush, but from further away, back in the foothills. A sound that echoes across the plains, low and mournful - a wolf's howl. A blink of amber eyes is the young Dunlending's only reaction, for his gaze is still fixed on the patrol leader.
[Coenred(#30388)] Wolfs! Could that have distracted the horses? The archers among the riders ready their bows, but the general mood seems to be lifted. Wolfs, a nuisance, but no danger. The older rider signals his men to continue, and so they ride on - albeit in a slow trot.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
The raven-haired lad's response to the wolf howl is akin to his companion's reaction he seems for the most part undistracted by the sound. A few seconds later, though, he casts a cautious glance backward, then to his left, and finally to his right, again as if on the look-out for some unseen entity that might be approaching them. Leaning towards the leader of the small trio, the young man whispers something in his native tongue.
[<#32426>] Jatvig +whispers to you, "
[Coenred(#30388)] As the call is answered from the hilltop though, the riders speed up their pace and one of them aims his arrow at the thicket while easily riding on. It seems like these men and their movements are one with the beasts they sit atop.
The young Dunlending with the dark curls watches, letting out a breath he had been unaware of holding. When he judges that the riders are far enough away, he responds to his companion's whispered speech with a hissed discourse of his own. "
He inches away from the crest of the hill, switching to a crouched run when he judges he is out of Forgoil view. He takes up a new station part-way downslope, at a place where that expanse of rolling green is broken by a rocky outcrop, then cups his hands to his mouth and lets out a passable imitation of the earlier howl.
[<#32426>] Jatvig says in Dunael, "%R The young man, while exchanging hushed words with the older companion, had kept his gaze focused upon the horsemen now riding off and away from the small group. The arrow aimed in a direction unlike the other horsemen's causes the young man to stir slightly, sending the leaves among the thickets to rustle somewhat unnaturally. "Alright. Watch out - they might've spotted us," he speaks up once more, this time in a much more cautious tone. Inching to the side, he then begins to crouch back to a more dense region of the thickets.
[Coenred(#30388)] "
The raven-haired youth's warning comes too late. The burst of speech followed by the scrape of metal is proof enough of that. The Dunlending with the dark curls scowls, and moves on, trusting to his companions to have done likewise. He stares mistrustfully down at the sea of waving green that would offer easy passage to any rider, and keeps instead to the hill-slope, always the broken ground.
The fourth Dunlending, this one cradling an axe, follows Jatvig's example, though in a different direction. The older Dunlending, the fellow with the spear, lets out a huff of breath as he finds himself - quite suddenly - alone.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Eyes still watchful of the Forgoil, who now seem to have changed direction and are headed toward the spying group upon the hill. Casting a brief glance towards the newly approaching companion wielding an axe, the black-haired youth motions for him to follow, before turning his back to the other man and scurrying off in a direction opposite the horsemen. Again, the shrubs and leaves emit a slight rustling sound from the movement.
[Coenred(#30388)] "Aha," comes the shout of one rider as the form of a human being can be seen rushing across the slope. A bowstring sings and an arrows comes whistling towards the fellow with the axe. The group of riders forms a square now as they ride uphill.
A moving target is a hard one to hit. The arrow slips past its mark, bringing a grunt as the axe-wielder tries to drop down further while keeping moving in a zig-zag fashion.
But then once again the wolf's cry comes from round the hill slope, this time further away, where the young dark-curled Dunlending has continued moving at a crouched lope, his spear cradled in his arm and the cord still twined in his right hand. One against twenty - few would start a fight at such odds. But there is little choice, if he wishes to draw the unwelcome attention away. Perhaps the Forgoil may think it reinforcements. And if not ... let them have their wolf-hunt.
[Coenred(#30388)] The hunt is on! All of a sudden, the riders break their formation to form a wide crescent so as to trap one of the wolves between them. "In the name of Theoden King, I bid you stand!" The leader calls out in the Common Tongue, even though this might be futile.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
The sound of the whizzing arrow has not gone unnoticed by the black-haired youth, who now runs several yards ahead of his axe-wielding companion. He dares not glance backward to see the outcome of this sudden attack he carries on for another good long moments, before reaching up and behind his shoulder to reach for a bow which had been strapped to his back all this time. Another hand reaching to retrieve an arrow from its container, and he crouches downward, closer to the ground. Brushing aside a vine blocking his view of the encircling Rohirrim, Jatvig remains silent, even at the calling of the horsemen's leader. Pulling at the bowstring, the young man affixes the arrow between two fingers and attempts to steady his aim.
But wolves do not know the name of Theoden King. The rising sun is blood-red, and casts wavering shadows across the landscape of grasses and scrub, rock and plain. They fall also on a weaving blot of greyish dun, melting in and out of the shadows as it attempts to cover ground. Away, always, from that hilltop where others may yet escape the net.
[Coenred(#30388)] Slowly the horsemen make their way towards the hilltop, eagerly skimming the brush and vines for any sign of human life. And soon the outer left flank comes close to Jatwig, who remains still unnoticed by the riders. Even now a tall young man on a chestnut mare rides past him.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Another rustle, this time from the slight bending of the bow as its string is pulled back even further Jatvig's hold on the bottom of the arrow still locked tightly between his fingers. Perhaps somewhat prematurely, the Dunlending archer then releases the wooden shaft, letting the arrow fly in the air with an aim for the horsemen's leader. He then ducks even closer to the earth, and begins crouching his way backward, but only a few inches.
The 'wolf' turns and then straightens, realizing too late that the bait offered has not been enough. It has not been taken.
And then comes opportunity: a single rider silhouetted against the side of the hill. Still the Dunlending holds that twined cord round his fingers now, for a moment his spear is rested slantwise in a cleft in the rock as he draws back his arm and casts a stone from the sling in a single fluid motion. As the spear is retrieved, words carry on the wind, words of Dunael sounding very much like barked orders.
[Coenred(#30388)] The slingshot hits its mark! Crashing into the rider's cheek, the stone knocks the man off his horse. But as soon as unlucky Brodhelm hits the ground, a new arrow comes flying across his lone horse, right at Jatwig's position!
[Coenred(#30388)] The Dunlending arrow meanwhile hits the ground just in front of Coenred's mount. Coifi squeals and stalls at once, forcing Coenred to stand in the stirrups. "
The arrow finds its mark - in a sense, for as the young Dunlending with the dark curls, Brev, straightens with spear in hand it catches in the folds of his dun cloak. It is ignored as he seeks for a new target - which means returning to the hilltop he had so recently forsaken in the false hope of drawing the horsemen away. The chestnut horse, oddly, is not targeted, though his lope takes him back toward it.
And what of the other Dunlendings? The fellow with the axe has continued his zig-zag running, whether or not he is about to be ridden down. The one with the spear remains, very sensibly, hid.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Jatvig immediately pushes himself back onto his knees, and seems about ready to begin running off to avoid pursuit by the Rohirrim, but not without reaching for another arrow. In mere seconds, the wooden missile is adjusted between his fingers, and the creaking sound is heard once again as he pulls on the string. Suddenly, the arrow is released, this time aiming closer to Rohirric leader's head. Clutching onto the bow with one hand now, Jatvig wastes no time in waiting to see whether the attack succeeds or not. Instead, he crouches forward, even closer to the bewildered horse. A few seconds of silence from within the thickets before the young man leaps out, his arms outstretched in a scarecrow fashion as he utters a fierce battlecry, intending to scare the horse.
[Coenred(#30388)] His battlecry is echoed by both horse and man, and another answer comes in form of a nine foot long spear that is now driven towards Jatvig as Coenred regains control of his steed, even as the arrow hisses past his head. The other riders continue their way to the hilltop, safe for one who has dismounted to aid his unconscious companion further downhill.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Jatvig is quick to dodge the oncoming spear, at the same time ducking and sidestepping away from its point and closer to the horse. The young man attempts to grab hold of the steed, leaping upward in an attempt to half-mount the horse from the side. In doing this, however, he risks having the spear rammed towards him. His bow has been dropped and abandoned on the ground by now.
[Faestred(#31903)]
A tall stallion, long-limbed and silver-dappled is among those pushing further up the hill. The horse gains clearance of the underbrush just in time for his rider - helmed and shielded with spear hefted at the ready - to mark the Dunlending retreating towards the hilltop. Without urging, the stallion gathers himself and bounds up the hill, charging towards the withdrawing Brev with alarming speed for the grade of the slope.
The young man with the dark curls, Brev, is already headed toward the most obvious target, the Rohirric leader, when a horse and rider charge him, seemingly out of nowhere. The sound of thundering hooves gives the Dunlending just enough time to twist aside, and his own spear is brought up reflexively to stab toward horse flank or rider flank, whichever presents itself.
Without looking round - who, after all, would take their eyes off an opponent? - he tosses off toward Coenred in sing-song Westron. "Best run while you can, Strawheads. My men outnumber you." Spoken with utter confidence - or else utter bravado. And then, in the same breath, a burst of guttural Dunael that is presumably for Jatvig. "
[Coenred(#30388)] As the Dunlending archer tries to get a hold of his mount, Coenred kicks deftly at Jatvig and drives his horse in a circle to shake off the attacker. "I see no men, just bandits who hide themselves away," he calls back to Brev.
[Faestred(#31903)]
The grey has his own reflexes, and any war-horse knows to keep an eye on the keen point of a spear. He ducks to the side - a move for which his rider seems prepared, for it does not unsettle the flaxen-haired man. Yet the terrain here is not what this charger of the East is accustomed to, and he slips on the steep grade, Brev's spear skimming his haunch and coming off with a tuft of grey fur.
As soon as his mount recovers his footing, however, this Rider wastes no time in swinging his spear back in a sweep to try and toss the Dunlending to the ground.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Coenred's boot collides with Jatvig's side, knocking the wind right out of the archer. He eventually loses his grip on the steed, both from the sharp pain and the unsteadiness of the horse, with it going in circles and all. Falling down to the grassy earth with an audible thud, Jatvig lies on the ground for a few moments, before attempting to push himself back up to his two feet with noticeable difficulty.
The dark-curled Dunlending, Brev, forces a chuckle. "Ah, but how many do you see? And how many do you not?" The Westron words are presumably aimed again at Coenred, though he does not turn his wary head from scrutiny of the silver-dappled stallion and his rider. Just as well ...
A sweep is less easy to dodge than a stab. Quick reflexes or no, the spear-tip slides across the young Dunlending's side. The cut may be absorbed mainly by cloak and leather, but there is enough force to make him stagger. The stagger is turned into a lunge, though, as he stabs the spear overhand toward the rider's leg.
Somewhere out there, at least one riderless horse must remain somewhere, also, over a dozen more Riders. He does not look. "
[Coenred(#30388)] As Jatvig falls to the ground, Coenred forces his horse to stall and then makes the large steed trample upon the unlucky Dunlending. "
[Faestred(#31903)]
The breath's moment in which Brev's stagger turns into a lunge is only just enough time for the Rider to urge his horse forward, yet the spear tip still finds a mark, grazing the man's leg and puckering into the thick leather of the saddle, now edged with a trail of the Rohir's blood. He brings his own spear around not to strike at the Dunlending, but rather to brace Brev's spear as he wheels his horse about. The steed's speed and strength against the unbalanced Dunlending may just be enough to tear the spear from Brev's hands, and that seems very much to be the intention.
[Jatvig(#32426)]
Jatvig seems as if he may escape at first, succeeding at regaining his balance on his two feet. This feat is short-lived, though, and Coenred's steed comes at him too fast for the man to dodge he merely outstretches his arms infront of his face, as an instinctive reaction. He lets out of a blood-curdling cry upon the sight of this unavoidable death, and is knocked back down to the ground with one blow from the horse's hooves. The unfortunate Dunlending man's cries are muted shortly after, having been violently trampled by the Rohirrim's steed.
Brev, who appears to have an athlete's swiftness rather than great strength, is dragged by the motion, but maintains his grip on the spear. Eventually his twisting and tugging pays off and the spear is yanked free, sending him flying backward and downslope in a roll. The hard-won spear is not relinquished.
Coenred's stream of Rohirric is not heard, let alone understood, but the cry from Jatvig is, for it is echoed by a single word with the cadence of a curse.
[Faestred(#31903)]
Even as Brev tumbles down the hill, the grey stallion bounds after him, his Rider again hefting his spear. Both man and horse seem intent upon finishing this: the stallion's ears pricked and the Rohir's gaze locked upon the Dunlending, raising his spear as though to drive it finally through the betumbled Brev. Rocks and dirt are sent flying loose by the stallion's charge, his hooves thundering on the earth.
Yet fate seems with Brev today, for a wind gusts, and the very fire meant to entrap the 'bandits' is swept up, igniting the grass between the Dunlending and the oncoming rider. The stallion suddenly sits on his haunches, straining to stop before he goes headlong into the flames, his rider having to lower his spear to brace himself. The stallion trumpets in frustration, rears and strikes at the air, but there is no passage now and safe ground is diminishing fast as the fire licks up the grass and brush.
[Coenred(#30388)] "
The Dunlending is perhaps dazed by his fall, for when he comes up from the roll he ramains at a crouch, not even attempting to turn and strike at his foe. When the wall of flame rises up he stares into it. Slowly, deliberately, he spits into the flames. Then instinct takes over and he is fleeing the fire in a crouched run, bent over and with a hand to his side. His path takes him not west, where Dunland lies, but north, toward the mountains.
[Faestred(#31903)]
As the Aethelwigend's orders ring out, the grey and his rider waste not what time they have to spare themselves of the fire. Turning, the horse still tossing his head unhappily, the pair pick up a brisk canter and wend a path around the flames to rejoin the rest of Coenred's men in their retreat.
Players: Coenred, Brev, Jatvig, Faestred's char
Located in: Dunlending | Rohirrim
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