(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 42 - Rowaen's Rescue

Real time is: 11:46:09 MST on Sat Jan 06 2001.

Mirkwood Path

The trees here are thick, foreboding affairs, their twisted trunks towering high above the path. Tangles of choking vines and twine over anything and everything, their dark leaves almost completely shading the charcoal dark bark of the trees. Beneath the hanging lichen that trails from the trees at the river's edge, the Taurduin runs slate grey in the darkness, rushing to escape to the open fields to the east. The path, clear enough as it runs warm and muddy along the bank of the river to the east, fades and is lost as it twists westwards.
Leaves are beginning to sprout on the trees and ivy that spread overhead, hiding from view the night spring sky. The path running east and west is nearly lost to the darkness below, and only sparse, sickly vegetation grows amongst the oppressive trees.

It is snowing. The light before dawn flurries float down to form a thin white cover on the ground and trees.

Contents:
Black Warg
Arnafel
Ogral
Zaakuolt
Rowaen
Kaide
Maernus
Sagan
Obvious exits:
East leads to Mal Taurduin, edge of the forest.
Northwest leads to Mal Taurduin at the Willow.

Darkness amongst the trees, snow falling thin, though in a steady rate. Two lone figures find their way at such a late hour, through this woods. The darkness intensed even more by the only few stars that shine. A faint silver glimmering emitted by them.

Two figures, one dark, supporting the other. One of them has sincere difficulty to move, staggering forward, right leg apparently limp. A closer look shows this man covered with blood, sweat upon his forehead. His eyes are closed tight, face struck with pain, for with every step he feels waves and waves surging through his body. Tensed is the man, supporting heavy upon the lithe figure walking next to him. So they move forward, silent and slow.

But then it happens... ill-luck striking, the man suddenly falling over, head flat into the whiteness of the snow. A painful grunt leaves his lips, not moving anymore. His words come hesitant, the man having difficulty in speaking.

"I... can...not go..on*cough*..."

Kaide is pulled down herself by the weight of the man as she holds on to him the best that she can, she herself not used to lifting anything more than her dagger. She too is breathing heavily and sweating even amidst the snowy ground and cold dark weather having tired from the long journey that they have made so far. "Yes," she begins, "Yes a rest is in order, but not yet good sir, less we die here now. There will be a long rest once we get back, but you must press on. How far are we from the camp now. Can you remember where it is?" She asks quickly and breathily, but with seeing compassion and concern. "Come, we must stand up again at least even if I must drag you."

Lone figures? Perhaps, and perhaps not. For shadows flit throughout this fell wood, and indeed it is hard to feel alone when the very trees seem to be watchers. But even beyond the grey and gnarled trunks which stare their doom upon the Men who pass here, a sound rises slowly in the air.

Bleak and haunting, a mournful and unearthly howl, far less distant than the last carries over the wood, a sound to chill blood even in the depths of these snow drifts. Shadows flicker here and there between the trees, growing ever closer, and the glint of virulent yellow eyes may be seen fleeting phantoms of the wood's perpetual night. In grim chorus to the cries of the beasts comes the jingling of metal against metal, the sounds of creatures marching the dark, a fast pace despite the snows . . .

Dark indeed are the woods, grim and silent amidst the swirling tides of night -- Elbereth's light does not reach this shadowed fastness, and the moon is but a distant vision glimpsed through the waving limbs of trees.

But the two travelers are not the only ones who fare abroad in this desperate hour.

A whisper of sound, a glint of steel, and in the wake of that dread howl, a soft command -- yet no less stern for it -- is called from the trees to the east:

"Who passes there?"

A displeasing growl comes from the figure lying silent in the snow, Rowaen being the source, only hearing the voice of the maiden as it seems. Effortless he tries to raise himself with his right, uninjured, arm, only to fall back into the snow... It's whiteness rapidly changing, for wounds are ripped open again, blood flowing once more...

"I... can..*cough* nau*cough*ght... mo...ve..." comes his almost desperate voice, hoarse, unaware of the inquiry made.

Kaide looks up at the sound of the voices and realizes much to her alarm that the voices are that of humans and a silent terror seizes her. She doesn't reply to Rowaen, but rather begins to speak on her own. "Rowaen!" She starts quickly, "I thought you said we were not to the camp yet! Oh no, what have I done?" She looks aside and barely manages to keep her focus to keep supporting the injured man. "Come, we must run, we must run now, less we be overtaken! I shall explain another time...perhaps in the next life after I am killed here today!" She hurriedly lifts the man and begins to drag him towards the sound of the voices she had heard frantic almost, her terror now fully visible.

But though the woman may wish to flee, the way east is barred to her -- for thither, as if night given flesh, a shadowed figure stirs in the gloom, and the bright glint in its hand is a dire threat unto itself.

And hearken now, for again it speaks, and there is a calm authority in that voice, "Name yourselves, or you will go no further."

One form near the head, a mere shadow amidst the trees as it moves forward slowly and carefully, comes to a halt as it nears the Men. Broad nose flares as it sniffs the air, and razor teeth are bared. The beast to its side, broad and tall and black snaps lightly at Zaakuolt, and the Uruk gives a low growl back.

Looking over its shoulder, the Uruk calls out, its voice gruff, but quiet, to the Orcs who pass along on the main road.
"" the low voice hisses.

Head spinning, only half-aware of his surroundings, Rowaen blinks. For still, despite his fever and severe condition, the words of the maiden pierce his clouded mind... Willingly, unable to resist, lacking the strength, he lets himself be dragged, agonizing grunts leaving his lips, several times disturbed by miserable coughs. A trail of blood forms behind them as they slowly venture further...

"*cough*.... Ka*cough*ide...*cough**cough*...what*cough* ... is..." Miserable the words leave Rowaen's lips, so hoarse and hollow he sounds... so unaware of what happens round him. Now he is silent, not ending the phrase he started, though the reason is naught clear! Did he hear the human speak? Or is it his horrible state cutting his breath, making him unable to speak?

The woman stops in her attempt to drag the wounded man away, looking up toward the shadowy figure that addresses her, the young assassin states frantically, "Sir, I have here one of your Squires and he is wounded severely. Please help him. We have tried to escape from the orc encampment, but even now the orcs are at our backs. There is no time to talk, now is the time for arms! Please help me to get Rowaen to safety, I care not for what you do with me." She begins to attempt to help up Rowaen to his feet again, but her attempt is in vain, her own strength almost having put to its limit already.

Though the wargrider be as stealthy as a leaf in stormy weather, the creatures behind it are more likely to be compared to a mumakil mating spree, the noise they make moving throughout the wood as the tromp along. Within this seething tide of tyranny jogs an orc, made known by her already wounded state, the angry gleam within her eye, and the large barbed axe she carries with deadly intent. How her prisoner has escaped, she knows not, but intends full well to rectify the situation 'ere the light of dawn.

"" Zaakuolt whispers lightly to himself, eyes the color of dried blood narrowing as the hide-clothed Uruk begins to inch his way forward through the snowy woods, and the Uruk disappears into the shadows of a great tree, followed swiftly by his Warg. Like a phantom of the grim wood, he moves forward, his own feet making little more noise than the soft padding of the Warg to his side. To forms, both feral, both evil, hunting together - and with others only half-seen as shadows in the trees.

Silence follows in the wake of the woman's words -- but only for a fleeting moment. And then, the shadowed figure stirs and strides forth from the dark fastness of the trees. Beside the fallen Squire he kneels, and grey eyes glint in the depths of his hood, turning from Rowaen to the woman, "Who are you?"

And then, louder -- yet, low enough that it barely rises over the sighing of the wind -- he calls over his shoulder, "Maernus, Amano, to me. Drenlyn, keep watch."

Leaves and boughs shift and rustle, the eerie trees of Mirkwood lent motion to match their gloomy semblance of life. They threaten to close in, to choke off any and all avenues of escape, to reach out with their fell arms and imprison those who dare to interlope within their domain. The rushing of the forest river lends them a voice in the darkness, a gurgling conversation, a discussion of how best to deal with these men who would brave the wood on their watch.

One of those courageous (and quite possibly foolhardy) men crouches within the branches of a particularly large tree, a silent watcher within another silent watcher. Clad in brown and green, curls of fiery hair peeking from beneath a battered old helm of steel, he observes with hazel eyes. His spear he grips with familiarity in one hand, the wooden shaft lightly resting horizontally across two thick boughs beside him.

One of the Woodsmen of Mirkwood in his element, he waits.
The exhausted young half-Southroner looks back at the man intently, "I am The one who has returned your friend to you. He will tell his story and my part in it when he is conscious if we survive this encounter. You would not believe me if I told you now anyhow as to who I really am. Chain me if you will, but it would be better to trust me for now as if I meant you harm, it would be done already." She turns back to Rowaen and begins to wipe the sweat off his forehead speaking to him comfortably and soothingly.

Blackened by the icy weather, the tough hide of a crimson wrapped terror flexes in the night. Stalking with the group of orcs, he looks unarmed. The black terror's crimson wrapped body shifts in the blackened night he is slanted slightly lower then usual, his tree trunk like legs plod into the ground. Judging by his lightened uniform, the orc must have been converted to a scout for this particular mission. Lacking the heavier weapons of the Ushataar Krimpatul, this also backs up the judgement. His crimson eyes scan the area, the black orc is almost unfindable in the darkness, except for the light snow that rests on his shoulders and head. The orc's face is almost unviewable, as it is hidden by a facemask sharply cut and punctured with fear, the two crimson balls stare out from beneath the small face mask. Ogral simply awaits any orders from the warg rider, awaiting the unseeable.

Unaware Rowaen lies, silently, a thin layer of snow forming on his back. Still the blood flows, the snow around him turning swiftly red... Perhaps recognition is his part, as a familiar voice calls out familiar names! A slight stir seems to pass the silent figure, as a voice is speaking directly to him. Yet no clear sign comes from him, the stir, perhaps no more then a shiver, caused by his fever... Then sudden comes the sound of words from his lips, lying still, eyes closed, muttering. Casual words... bearing no meaning in relation to one another... An apparent dark slumber being over the youthful squire.

Hidden in the darkness not far from the Knight, is one upon whose pallid brow sits a reflection of the biting cold, draped in a cloak scarce to be told apart from the lightless shadows beneath the trees - a tall squire, his raven hair spangled with frost, grey eyes but a shimmer in the featureless blur, what may be glimpsed of his face. Breath misting in a pale cloud before him, Amano stays unmoving, the speech ahead having alerted him to stillness, as much as the sound of the enemy so near, in the stultifying closeness of the dim wood. As a wolfhound keen upon a scent he seems, his shoulders taut with the effort of keeping silent and unstirring, one gloved hand laid on the hilt of the blade at his belt.

Only upon the command does he move, without hesitation, eyes widening slightly as he steps to the side of the Knight, glancing wordlessly at the woman beside the wounded whom he recognizes as his friend. Surprise and relief fleetingly passes over his face, before swiftly nodding to the Lord Arnafel. "What is it that you would have us do, lord? Even here comes the rumour of their approach."

Stepping forward to the shade of a nearby tree, Drenlyn's eyes gleam in the night, searching for the foes that follow. Faint silhouettes flicker between the trees, teasing the eyes of the squire.

His sword drawn, Drenlyn stands erect and silent, searching the depths of the night for a sure sign of foes. Himself all but invisible in the night, his cloak hiding the glint of studded armor beneath. Risking a brief glance towards the unconscious squire, Drenlyn's face fills with concern, yet his eyes are drawn once more to the shadows of the night.

And now, as the Black Uruk of Mordor grows ever nearer his prey, a hand is placed upon the thick, rank fur of the beast to his side, allowing the creature's keen nose to guide them both towards their quarry. A single clawed hand is hefted into the air, and Zaakuolt twirls it above his head once before ducking down once more at the sight of the gathering humans. But his own eyes narrow, and the Warg gives the slightest growl, sniffing the snowy ground, and making its way towards a spot in the trees near to the humans in the open, but not upon them.

From the other side of the night, though far less hidden than the other squire is a white-clad man. Fairly noisily this squire approaches out of the wood, and whispers, "Sir, wha..." Now standing aside the knight, his white garment standing out from the others. "Rowaen... but he was taken..." Silent, with a practiced ease a sword is drawn from its sheath. He takes a few steps forward, now in front of the knight. Glancing around the area as he readies his shield. He whispers back to the Knight, "Sir, goblins... they would have to let him escape, he is too wounded to make haste."

"If they have let him escape Squire, then it would seem they have changed their minds", replies the Knight dryly -- yet, his gaze is to the west where darkness is moulded into flesh, and the creatures of night come to claim their prey.

And pausing but to unclasp his cloak and lay it over the wounded youth, he makes his way to the side of the squire who stands watch, "Amano, aid Maernus is bearing Rowaen to camp. Drenlyn, blindfold the woman and go with them."

Kaide looks up at the man speaking warning to the others and turns back to the one who is apparently in charge. "Blindfold me if you will, but you will need someone to tend for Rowaen, and others to fight this battle." She continues, "And if I had wanted you to be caught, I would have never told you about the coming orcs." She stands as best she can and takes out her dagger from it's sheathe throwing it to the ground. "I am unarmed sir, you make take my weapon, but do not touch the blade, for the poison that is upon it will most assuredly cripple you."

Tilting his head Drenlyn pauses, and whispers, "Shapes in the trees my Lord. We will be beset ere we can..."

Cut short by the knight, Drenlyn stealthily sheaths his sword, and moves carefully towards the woman. Slinging his shield swiftly to his back, Drenlyn looks anxiously towards the knight, and whispers objection, "Sire, it is not..."

Stopping his voice, Drenlyn comes to the ladies side and nods. Staring blankly as the lady addresses the knight, he peers to his lord, seeking some resolution. Cloth in hand ready to bind the ladies eyes Drenlyn awaits, his eyes ever drawn to the flittering shadows among the trees.

The smaller trees along the eastern side of the path rustle and give way as glimpses of blood red are visible through the foliage. A callous black hand bends a sapling to snapping, and the scruffy pug-ugly face of an orc is visible. He scratches at the multicolored band around his arm and hefts his battle axe with relish, muttering softly to himself before slinking into the foliage once more.

But now the black beasts of Mirkwood are hear, and the chilling howl which one raises just to the left of the Men, its haunting cry like that of a ghost, and a great blur of black fur springs forth from the woods, sharp fangs and claws lashing out, as well as steel from the beast's back. Orc and Warg fighting as one unit, the steel whistles through the air towards Arnafel, and the Warg continues its charge, display the savage hit and run tactics of the beasts.

A quick exhalation of breath, bordering on a hiss, escapes Amano's lips. Swift as he is to hasten to the injured squire's side, his eyes flick to the bordering trees in a stabbing glitter, a protest unvoiced in his very expression at the thought of leaving. He hoists the Nimothan up by sheer strength, speaking softly though his voice carries an echo of the tension in the chill air. "It shall be so, sire.. he needs aid beyond what.."

And his words die, cut off with the howl that rings through the night. Even as he whirls, gaze seeking, the sight of the black beast charging urges him to action, the hand that had been upon the hilt of his sword now seeking to draw it with almost furious haste. "They are upon us!"

"He will be tended to...", the Lord Isilrim begins -- and Doom is upon them.

A flash of brilliance in the gloom-enshrouded clearing, and mighty Inalantadil rings free to meet the charge of the warg and its rider. And the Knight's hood falls to reveal his visage -- fell and fair, Dunadan of the South, and a cold light is in his eyes.

"Go!" he commands -- calmly, even now! -- and he will not be gainsaid in this hour.

Hazel eyes shift to the Knight and Squires, and the woman, as they speak, a frown creasing the Beorning forester's brow. That peering gaze lingers for a few moments, before moving to fall upon the dark shapes that draw ever closer. The frown twists into a look of intent determination, eyes glinting in the darkness.

The hand gripping his spear releases the weapon, leaving it to rest lightly upon the branches beside him. He silently pulls a small wood-axe from his belt, hefting it and eyeing it for but a moment. His arm draws back, then snaps forward, sending the wedge flying through the night.

Out of the tree the axe hurtles, flashing end over end, steel head glinting in scant light. It is little more than a tool, really, far too small and light to be considered much of a weapon... But injury is not its intent. A sign it is, and a challenge. It strikes the snowy floor of the forest between the feet of the twisted creature that approaches next to the snuffling Warg.

The spear is in hand once again, snatched up as soon as the axe has been thrown, the woodsman flying from his perch within the tree. He hits the ground, knees bending with the impact, free hand shooting out and down for support. He watches the goblin and beast for another moment, then comes to his feet.

The head of his spear glints as he points it toward Zaakuolt in silence.

In the darkness of the wood, slow grin spreads across the dark skinned face of the Uruk, and then the fat upper lip is peeled back in a snarl, the long razor teeth of Orc and Warg bared at the same time towards the Woodsman. Zaakuolt hisses sharply, and his own spear is raised, the Uruk charging now through the snow towards his prey, the Warg flitting swiftly to the left, but not yet moving to attack.

Quickly approaching Rowaen, the squire Maernus stands. He gazes around the trees with his dark eyes, "Sir we won't get him out before the go..." He turns to stare towards the howl his sword still in hand. He glances at the knight, then towards the enemy. "Drenlyn, her weapon!" He begins to hastily makes his way towards the sapling, his wooden leg snapping some of the twigs beneath his feet. His sword held in front of him as he approaches.

And look! There some live returns to the silent figure, now held by Amano! Rowaen stirs lightly, the muttering flow of words disturbed by a moan of agony, as Amano pulls him free from the ground, cloak still upon his figure. Again the muttering can be heard, yet this time it sounds different, blue peering through small slits...

"*cough*... Am...ano... *cough* what*cough**cough*... goe..s ..... on... " Another grunt, lips tension, a surge of pain passing his face. A shiver goes down his spine. The young squire still determined to keep the refound consciousness, for more attempts he makes, to open his eyes even further, to seek if the familiar figure is naught one created by a delirious mind.

Swiftly, but carefully retrieving the lady's blade, Drenlyn sheaths it in his belt. Grasping the hilt of his sword, as the howl and the squire's cry fills the night air, Drenlyn glances towards the knight. Not trusting the stranger in the night, he stands beside and behind her.

Grasping her shoulder firmly with his free hand, Drenlyn's eyes attempt to pierce the darkness as the first attack reaches the knight. Nodding at the knight's command, Drenlyn grabs the lady and draws her eastward carefully following the dim figure of Amano.

"Yaiiiiiiiirh!" is the feral cry of the Rider as shimmer steel slides across his chest, and the hide-dressed Uruk clings to the black beast as ebon blood spatters the snow, and the Rider is brought past that attackers and into the woods. The beast begins to turn back towards the Men as it reaches its haven, turning in a wide arch.

The girl offers no resistance to the arm of the man as she is taken away. She looks back at the orcs, now attacking and sighs. "What will you do with me?" she asks. "Whatever it is, it must be quick, for look and see, the orcs are on us even now, and I may have need now of my weapon yet which you now have from me."

Kaide looks down at Rowaen, "Are you doing better? There is a battle about us and all for you. Please, if you can muster the strength, allow me to tend for you and let your brethren fight less we all be slain alike." He voice is sad and pleading, but calm at the same time. She patiently awaits an answer.

The area around the rent sapling is dangerously still and silent, when all of a sudden a small clacking noise can be heard through the dense vegetation. The noise is of stone upon stone, and not shortly afterward another rock can be heard thudding loudly against the ground. By the time the noise can be heard a third time, a small rock is seen arcing through the air a good distance from the tree, after which follows a bout of devilish cackling from a low toned beast. There is rustling from that area now, and the solid thwacking of steel upon wood rings out and one of the larger trees begins to teeter, as though at any moment it could fall towards the path.

Tall and still the Dunadan stands, grey eyes glinting as they follow the warg's retreat -- and its return. To the ally who stands with him now, he gives but a single glance and a faint nod, "Well met, woodsman."

"Squires", he calls then -- yet, not even for a moment does that chill gaze leave the twisted creatures who stir among the trees, "They are upon us. Take Rowaen and the woman to the trees, and stand guard thither."

And he steps forth to give battle.

Pale brow furrowed, his own protest smothered in his throat ere it was given voice by that imperative, Amano's speech is gruff, almost cutting, as he draws the wounded Nimothan toward Drenlyn and the fringe of the forest. Youthful as he may be, the grim lines of his features seem to have aged with the journey, and even more so in an hour such as this. "Save your words, Rowaen, for effort is needed even in speaking. This is not the time, for the foul beasts which took you are bringing us to battle." His own sword now loosed of its scabbard and ready in his other hand, he hesitates as the unfamiliar woman speaks.

Starring down at the lady as she speaks, Drenlyn lets out a grim laugh, "I do as my knight instructs, and it would take a fool to return a poisoned weapon to a stranger such as yourself."

Increasing his pace, Drenlyn begins to pull the lady wit h all haste towards the trees. Motioning Amano to follow, Drenlyn reaches a large trunk and draws the lady towards it, "Now stay down, and stay near. If you have the skill then tend to our comrade's injuries, but no weapon will I give you. I trust the life of my friend to you, and so in turn you must trust yours to me."

Drawing his sword, and donning his shield, Drenlyn's eyes flicker in the night as the tend to the quickly approaching shades. His blade glittering in the light, Drenlyn nods to Amano, "Here let Rowaen rest Amano. Battle is upon us!"

Letting out a disapproving grunt, Maernus dashes back towards Rowaen. He glances towards the tree as he goes, but then helps Amano get Rowaen to the trees. "Let's hope we get you out of the open quickly." He continues to glance at the tree as it moves, however.

Grim turns the ash-grey complexion of the young Nimothan, Rowaen not paying heed to the words spoken by his friend. All that seems to remain in his mind being the word battle, not quite pleased in being carried away.

"...Ama...no *cough* worr..ry... naught... Lay me... down*cough*... the mai...den.. sh.. she... can.. be.. trus*cough*ted... Your aid... is... need..ed ...not... with me..." Faint is the rising of his right hand, as if gesturing towards his friend he indeed would be fine. Even beckoning to be laid down upon the soil. Eyes fixed upon the face of Amano, the fever of the young lad preventing him to reply immediate at Kaide's words as well. As the voice of Drenlyn speaks, even more attempts Rowaen makes to signal his friend to lay him down...

Sagan spares the Knight the briefest of nods before advancing toward the foe, spear still extended to single out the Orc. Grim and determined he stalks forward, eyes flashing with the promise of cold death.

Zaakuolt gnashes his teeth towards the woodsman, as the close, a deep guttural growl building in the Uruk's chest. A bitter hiss is given towards Sagan, and then the Orc springs forth!

But only to feign to the left, and the Uruk drops to one knee as his leap would bring him near to the Man, his spear still held before him, but not striking. Indeed, it appears Zaakuolt's attack was a mere diversion, and the large black Warg which parted from his side not moments ago leaps towards the woodsman in an attempt at a flanking attack.

Kaide nods to the man in respect, "And so it shall be," she says at last before he calls his friends to battle. She then turns her attention to Rowaen and smiles. Though the battle rage about her she seemingly cares little for she heeds only the soft moans of the wounded squire. "Interesting how things can change hmm?" she starts jovially. Seeing the pains though in the young man's face, she lowers her gaze to see that his leg seems to be getting no better. "I am no longer at the camp, so my means will be limited, but I ask you if there is anything that you would require of me?"

And now the second Warg has finished turning, its injured Rider still clinging to the beast's back as he is brought about towards Arnafel once more. Sword is raised again, and the beast begins to charge through the snow, its panting breath leaving puffs of white in the air as it surges towards its target.

"" calls a lead Uruk of the Ushataar Krimpatul, his crimson armor marking him out, ""
And then the Uruk points swiftly to Arnafel, brining his own weapon, a great War Hammer, to bear, and he begins to charge through the snow.

But the woodsman does not stand alone -- even as the warg seeks to rend him, a silver flash sears parts the darkness, and the Dunadan's blade falls towards the beast's head.

Yet, his own flank is thus left unguarded. Will he fall to the creature who leaps towards him with slavering jaws even now?

Even in this harried moment the young Isilrim essays a grim smile, eyeing the surrounding gloom as he lets the Nimothan rest against one of the tree trunks a ways away from the path, propping him up. "Then here you shall rest, a poor substitute for a healing-bed, but it shall have to do." His light words bear not the icy tension of his gaze, only a half-hearted amusement in their tone. Though by his set expression he trusts not the stranger who came with Rowaen, he speaks nothing such to her, only turning to the fray not so very far off from where they stand.

"We are to stand guard, but what shall we do when their numbers break through? Should we not go and make sure they do not reach this far?" His musings seem quietly spoken, though clear enough they ring in the wintry air. The Blue-Squire strides forth, rashly it may seem, but a fierce determination lies even in the set of his jaw.

The heavy beast threads through the snow lidden ground, his icy skin crumbles, but the rest of his body wrapped in a crimson overall. Black mail jingles around its body as it charges forth, unsheathing a small side-blade and he launches it into the air, surging his massive body forth. The muscles of the beast flex together as his inner clogs are the only motivation this beast has, filled with the order of the Eye. "For the EYE!" It bellows, a deep voiced orc, unlike most. It is Ogral, the Quartermaster of the tower of sorcery and he is hungry for battle. He moves in, searching for a target.

"Yai! Yai! Yai!" Zaakuolt calls out, his face filling swiftly with rage as the Dunadain sword strikes true, and his Warg retreats with a whining cry, making for the woods. The feral anger spread quickly through the Uruk's body, and he springs forward towards woodsman, his spear striking for the man's right shoulder.
As Zaakuolt attacks, so does the other Warg Rider completing his charge towards Arnafel, his sword descending towards the man's back.

Taking a step forward as if to follow his comrade into battle, Drenlyn stops abruptly speaking to Amano, "Squire, hear they will come, and if we do not stand together then we will fall alone. Do as you will! My charge is here, and hither will the orcs come for their prisoner!"

Starring grimly at his advancing comrade, Drenlyn shakes his head and plants himself firmly in the snowy ground. Eyeing the ever closing figures Drenlyn waits, his sword ready for the onslaught, ready to die for his injured comrade.

Silent is the movement of the eyes of Rowaen, succeeding in opening somewhat wider. Dazed, burning with fever the young lad looks up at the figure of Kaide, speaking to him... A minute he is silent, as if listening to the sounds about, to determine the graveness of it all. With apparent difficulty the Blue Squire moved his left leg a bit, stretching it under the cloak still upon him. Another shiver passes the lad's battered form, hoarse words leaving his dry lips.

"Kai..de... I... I.. fee*cough*l... so... *cough**cough* cold..." And again he is silent...

Sagan twists away from the snapping jaws of the Warg, unnecessarily it would seem, the blade of the Knight removing the threat for now. His gaze whips back to the Orc, in time to see the foul spear rushing toward him. He dances away to the side, the head of the weapon harmlessly passing through the air where he stood mere moments before.

His response is swift, his own polearm darting forward, hungry point flashing toward Zaakuolt's abdomen.

Finally the stillness in the foliage erupts with a violent crash some fifteen feet away from the source of the rock throwing, a large black orc in crimson armor leaps out onto the path, swinging an axe wildly and spouting out filth in a language even coarser than the language of the orcs. ""

"Stand?" Maernus says, with slight contempt. "No, we should go forth as one. Kill them all." Maernus spots the quartermaster. He begins to slowly stride forward before the others can respond, drawing forth his sword. The squire's eyes appear to try and pierce the orc. "For Gondor! For Amroth!" He glances towards Rowaen for a moment, then adds, "For the Nimothans!"

"Yaiie!" Zaakuolt hisses harshly as the point of the Woodsman's weapon pierces through his hide to give him a fair wound. The spreading warmth of blackness begins to appear, a dark spot on his furs, and he gives a bitter hiss, backpedaling a bit, and throwing a lesser swing towards the man, more cautious and aimed for his hip.

The woodsman smiles grimly, pulling the darkened tip of his spear free from his wounded opponent. The shaft is swiftly interposed vertically between the other spear and his hip, stopping the attack with a resounding clatter.

Sagan then rotates his weapon ninety degrees, bringing the thirsty head flashing down toward the twisted creature's shoulder.

"Perhaps it is so, Drenlyn.." Amano's hawkish profile is turned to the fray, the wind partly whipping the words from his mouth into muted muttering, his black cloak now drawn back from his garb of white and trailing behind him as a cloud of shadow billowing. His expression mingled wryness and grim resolution, he glances at the other Squire, then fixes his gaze forward, the glint in his regard keener than the bitter blade in his hand. "Ill will the lot of Rowaen, and of all of us if they breach the line of our defense." He ranges out to the right, so that his words come back only as a slight whisper.

"I shall fall back, and retrace my steps, if I deem they are too many..but for now, I shall endeavour keep them from reaching those behind us..." He glances about him warily, blade at the ready as his steps take him from the relative safety of the woods.

"Yes, for your pretty Nimphs, tark!" Ogral bellows as he charges through the forest, his slow lumbering body picks up speed as his tree trunk like legs rush too their top speed. His small curved blade like a dagger in the muscular arms of the Orc, flaring it about above his head. The Orc's lower canines protrude upwards, over the facemask of the Orc as he roars a war cry. He comes screeching to a halt before the Squire Maernus. The orc's eyes peer at the Squire, as if the Squire had looked at him offensively. Without warning, however, the small blade comes downward towards Mearnus' noggin!

Hiss and clatter of wood against wood as the spears of the combatants meet, and the Uruk bares his teeth once more to the Human, snorting viciously. A swift jab for the man's neck is given, Zaakuolt spear striking out towards Sagan like an ashen snake.
"Vile!" he growls as his spear lashes out.

Eyeing the departing squire, Drenlyn frowns, "Not all attacks come from one direction friend, but do as you will, and may your choice bring you better luck."

Tuning his head back towards the injured squire, Drenlyn's brow arches with concern. Twisting his head towards the sounds of battle, Drenlyn takes several tentative steps forward, searching out an approaching foe.

The woman is crouched over near to the squire looking at him intently, "I know you are cold, as are we all." She takes off her cloak which had covered her, shivering a bit as she does so, the chill wind brisking against her uncovered shoulders and back. She places the cloak over the man, and though it is not nearly suitable to cover his body, it is warm and heavy. She wraps her arms around him as she covers him and rubs his shoulders, an attempt to bring back life to him careful not to disturb his wounds. "It will all be over soon. You have a family to return to. Just don't forget about Dania." She smiles as best she can. The cold already beginning to get to her.

Again the orcish polearm is turned aside, and again the forester's reply is swift and grim. Wooden shafts and steel heads meet and part, clattering and clanging, a discordant music within the night. The snow about their feet becomes trampled with footprints as the battle rages, a few drops of frozen blood here and there a reminder of the deadly nature of this dance.

Sagan grunts, his spear darting forth, eager for another taste of foul blood.

The young squire tries to avoid the blade, but he is too slow. The scimitar dices part of his right ear as it cuts into his right shoulder. His shoulder seems only slightly damaged. "You will not return to your pit this day." The squires eyes seem to slightly radiate as he fights. Maernus' blade swings from his side flying towards the quartermaster's sword arm.

"Skai! Pushdug bangronk!" Zaakuolt hisses as yet another strike of the Human hits its mark and the snow below their feet is further churned with blood. His spear whips across towards the man's collar-bone in a more savage strike, now.

As the tension rises, and confrontation forms, a squire, dressed in white garments, covered by armor appears from the dark woods beyond. He walks quickly, yet with caution, examining the situation before him. He is fully dressed in armor, and his long sword is held ready in his hand. After a few steps more, once he is well near the others present, Foronwe stops in his tracks, and surveys the scene of battle before him. Preparing himself for combat, and looking where to strike, he grips his sword in anticipation.

Still, warmly wrapped in two cloaks, Kaide offering him even more warmth with her attempts, still the shivers come. Lips turning paler with the minute. Hoarse his voice comes once more, eyes trying to focus on the blur being Kaide's face, eyes burning off the fever.

"Kaide...*cough*.. pl..ea..se... con*cough**cough*inue.... to .t.. talk.. need to*cough*... stay.. a..awake..."

Is it fear glimmering in his eyes? Or a mere dazed glance bothered by surges of pain, coming from his wounds. Rowaen... once a proud lad... now a pitiful shivering figure...

A bellowing laugh echoes into air as Ogral slides is small scimitar to deflect the blow of the tark, "What is this, a display?!" He roars in laughter, pushing the blade away in a parry. Acting slowly, as if it were a training exercise, but his opponent is tough, he knows that. He takes a step back, weighing up his chances again the tark. A wide battle grin splays of his semi-masked face, and quickly lunched towards the tark's slightly damaged shoulder!

"Be silent, foul one!" Sagan hisses, the first words to leave his throat this night. The spear whirls in his hands as he knocks the attack away, black blood flying from the head as it parts the chill air. The weapon continues its hungry arc, the woodsman's arms moving to alter its course and bring the keen edge up toward Zaakuolt's jaw.
Zaakuolt pages: Sagan doesn't need help. I'm gonna flee after his next hit. )

"Foul-schmoul!" Zaakuolt spits towards the man, hissing as he steps back, "Gahr! I getcha!"

With that the Uruk whips his spear about for the man's jaw, his spear darting forward and back again.

Kaide begins to speak even as the young man asks. "I..I have never really had to speak of anything before. I would have no idea of what to speak about. But seeing you like this hurts me. I left everything for you, will you now die on me leaving me to the mercies of those who would never have understood my plight as you have?" She shivers a bit, but continues undaunted, "Am I to die in a Gondorian cell now that I have found my way here? I guess it matters little. I am cold already. I try to take back my soul from one who will never allow it to leave his grasp. Maybe this has all been in vain, maybe death is the only release for me. But I'll be damned if you die before me!" She is in tears now her sorrows fulling coming to light. "I wish to see Ivriniel again too before I die, to say that I am sorry if nothing else."

This time Maernus is quick to avoid the scimitar, "No, but perhaps your head shall be." The squire moves forward trying to bang the goblins sword away, his wooden leg making a heavy noise as it snaps a twig. The muscled arm of the human driving his own sword towards the chest of his enemy.

Pushed backwards, the Orc oofs, the leather vest taking the brunt of the stab, while the ring mail blocks off the actual pierce. Chest obviously bruised, the orc growls as he hears a snapping noise. "Ushataar Krimpatul!" He screams in the black speech, the Quartermaster leaps again towards the squire, using his blade to hack the shoulder once again, but more aimed at an angle, towards the Squires neck!

Kaide now in tears, her words not missing impact upon Rowaen. Still he eyes her, not clear whether the blue eyes indeed see her sharp form. Again words leave his lips, always hoarse they seem, reluctant to leave the squire's lips.

"Nay.. *cough* speak.. not... so....... low *cough* of.. yourself... You *cough* me..ant.. my ... rescue.. Kaide..."

Silent is the moving of his right hand, leaving the warmth of the cloaks upon him, seeking a maiden's touch.

Noticing the tark Drenlyn readying his stance, the crimson dressed orc that approaches barking out as he charges, his axe held high as he charges, swinging at the Man's body with both hands screaming "Krimpatul! Krimpatul!"

Amidst the sounds of clashing metal, and the heat of battle, Foronwe moves forward, seeing through the corner of his eye Kaide and Rowaen conversing. He listens for a moment, but then is jolted back to full awareness when he spots a truly grotesque and hideous figure of an Orc in front of him. His eyes fully show the mustering of hatred and disgust the squire holds for this creature and with a battle cry, and his sword held up high, Foronwe lunges forth at Porcelina, full of naive youthful self-assuredness ,aiming at her right shoulder.

Sagan attempts to avoid the attack, but is too slow. The orcish spear scores a jagged red line along the left side of his face, a bleeding cleft that stretches from chin to a point just below his eye, passing through his lips along the way. Crimson drops rain down upon the snowy ground, a scream of pain and rage rising in his throat.

The Beorning steps forward, his own spear darting forth once again, the steel head still covered with the blood of his foe.

Twisting quickly Drenlyn raises his sword as if to strike as he hears a the squire approach from behind. Stopping his swing Drenlyn lowers his blade, "Foronwe? That is good, where..."

Spinning around as he hears the orcs yell, Drenlyn raises his shield to ward off the blow...too quick, for the blow glances off the shield, biting into his side. Hissing as his warm life begins to ooze down his side, Drenlyn's eyes alight with anger.

Jumping to the side, Drenlyn silently swings his blade down and to the side, seeking purchase in his foe's neck.

The girl, with tears in her eyes clutches young Rowaen's hand with both of hers and lowers her face to it. She begins then to weep uncontrollably. Years possibly of hidden frustration and evil upon her now finding a way to seep through. "You mean everything to me," she says muffled in the hand of the man. "You be strong. You be strong, for I have never been. You will live for if you do not, I will sure die." She continues to weep, words coming between heavy sobs. The battle does ensue around her but she does not notice nor care. All her attention is upon the man as she shivers in the bitter cold crying out the inner feelings of her heart to one she barely knows.

Take a step back the squire avoids Ogral's blade, but barely. "You got lucky once, but not again." He raises his shield to protect his injured shoulder, while his blade stabs lower. Maernus' sword tries to part the goblin from his nether-regions. The humans eyes watching the goblins movements.

A faint grimace curls around those dry pale lips, as Kaide speaks her words. A soft squeeze Rowaen succeeds in to give the maiden's hands. "..You.. are... col..d... *cough* take... your*cough**cough* cloak... no..ne of us s*cough*.. shall... die... Please... worry... naught*cough*... tell .. what, .. what... goes on..." A flow of coughs follows the phrase, Rowaen trying his best to steady his words, assuming a normal speech, so paying the prize for such efforts. As the coughing ends, almost a clear expression of expectance lies within his blue eyes, seemingly smiling as if to take away the maiden's feeling of guilt.

The tall squire, Amano, his lone watch upon the right flank of the defenders unassailed by orcs, turns his narrowed eyes to the form of Foronwe attacking the Warg-rider. Long is his stride, and speedily does he go to the aid of the White-Squire, his blade humming dully through the air as he goes forth to aid the other. But warier is his attack, and contained, waiting for a gap in the fray before he makes an attempt to test the other's defenses. He makes a stabbing thrust at the form of the orc, grim, and silent but for the rustle of his movements.

"Eeeeiiiaaaaa," Zaakuolt barks, blood rage ebbing greatly as his own blood is spilt once more upon the now slushy ground. The beast snaps his teeth at the human, taking a wobbly step back, dizzied from his loss of blood. The Uruk quickly moves to dart away from the Man, a swift retreat.

The sword slides through Ogral's leg, only protected by a leather wrap. It slices deeply, right through. Ogral bellows a howl, stepping backwards, he slides the sword of his leg. Standing limp, he curses as he brings the sword down upon the Squire, aiming for no particular object of his body, he is blind in rage.

As the first humans blade strikes down upon the orc, she raises her axe hurriedly, barely managing to deflect the blade with one of it's barbed tips. Attention entirely focused upon this threat, the strike slides quickly into the orc's side, and fell blood does flow thickly upon the sharpened edge. Turning in pain, the she-uruk brings her axe around, raising full into the air before descending upon Amano, aimed for his neck, seeking to rip the jugular and repay him for the blood he has spilt.

Howling with laughter, the squire swings his blade sideways at the goblin's easily deflecting it. Maernus' eyes seem to glow brightly as they watch the goblin. He feints an attack at Ogral's head, then brings his blade sharply down trying to position to stab his right leg.

Kaide sobs continually looking not into the eyes of the man but keeping them hidden, buried in their conjoining hands. She hears just barely the words of the man and heeds them, taking up her cloak from the man and putting it back over her own trembling body. Just then catching a glimpse of his penetrating eyes she smiles and begins to wipe away her tears and is comforted. She then lowers her body and lays it as well as her cloak over them both resting her head lightly upon his chest careful again not to further antagonize any of the wounds. "Let's just sit here and enjoy this moment if we can. We have two stout guards about us and the rest of our lives to look forward too. I cannot wait till the day we enter into the gates of the beloved Dol Amroth again. Just promise me you'll be with me when that day comes and I would know that I would be safe forever."

Foronwe cries out as his wild attack is parried with force. Pushed back for a moment by the thrust of the axe against his sword, the young squire takes several seconds to recover and attack once again. He smiles when he sees Amano come to his aid, and draw blood from the orc. He takes a step forward, and just as his companion takes a severe hit from Porcelina's axe, he shouts out "Fear not, brother! These creatures of the night will long remember our victory today!" With that, he thrusts his sword forward powerfully, towards the orc's belly. This time a more reserved, well planned attack.

Sagan watches the goblin disappear into the night. "Go back to your hole," he hisses from between bloody lips, spitting several loosened teeth onto the ground amidst a gobbet of crimson-hued saliva. He brings his free hand to his face, fingers coming away wet with his own blood.

He dabs at his wound with a corner of his cloak, the woolen cloth soaking up the mess, before turning to survey the area, looking for another target.

He and his spear still thirst for the blood of their foul foe.

Swift as the Isilrim's motion is to evade the death-blow, holding his shield up in hopes of deflecting the axe sideward, he dodges aside a moment too slow. For the axe bites into his off-shoulder, scoring his unprotected side in a snarl of ripping armor, cloth, and flesh, splattering blood on the trampled snow. He stumbles forward, the pain inducing from him a barely restrained outcry, the silver shield emblazoned with the Ship and Swan wavering in his grasp.

No reply does he give to the other squire, his eyes holding back the pain that still shines through in their clear grey depths. But his sword fails not again, it follows Foronwe's strike, slashing now at the black creature's side in an arc of blurring steel. If anything, the blow is fiercer than his cautious strike before, the squire's lips now fixed in a grimace of concentration.

Grinning with malice as his blow connects, the orc fighting the tark Drenlyn howls as the return strike comes, leaping up just as the blow lands. The effect of this is that the blow thuds mightily off the orc's mail, causing him to begin cursing foully. He shouts out to the tark, "I am Ugarit, filthy tark! Know my name, so that you may curse it as you die." with that he hefts his axe again, swinging at Drenlyn once more.

The blow is not parried by the she-uruks axe, but more bounces off her armour, causing her a bruise, but little pain. Almost laughing at what she cannot see, Porc pays little attention to her other opponent, who's blade comes forth, sliding deep into the beasts side, a long straight cut beneath the armour's tail. Growling with anger and pain, she once more strikes, this time for the humans sword arm.

"...tis... naught*cough* lik.e... I*cough* could... do... otherwise... then ...sit..." speaks Rowaen softly, as the maiden seeks his warmth as well, speaking her dearest wishes. So he speaks lightly to her, lips curling upwards, probably to form a grin, if naught disturbed by more coughs, his chest moved heavily, stirring Kaide as well.

Maernus' stomach. Almost hissing in rage towards the goblin the squire speaks, "You will die here..." The humans own muscles tightening with fury, his sword swings high trying to part the goblin of his unneeded head. His shield arm is held high, perhaps too much so for he looks illpositioned.

Drenlyn grunts as the blow lands squarely into his body. Crumbling to one knee Drenlyn hisses, "I care not for your name you corrupted creature. For Gondor!"

Rising swiftly, Drenlyn brings his blade in a horizontal arc, his blade shimmering in the night searching for the legs of the orc.

The forester spots a new target, a female orc wielding a mighty axe, laying a ferocious blow upon one of the foreign Squires he has brought through the forbidding forest. His marred face twists into a grim and hungry smile, and he marches forth, his spear drawing back in readiness.

When he closes on the servant of the enemy, his arm and weapon fly forward.

Kaide continues to rest her head and body where it is seemingly forgetting all that goes on about her. She says nothing, but closes her eyes and smiles. The terror of the moment far gone from her face as if she could die that instant and be forgiven of all her evil. "Speak no more, but rest, we shall be awakened by the victor be it to death or to life, I care not anymore if I spend my last moment in peace." She stays silently then with only a slight utterance of "Thank you" coming from her lips before she begins to drift off to sleep.

Cursing, the black smacks into the back of Ogral's armored head. Knocking the Orc forwards, nearly off his feet. The orc swing around half-blindly, the sharp blade slashes towards the tark, the Orc's anger driven to butchery, he takes no heed to his defense, one good strike is all he needs for now.

Speaking naught now, simply moving swiftly to continue his attack, the young squire is surprised as yet another comes to his aid. Timing his attack, to match that of the Beorning, Foronwe swings his sword powerfully, with a loud cry, at the neck of the orc - hoping for as much damage as possible, following Sagan's attack.

Almost stumbling back from the strike of that mighty blow, just as powerful in effect as the first had been, Amano barely manages to keep from getting his sword-arm sliced off, the axe biting deep into his side, scoring his ribs. Scarlet spreads rapidly from the wound, the Blue-Squire's grunt of pain drowned out in the sounds of battle, the agony of his wounds prompting him to slow his onslaught to nearly naught. The woodsman's entrance into the fray, now bringing the orc's opponents to three, brings some respite from the deadly counterattacks of the orc, though the Blue-Squire hesitates, stepping back to at least attempt to staunch his bleeding wounds with his cloak. A trail of blood follows his footsteps, crimson against the snow.

This time the orc Ugarit does not leap up into the blow. Instead, he ducks, catching the slash squarely along his back. He growls as it manages to just penetrate his armor, and as he stands he readies his axe once more, he taunts, "Learn my face Tark. It will be the last thing you see."

"Re..st... *cough*... *cough*.. then... and... the v..ictor.. shall be*cough*... us... Worry... naught... Ka..*cough* Kaide..." comes the soft muttered reply of Rowaen, sinking deeper in his burning fever, eyes turning distant more and more. T'seems the last of his strength he used, by speaking his reply, hand still held by hers. Perhaps so paying heed to Kaide's words, or mere exhausted and not able to gain his conscious any longer, the young lad, lets his head falls softly against the tree. All sense still within now leaving his body, eyes closing, tension leaving his figure, sinking into a deep dark slumber. His chest showing the last signs of some live still left within the Blue Squire, it moving slightly, Rowaen falling in a feverish sleep. Casual coughs leave his lips... So he sits, unaware and ignorant of the battle around him. Not witnessing the valiant stance his friends make all in effort to his rescue...

Once more the blade of the squire does clang upon the she-uruks armour, the pressure of the powerful blow pushing her forward...straight upon the incoming Beorning's spear. Taking the long weapon through the left side, the uruk falls to the ground, broken and bleeding. Curling into a ball, she lies there, holding her axe tightly, and hoping that the humans mercy will spare her.

Jumping swiftly to one side as he rises, Drenlyn laughs, "Your face is crude enough that I hope I never need look upon it again. Now you learn my sword, for it's name means your doom!"

Lunging forward, Drenlyn pushes the orc backwards with his shield, hissing as he stabs forward with his sword.

Raising his shield to stab the attack of the goblin, Maernus' shield is shattered and the blade cuts deep into his upper-arm. One of the shards of his shield lodges itself slightly lower into his arm. The squire screams in rage when he is struck. He stabs forward, the only aiming he seems capable of is to try and hit his head where his eyes are still locked into gazing into. His right arm apparently badly battered now.

As the Gondorian again swings at him, the orc intentionally leans into the blow, catching aggressively, and none to intelligently, with his helmet. A loud clang ensues, and after a moment of shaking his head he smiles coldly, raising his axe up to his shoulder as he swings, muttering, "If I wanted a kiss I would kidnap your mother..."

The diamond sharp edge of the longsword pierces Ogral's shoulder, breaking through his ring mail. The orc screams in pain, clutching his shoulder and the longsword of the blade, he begins to push himself forward, into the blade, closer to the tark, and within range of a strike. He slashes the blade down upon the tark's head with extreme speed.

Sagan glares down at the fallen creature, blood dipping from his rent face, splattering upon the huddled figure. He prods the orc with the wet and stained toe of his boot, before drawing back his foot and planting a solid kick in her midsection.

He then turns away, hefting his spear once again, leaving the simpering goblin's fate in the hands of others. He surveys the scene, frowning at the sight of all the wounded Men.

Jumping to the side, Drenlyn's laughter rises in the suspense of the coming dawn, "I would not say such things you foul being, for I doubt you could even scratch my mother!"

A grim smile meanders across Drenlyn's face as he swings towards the orcs midsection, his blade shimmering in the twilight of dawn.

Attempting to move out of the way, the human is a bit slow as the scimitar cuts a small gash into his left shoulder. This gash, visibly not as bad as the gash in Maernus' right shoulder doesn't even phase the young squire. His own strength powering his sword forward towards Ogral's chest. Though still strong the human seems sorely injured, without any signs of stopping his assault.

Sword raised high in the air, Foronwe prepares for another blow, and yells "So you meet your fate, foul beast! Those who would do battle with us learn their lessons painfully.". Yet, he then sees before him the woodsman's powerful strike, and the following pitiful display. He holds his sword high for a moment, contemplating his actions, yet his composure and calmness come over him, and he decides not to bring down the blow. Sneering at the orc, he says quietly "It is my hope you bleed to death on this very spot, yet I will not attack you in this state, you pitiful creature. Perhaps now you have learned to fear the sting of the swords of men." With that, he turns around and walks away from the Porcelina, sword in hand.

Still impaled on the sword, Ogral stroke his opponent. Though the strike was obviously not enough as Maernus strikes him once again. This time it was not so bad, striking Ogral in the chest, slicing open his vest and cracking ribs, yet his ringmail holds. As the hateful sun, enemy of the Eye, rises into the air, Ogral clenches his eyes, wildly striking at the tark in front of him.

Ogral attacks Maernus with his Scimitar and badly wounds him!

The coming of dawn seems to kindle a reflecting light in the clear sea-grey gaze of the wounded Amano, though blood still flows freely, drenching his now sodden white riding-cloak, held against his side with one hand, and pain lies upon him like a pallor of death, yet not so deep. A faint surprise tints his expression as Foronwe leaves the orc without killing it, but with a sigh he turns, making sure the orcs had not yet reached the stand of trees which they were supposed to guard. The sword in his hand wavers as he staggers slightly, this time unable to keep a mutter of pain from escaping his lips.

The light of the rising sun has begun to filter into the forest through the net of leaves and boughs overhead. The darkness and gloom fading, the shadows diminishing. Morning comes to Mirkwood, bringing the sun and her benevolent gift.

Among the trees, noises may suddenly be heard. Voices in the common tongue, the jingling of metal and the scrape of steel coming free from scabbards. Men of Gondor, Knights and their Squires, come to the aid of their beset companions.

They are not upon the bloody melee yet, but they are closing fast.

Letting out a painful grunt the human's leather armor is pierced as the scimitar hits his lower chest, probably cracking, if not breaking, at least one rib. Fighting as if mad, Maernus steps forward with heavy breathing, again trying to part head from beast. He barely audible says, "You will be the one to fall here," though it barely carries.

"Save your breath tark, for you will be in the pits of flesh soon enough!" The orc screams with his last breath, the blow by blow fight on goes, even in the deathly shine of the sun. Another tirefull blow is dealt to the Orc, staggering backwards as the longsword strikes the protected neck of the Orc. Blood sprays into the air, as the edge of the longsword bites into steel flesh. With a cry, Ogral lunged forward, once again striking out towards Maernus!

As the sun rises, and the humans leave the pitiful curled up form upon the ground, her blood seeping into the earth to stain the ground with it's foul taint, the she-uruk begins to crawl, slowly, away from the human ranks.

Breathing deeply, though painfully, Drenlyn looks to the ever brightening sky, "The light need not increase my strength, but a new day may bring many things..." Pausing Drenlyn listens, and laughs, "And lo, here comes your doom riding swiftly, but here is your death."

Raising his blade above his head, Drenlyn arcs his sword downwards, searching for the orc's neck.

A hand roughly falls upon a Squire's shoulder, and Maernus if hauled back, away from the orc's attack. The blood-covered face of the Beorning forester meets his gaze, before jerking in the direction of the rapidly approaching reinforcements.

"Go to your countrymen." He gruffly states, pushing the wounded man away.

He then turns to the orc, lifting his spear threateningly. "And you... Flee now, to your pit."

The laugher halts at the miss of the Teguk Dushgob, but continues as he easily sidesteps the downward thrust, despite his minor injuries. "Bah! I've been told I was ugly enough to be a tark, but I didn't know the Sun bothered you so much!" With that he makes a roll to the ground, seeking to hew the legs out from under Drenlyn as though tree trunks.

Jumping backwards slightly as the stroke approaches, Drenlyn says grimly, "The sun bothers me not, but go now, and return to your hovel...Go back to the darkness that spawned you!"

With that Drenlyn thrusts his sword towards the orc, the honed tip moving like lighting.

Stepping backwards in time to avoid the swing, Maernus goes forward again to strike out at the beast. He tarries for a moment to look at Sagan as he stops him. Glancing at him with his dark eyes, he slightly painfully grunts as he shrugs the woodsman's hand away. Then quickly, for the injured man, he lunges forward. Hoping to distract Ogral with the sudden attack, the blade of the squire goes forward, again trying to impair the enemy's leg.

Snarling wordlessly as the blow again lands, Ugarit mutters. The wound is not particularly vicious, but the sum of them begin to add up. He bares his fangs at the squire, growling, "The Day might be yours, but the night shall ever belong to the Eye." He staggers slightly, and makes another attempt at manslaughter, though he sweats under the sunlight.

Screaming in pain, his leg impaled. The Orc looks to the Squire with look of offence, lifting his face-mask up, he growls, bearing his two huge under-canines. Once again, he brings the scimitar down upon Maernus' head with extreme speed and fierceness.

Raising his shield quickly Drenlyn absorbs the blow, grunting under the force, and the burning pain from his sides. Raising himself, Drenlyn stands tall and proud, his sword ready to deal another blow, "Neither day nor night belong to anyone, they are their own, and one to proud will learn from their mistakes."

Swinging his sword tentatively, Drenlyn backs away steadily, making his way back eastward, towards where Rowaen lies.

Sagan glances at Maernus with a scowl, then shakes his head and sighs. Walking away, toward the trees to the east, he coughs. "Fool."

As he draws near the shadowy boughs, the source of the racket is revealed. A group of men erupts from the forest, drawn blades ready to hew down the aggressors with righteous might. The forester walks through their midst, nodding once toward the battleground before vanishing among the trees.

Again is the squire, a bit, too slow. The scimitar into his shoulder, though it is not severe, the wounds are adding up. Grunting painfully, Maernus seems to make a more defensive attack. His sword light dashes towards Ogral's sword-hand. The breathing of the human becoming heavier and more forced with each movement he makes.

Cursing, Ogral stumbles to the side, holding his arm. He laughs twistedly, the joy of battle surging through his veins. He lifts his hand, licking the crimson dark blood. Laughing, the quartermaster of the Tower of Sorcery charges forward, striking down upon the Squire's head with a quick and hard stroke to the noggin!

Shrugging off another grazing attack, the Teguk Ugarit coughs up a small spot of blood in the dirt, and wipes his arm on his vest, the blood blending in with the leather instantly. "Bah!" is all he replies, too involved with the next attack to be concerned with words.

A large crack as the helmet of the squire is pierced. He seems slightly dazed, taking a few staggering steps backwards, then Maernus falls backwards with a loud thudding noise. He seems to try and stand up again, but as he props himself up on one arm, the arm gives way and the human lays limp in the snow of the area. Bleeding from half a dozen wounds, the snow becoming red with his being there.

With the rising of the sun, the uruks eyes are blinded, their blows, unaimed, fall short of the mark, and the counter attacks of the humans cause more and more blood to shower. From behind the lines comes a shout, an order of retreat, the sun to much for the small groups eyes. The crawling she-uruk heeds the cry, as she is already moving away from the area, and any uruks left behind, shall be on their own.

Laughing, Ogral once again pulls down his mask down, covering the top of his face. "Another day, perhaps tark, but now, go home to that screaming mother, for she is being ravaged by the hounds of Mordor!" With that, the extremely badly injured Orc turns around, limping, he begins to move deeper into the forest, glancing back at the Captain, "Captain! We have made them eat steel and blood, we have won, return, return!" He bellows loudly, limping sideways.

Smiling once more, Drenlyn shakes his head as the axe swings wide of it's mark. His patience gone, Drenlyn donnes a fierce visage, his eyes blazing with anger, "Get you gone you foul thing!"

With that, Drenlyn lunges forward, swinging his blade with all it's might towards his foe."

As Drenlyn's stroke comes forward, the mass of the Gondorian reinforcements, bursts forward on the scene, some ten squires led by knights. Three men now crowd around the unconscious Maernus, facing his foe, while three more stand with Drenlyn the rest circle around Rowaen and the lady.

With a few quick commands from the knights, Rowaen and his lady companion are raised onto newly brought horses and depart into the forest. Maernus to is carried off as well, being carried by his fellow squires. And so stand the remnants of the rescue party, a force of ten strong now, facing the remainder of the orcs.

Shouting one last time, breathless, Drenlyn cries out once more, "Flee vermin, before your doom is final!"

Shrugging indifferently, the Teguk backs away slowly, more slowly than some who fought less haphazardly, and licks the blood dripping from his axe. He grins and laughs hollowly, saying, ''Aye, but you taste good, Tark. When your house is burned to ash and you family is slaughtered before your eyes, I will have you on that day, hung from the halls of Dushgob, alive and well. That is when the feast will begin.'' Then finishing his more than idle threat, the Captain turns and lopes away at a half-run, barking out in the guttural language of the orcs, "" Glancing with heated eyes at Ogral, the Teguk kicks up a small clump of dirt, trying to make certain he is the last to leave, glancing about at the dead muttering, ""

As the orcs disappear the sound of many swords being sheathed resounds throughout the wood. Sighing Drenlyn turns away from where the snow is stained red with battle, as he follows the knights through the crude path, leading back to the camp.

And so the sun rises, breaking through the dense forest, sending somber streaks of light to the ground. At such a time do the Gondorians depart, the gladness of their victory dampened by the injuries of their fellows. Such is the dark snow that is left, melting steadily with the coming morning and the warm spilt blood. A bird lands on a bough, enthralled in song, and yet it falls silent as it spots the streams of melting snow and blood.