(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 35 - Rowaen Stands Alone

Mal Taurduin, edge of the forest

Just west of here rises an wall of tall, dark trees, the inpenetrable edge of Mirkwood forest, once the bright and beautiful Greenwood the Great. The path here travels east and west, seeming broad and well cared for to the former and rarely travelled in the latter direction. It is damp and cool under your feet, and the late night air under the looming eaves of the forest is mild. The path drops down a small steep bank to the south as the Taurduin emerges from the forest, its waters laughing cheerfully as they chase their way around the southerly bend in their course.

There are few lights glittering in the darkness far to the east, but your flickering light brightens little more than the the area right around you. Laughter and merry songs float through the brisk night to your ears.

A lone star sparkles for a moment on the eastern sky, but dissapears soon again into the clouds.

Contents:
Ogral

Silent is the night, dark the sky, scarcely light bya few lost stars and a faint moon. Here at this place near the edge of an elven realm, walks a lonely figure, his presence betrayed by the light of his lantern. A keen gaze perhaps might distinguish the figure not being one of elven, lacking the common features of that fair race. It is a men who walks there, though not one from the Lands of Dale, nay tis one from Gondor, a Blue Squire. A heavy cloak lies upon his shoulders, tightly wrapped around his figure, for still the chill is freezing cold...

As the figure comes closer, raven-hair becomes visible, aswell as two sullen blue eyes, Rowaen being the one wandering so lone and late at night. What reasons could he have? None other then remembrance, remembrance of a battle fought at this here place, a few days past. Silent is his pace, eyes glancing round, surroundings sharply taken into visage, as if still exspecting more enemies to jump from behind the trees, standing ready to continue the skirmish...

[Ogral(#20766)] Shuffle and bustle noises can be heard as a lone 'scout' marches through the forest. The density begins to let up, and the forest becomes more and more sparse as the hulking beast moves through the forest. He uses his forarms like hacking blades as he breaks down vines and shoves small sappling trees out of his way. The beast is wrapped in crimson crimson overalls, crimson wrist guards, and above his dirty black chain mail, a tick crimson leather vest. Upon the bald head of the beast is a shining helm that differs from the dirty black skinned Orc. Upon the top of the helmet is face, obviously a slide down face mask, but at this time he wears it upwards. The beast does not seem to be wielding any weapons, and a large, almost disc like shape, appears of his shoulder, a battle axe.

The beast finally reaches the edge of the forest, his hot breath pours steam into the frozen night, glitering by the striking stars. The skin of the beast is blacker then black, like a dirty iron, it is frozen in the night, but colder then it should be. The beast grinds his underbite against his upper teeth as two cracked lower-canines protrude like two towers to his ugly mouth. His crimson eyes scan the sky, orc eyes piercing the darkness of dark. Suddenly, not to far away, a flicker of light is sparked, the figure is tall and not Orcish. The dumb orc grunts, and begins to move slowly towards the not to distant figure, not to abrutly, yet the orc isn't very successfull at keeping it's stealth...

And tis so that the young Squire becomes aware of another present. For indeed it seems there are more enemies near! Swift is his reaction, eyes turning, narrowing in an attempt to pierce the blackness of the night. His hand with the lantern reaches out, hanging it on a branch of a nearbye standing tree. No time he wastes, first drawing sword and readying shield, only then his voice is heard, words leaving his lips.

"Who goes there! Friend or foe!"

Not standing useless and in the open in awaiting an answer, the young lad moves slightly away from the hanging lantern, going the opposite direction of the source of the oncoming noise. Arriving at a few trees the Secondborn halts his pace, turning and standing ready to make a stance if needed.

[Ogral(#20766)] Stalking in a black hulk, the Orc moves towards the obvious tark or Elven Warrior. Bloody whiteskin budgering fools! Ogral murmers under his breath, careful not to let it hear him, however, his plodding feat are preventing that, as the smash twigs and plod into muck. The glowing crimson eyes follow the tark as it moves away from its lantern. Ogral now arrives but three to five meters away, not close enough to make an attack, the Orc Soldier, strict to the bone, has his moment before he would strike.

"Friend, my pretty..."

He laughs as he begins to unsheath his battle axe -- Nothing happens. He gives another tug, and another. He now uses two hands and begins to jerk at the axe sheath over his back. A hot blob of siliva runs down Ogral's trout, the axe obviously stuck to the metal sheath from the frost. He inches slowly towards the tark, now only a few feet from him. He clenches his teeth and quickly moves to his wrist, unsheathing a short scimitar from a wrist-sheath. It glows silently in the night sky. But without warning, the flickering blade is slashed out towards the tark, the black and crimson Orc itself, hard to see in the night, but vicious features illuminated by the nearby lantern. The glittering blade is moved towards the tark's throat, for a quick kill...

Ogral attacks you with his Scimitar!...
...and you parry his attack with your Longsword!

A wise decision Rowaen seems to have made, the lantern in the tree providing him the time he needs to first take sight of his attacker and then immediately preparing his defences. For it is indeed another of the dark ones! Blac as the sky around... and there comes a swift attack! Even swifter though is the raising of his right hand, holding a glimmering blade. With apparent ease the blow of the orc is deflected, steel clashing upon steel.

Seeing his parry is succesfull, the young squire now stands for a counter-attack. A firm push he gives the blade upon his own, stepping in Rowaen raises his sword, shield held close for quick defence. Down comes the steel, from the upperleft downright, aiming for the exposed stomach of the orc before him.

You attack Ogral with your Longsword...
Your attack against Ogral mildly wounds him!

[Ogral(#20766)] The heavy thud can be heard as the tip of the longsword pierces the tick foamy leather vest, but unable to pierce the dirty ringmail of the Orc. The orc grunts with the whole swift movement of the tark as he is pushed backwards. Quickly, the Orc steadies his treetrunk like legs, gripping the scimitar with one hand, be begins to circle the tark. The orc raises his left hand up to his helmet, shutting down the facemask of the helmet a sharply cut edged mask that stops just over his nose, allowing hot breath to steam from his nostrals. Two sharp mandible like spikes follow downwards on the mask, counteracting the two upward canines. His crimson glowing eyes pierce out of two large diomand shape holes that are the eye pieces of the facemask. With a grunt, Ogral slashes his blade down towards the tark, aiming mainly towards the shield, to knock him backwards, but also aligning up his head in the way...

Ogral attacks you with his Scimitar!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Sharp is the steel hitting not only shield but flesh aswell. The blow comes so fierce that the raised shield is knocked sideways, arm being exposed. The studded leather is pierced, a cut being delivered, first spots of blood finding their way out, stenching the Squire's blazen white tunic. A grunt is not surpressed by Rowaen, glancing quickly to his left arm, while stepping away a few steps from the orc. Yet not long he tarries, three swift steps take him near the black orc, blade swung left yet suddenly changed into a forward thrust, aiming for the same spot as with the first attack.

You attack Ogral with your Longsword...
Your attack against Ogral lightly wounds him!

[Ogral(#20766)] A gash is slit open in Ogral's arm. Dark crimson blood soars through the sky. However, it could have been worse, the Orc could have been left armless, but the blade slit into Ogral's shoulder, just under his armor. However, whom would it be worse for? One armed Orcs can be pushed to great fiercness. Yet still, Ogral enraged by the stinging blade is pushed to attack, swinging his blade, yet keeping his balance and dexterity, going for another clean stroke towards the tark's chest.

Ogral attacks you with his Scimitar!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Barely in time Rowaen dashes backwards, shield far too late to block the strike. So a horizontal cut is delivered, pure white being torned, exposing the leather Jerkin under the blazen white, and it is there upon the leather, the blade leaves more damage, a deep cut becoming visible. Grasping for breath and now blinking somewhat nervously at his opponent, Rowaen stands silent for a moment, shield straightened, defence again up, the squire not willing to undergo the same mistake. Only then he steps forward for another blow, ducking low he slashes from his left up to the right, an attempt to deal a severe injury near the place where the orc's legs end and his upperbody starts...

You attack Ogral with your Longsword...
Your attack against Ogral mildly wounds him!

[Ogral(#20766)] The blade is stopped from making Ogral into two Ogral's by the hanging slivets of leather that make his skirt. But, there is however, a large cracking sound. Ogral is bent to the right as his eyes flash in pain. A shrill roar bellows through the air, even if it was only a light strike, the shifting of bone causes imense pain. Quickly Ogral pounces through the air, two crimson eyes starring at the tark from beneath the metal helmet. The curved part of the scimitar is once again aimed for the chest of the tark. Mindless and reckless is the strike of the Ushataar Krimpatul, but if he should hit him...

Ogral furiously attacks you with his Scimitar!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Even the Squire's defence, so carefully thought off, tis no match for the fierceness of the orc. The blow comes swift and is severe, the cut in the white now greatly largened, cutting more then mere cloth. Leather is pierced aswell, steel finding flesh... A grunt of pain leaves the squire's lips, staggering backwards, a hand going to his chest. The hand is lifted, eyes peering at it in the night. Red is the colour... his own blood upon his hand. Gazing at his chest Rowaen takes note of the deep cut in his chest, blood spreading with an increasing rate. For a moment the lad seems astonished by such a fact, to bleed so... Then as he gazes up again, deliberately searching the gaze of his opponent, the eyes burn a fierce hatred. With a loud cry, all sense and reason momentarily forgotten, no heed paid for defence, Rowaen rushes forward. High Maegalfuur is raised, before coming down with force, glimmering, striking down aiming for the orc's head...

You attack Ogral with your Longsword...
Your attack against Ogral moderately wounds him!

[Ogral(#20766)] The orc's leaping attack manages to slash into the chest of the tark. But the landing of the orc is not superb, to say the least. Quickly, the Orc falls on one knee, the recent arrival of the burning globe and heavy rain puts him off balance as the shimering white blade moves down in in a blinding flash. Ogral clinches as the blade slashes downwards striking the heavy helmet of the Orc, and the facemask protects ... most of the Orc's face. However, the blade continues to run down his face, slashing open his lower lip and making a gash in his throat. A quick stagger, and Ogral silently thanks his helmet. He rises upwards, not quite as high as the tark, but most defently bigger in build. As if simply offended by the strike, Ogral grunts at Rowean, bringing his scimitar down across his face in a blinding one handed strike!

Ogral attacks you with his Scimitar!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

Perhaps the wound in his chest bothering his strength and wits, or mere too slow in comparison to the swiftness of the orc, Rowaen fails miserably in his attempt to intercept the blow directed at his figure. Too weak the arm with shield shows to be, being knocked to the side, scimitar only slightly moved from a direct way to his face. Now it comes upon his shoulder, cutting through cloth and studded leather, blood spreading from a huge gap in his flesh, bone even hit. The red spreads now over his pure white tunic with an alarming rate, Rowaen staggering backwards. His left arm falls limp alongside his body, his face bearing a painfull expression, eyes shut tight, the squire biting his lips. Though not long his eyes remain closed, the blue gazing more keenly now then before his attack. Rowaen's wits seem his again, common sense pointing clear that this was a lost battle for his person. With only one arm, wielding his blade, he would not stand much of a chance against the fierceness of the orc. So a decision he makes... one of less valor then oftly spoken of the men from Gondor. Keeping a sharp glance at the orc's figure he suddenly bends low, as quick as his wounds would allow. Sitting so, his blade is for a moment releashed from his grip, hand now grabbing into the soil. His fingers clutch a heap of earth, throwing it at the face mask of the orc. Useless such an attack seems, Squire already grabbing his sword, rising to his feet, and turning. Too slow it seems to him, Rowaen only glancing once over his shoulder, not awaiting if his attempt for a safe departure indeed was succesfull. A trace of blood is left by the squire, lantern left hanging on the tree...

[Ogral(#20766)] The dirt is sprung towards Ogral's eyes, wet dirt from the heavy rain. He grunts slightly, using his stubby fingers to clean the dirt out of his facemask. He growls scoulfully at the tark as it has already moved away. The sun bleaches his eyes in a horrid pain, and he grunts his mission successfull, to confirm the tarks aboding around this area. His stance orderly for a moment as he stretches his back, victory is his, but the only sign of boasting is a wry grin from his broken lip as he limps back towards the dark forest. He stares slightly around as a shudder passes through... Probably the cold. He shakes head and continues back on course, holding his wounds as he begins to move towards the darkness, towards the scout team... He slowly sheaths his short scimitar back into its wrist-sheath as he limps.

[Uvatha(#28711)] A tingle of fear is present in the early morning air, an added chill spreads out over the area. The morning is a little darker, aided by unseen powers to the east and the thick tall trees that spring up from the ground in this ancient forest. The black hearts of the Orken warriors are invigorated, and any who oppose the Dark Lord Sauron are pulled down.

Cloaked both by his dark black robes, and the forest trees The Slayer stands to the side and surveys the situation. His eyes carefully hidden by the hood, their glow prevented and kept from sight. Watching, and waiting to see where the human will run to. Waiting to follow him right back to his den.