(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 27 - The Battle of the Gladden

======================== Steward's Reckoning ========================
IC time is: Mid Morning < About 9:19 AM >
IC day is: Anarya
IC date is: 27 Narvinye
Moon phase: Full
Earendil: Gil-Estel is not visible.
IC year is: 3022 TA
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RL time: Sun Dec 17 14:26:36 2000
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Lawn
Here the stairway through the mellyrn meets the top of a mighty hill. You stand in the middle of a great lawn filled with blue and yellow flowers. A sweet scent fills the air. In the middle of the lawn stands a great shimmering fountain which falls into a basin of silver. From the basin flows a white stream of water out into a small brook, which then trickles away down the hill. Further north stands a mallorn tree of such magnificent height that it seems to reach even to the clouds.
Contents:
Faengor
Amano
Rowaen
Thorondur
White Pavillion
Huan, Wolf-Hound of Dol Amroth
Dulin ben galadh
Large Summoning Drum
Marble Fountain
Obvious exits:
East leads to Flat Lawn.
North leads to Near the Great Tree.
Down the Steps leads to Great Stairway.

In the east, beyond the golden boughs of the mallorn-trees, the first rays of dawn begin to pierce the greyness of wintermorn. The Wood is waking, yet here atop the High Hill of Caras Galadon, there is a special significance to it -- for here, Men wake as well. In their camp at the hill's summit, the Men of Gondor are moving, already
these long hours before the sunrise. Horses are being loaded, and tents folded. Everywhere, it seems, is the Lord Giirthlin, making certain all is in order.

Amongst those men of Gondor stands Rowaen of Nimothan, clad in clothes common to those serving the Order of the Swan as Blue Squires. Perhaps not as busy as Lord Girithlin he seems, mere occupying himself near a particular tent, some packs already standing done, the squire now moving to break down the cloth before him.

Having attended to his mundane duties with the breaking of camp, Doran now turns to gird himself appropriately to set out. The sojourn in Lorien has done the young man a world of good, and his leg seems nearly as fit as it ever was before. The axe wound rent in the back of his leather jerkin by the orcish blade has been mended as well, by cunning elvish fingers. Clothed and armed for riding now, the squire looks to the Girithlin with an expectant look in his shining eyes, reflecting the soft rays of the morning sun. "Seems we are nearly ready to be on our way, sir."

Standing tall and lordly next to his horse, Faengor surveys the camp, having readied his horse and having packed his belongings on him a few moments ago. Now he awaits the departure with patience as his gaze slowly roams about the camp, his hands placed on his hips, allowing his cloak to flutter freely.

A small squadron of the elves of Lorien stand ready, observing the ongoings of the camp. This morning they had brought food and supplies to the Gondorians, and are ready to escort the company to the borders of their realm. Clad in grey mail and grey cloaks, well armed with both sword and bow.

"Nearly, Doran," the Knight-Herald says with a tight, confident smile sprung fast to his lips. "Nearly." Clapping his gloved hands together once, he signals for his own war-horse to be brought around, eyeing the packhorses critically. "Rowaen, Faengor," he calls to the brothers Nimothan, "I hope that this sojourn has healed some part of the rift between you." His tone to them, stern as it is, seems to say without words that the Lord Thorondur has no desire to see their feud rekindled.

Swift and sure, are the movements of a tall Blue-Squire, to some known as Amano, securing travel packs with an economy and skill born of years of labour. His cool grey eyes reflect the light of morn, and of those near him, he might be the most light of heart yet his pale profile is set, as though leaving were not as pleasant or sought after a task as had been journeying hither. Finally wrapping the dark mantle from Minas Tirith about him, he relaxes, hawklike glance upon the Lord Girithlin, awaiting some word or sign to begin the first steps of their journey.

Finishing his work with the tent, now neatly folded and packed away, Rowaen gathers that what seems his, and now steps forward. Packs on his back the young Nimothan moves towards the place where horses stand ready, eyes searching with intens for the mare which was assigned to him. Only brief is his glance at the camp, witnessing all men working, a few nods given to those he recognises. Until the words of Lord Girithlin demand his attention. Short is the glance casted upon his brother, Rowaen not forgetting to let a dark frown pass his features, yet his answer seems reassuring. "No fear, my Lord, our feud shall not endanger that what is to come. Though of healing I would not speak.." Finishing his phrase the squire's turn is immediate, facing a mare, packs being loaded upon the animal.

Silently, Faengor gaze turns to the Lord Girithlin, gazing at him with arched brows for several moments ere inclining his head towards the Lord respectfully and speaking with a clear voice, "Ofcourse, Lord." He smiles faintly and turns his back to Girithlin, grabbing hold of the reins of his horse and swooping himself in the saddle with a clean jump. The sun rises over the trees, flashing on the golden leaves of the Mellyrn.

"Then I fear that for all you have learned, the true lessons of this place have yet eluded you," Thorondur, audibly disappointed, tells the squire -- nodding once to the young man's brother. "For the true gift of this place is the gift of Healing. Old wounds and new -- shallow and deep -- of the body and the spirit. But let us not dwell on our failures it may yet be that we shall learn our lessons."

Men stand like white statues on the fantastic lawn of Lord Celeborn and the Golden Lady swathed in the scent of flowers and the backdrop of gold and white, they appear like noble kings of days past. Men they are, not elves, but their presence in fair Lorien is a tale of joy and mortal bliss as opposed to sorrow. Collinmar walks up the farmiliar stair to join his elvish comrades. Like a grey wraith he rises silently into view, eyes twinkling like stars to see these strange people at his Lord's very door step. Finding their speech strange, the Knight-Bachelor joins his brother Glindorel and his dear friend Salathalion greeting them with a nod.

Raising his voice, like a crack of thunder now Thorondur commands, "Squires of Dol Amroth, to your horses! Doran -- you shall bear the standard."

Soft words Rowaen seems to mutter, perhaps in reply to the Knight-Herald? "Healing in a matter such as this, would require to come from two sides, alas it only seems to come from one..." Eyes are closed, only briefly though, for the moment the order to mount is given, Rowaen grabs hold of the saddle, pulling himself upon the mare with grace. Again his eyes roam the encampment, now passing both Second -and Firstborn. Upon those fair folk his gaze for a moment seems to linger, not willing to pass beyond, yet still it goes on, falling silent upon the mare he sits upon.

Doran now moves to his own mount, slinging a small bundle, all that the squire carries as personal effects on this journey, over the saddle of his light grey steed. The young man glances in the direction of the small group of elves, for only a moment. For now the clear voice of the herald rings out in his direction, and the scion of House Isilrim answers with a flash in his grey eyes. "Proudly, m'lord," Doran responds to the knight, a grave expression on his face. But his shining eyes belie the stern, outward demeanor of the squire. He strides quickly now to take hold of the staff with cloth regally emblazoned. Swinging up into his seat, banner of the fair White Citadel by the sea swaying softly in the cool breeze, Doran takes his place now at the fore of the company.

Collinmar peers at the commanding oggicer with mild amusement, " Such unnecessary volume when his folk are so near. Quite heathenistic. Alas, they are men and cannot be helped." With a look pointedly to his brother he asks, " When are we to take them to the Naith?"

The clear call of the Knight-Herald prompting him to finally stir from where he stands, tall and white-garbed but for the shadowy fall of his sable cloak, Amano draws near to the tall chestnut stallion he had ridden all the long leagues from Dol Amroth, leaping astride with an ease that had been honed by the journey. He affords the Nimothan, Rowaen, a grin, as though in sympathy for the words that Thorondur had spoken though he says naught of his own thoughts, skilfully guiding his steed close to the formation of mounted men more by imperceptible movements than his reins. Inclining his brow to the Lord Girithlin, he waits, straight and tall in his saddle, his eyes veiled and tranquil as the winter skies.

Now to the Elves does Thorondur look, swinging up into the saddle of his own steed, noble Amrandir. White is his cloak, and the charger beneath him golden the Star of Elendil emblazoned on his breast. " We thank you and your Lord and Lady, Eldar of Lothlorien," the Herald of Imrahil tells the Elves in their own tongue, with courtesy.

Silently, Faengor watches the last of the men of Gondor raise in the saddle of their horses. His lips curl into a soft yet sorrowful smile. Tightly then, he grabs hold of Erinion's rein, spurring his horse gently towards the direction of the Lord Herald and the Bearer of the Standard.

" Momentarily brother." replies Gilcolm, his Silvery hair flowing in the breeze. " They must ready themselves first." Now bowing to the sons of Numenor, the Tarn calls out, " With your leave lord, shall we proceed?" Malcolm walks over to join the ranks of the escourt, and readies his longbow. " Ready at last." he mutters.

" Then we shall take our leave of this lovely wood," Thorondur tells Gilcolm, his voice now softened and heavy with some deep regret. Indeed, at his parting from fair Caras Galadhon, a shadow seems to pass across the Elf-Friend's handsome face, and he bows his head in reverence ere spurring Amrandir forward.

Gladden River, North Bank
The Gladden river lies to your south, growing swifter, wider, and deeper as it flows to the east. The sounds of nature abound--the plop of fish, the chirping of crickets, the skittering of small animals. You may move along the bank to the east or the northwest, or you may choose to travel northeast across the open fields towards the dark line of the even larger Anduin River.

A breeze rolls down all the way from the Misty Mountains and over the boundless plains of grass, causing the grass to wave like the ocean. Light sparkles off the river to the south as it meanders by in its shallow bed and the feathery moss waves back and forth in the current. Nearer the river, the grass becomes short and velvety soft, as if inviting you to relax by the water and let your worries float downstream with the water. It is snowing. The early morning winter air is cold and dry around you. The moon is not visible.
Contents:
White Pavillion
Thorondur
Obvious exits:
East, NorthEast, NorthWest, Into River, and West

Not far from the Gladden river and its rushing waters, not far from the Hitheaglir, whose peaks pinnacle upwards, rivalling for a place in the heavens, not far from the lands of Lothlorien and her watchful guardians there lies the encampment of the men from the South. High up in the sky, the fields of heaven lie and in them, the many stars that glitter like living jewels - and among them is Earendil: the brightest and most beloved to the Galadhrim, whose guards stand over the quiet camp, side-to-side with the men from Gondor. Grim their chiseled faces, keen their sharp ears and strict their sapphire eyes are. The borders of the forest have almost been left bheind them on their march northwards - hence the last watch ere they return to their treehouses in the city of Caras Galadon. Tall and proud like quiet kings the silver bark of the trees shoot upward, until their first branches sprout out into a shadowly cloud of leaves. And verily, all shelter and protection is necessary, for the elves have become watchful after the recent increase in activity near the dark mines of Moria...

A chill wind rushes through the encampment of the Dunedain, which subsequently makes all who are there pull their cloaks about them more tightly. " Oi, what a wind mellyn. Would that it were warmer here." says Gilcolm, a sentiment that most obviously share. His brother Malcolm looks about him and replies. " Aye, but there are surely worse things about than the wind mellon. Keep your bow and your eyes ready." Nodding, the Tarn says, " Aye brother, and I'll expect you to do the same. Collinmar, help us watch for any movement in the trees." Calling out to their older brother, they begin walking slowly over to him.

Seated high on top of his horse, Faengor surveys his surroundings with serene eyes, clad in bright mail and a cloak, black as the feathers of a raven. Sorrow for the departure from Lorien is hidden behind stern lips curled in a meaningless smile.

For many weeks the company of Men had rested in fair Lothlorien, healing their hurts and laying aside the cares of the road that they mush travel, under the ward of the Lord and Lady. But now, plunging back into the perils of the Wild, pursuing their errand with cautious speed, these valiant knights of Gondor are ever watchful, wary of the dangers that can infest these unsettled lands at times. The proud standard of Dol Amroth, still held aloft by the squire Doran, though it is lashed to his saddle as well. For the squire remains horsed, standing vigil on the river's side of the company. That river and the fields beyond whose name is wrapped up in the high doom of the south-kingdom.

Standing watch beside his steed, wolf-keen, the west wind lifting his raven hair and tossing it about as it would sweep the grass, one among the men of Gondor lifts his glimmering gaze to the mountains, limned in the light of morn, graven and still, an image seeming carven but for the fluttering of his cloak. Amano, or so his height names him even from afar, glances not back to the Wood they had left behind, though even among those who had been awed at the beauty of that Elf-home, he had been one of the squires most enamoured, seemingly, of that timeless land. Yet hard and steady his eyes remain riveted to the plains before the camp, as though only the thought of the road, and the long leagues ahead, occupied the forefront of his mind.

As she peeks above the horizon, the sun gives praise and lights the way for the party heading soutward along the Gladden from fair Lorien. Mist curls about the legs of elf and steed, golden adament seems the broght armour of the men of Dol Amroth and keen the stars they bare.

Collinmar watches this noble procession with a mild sence of respect for the commander and a friendlyness felt toward his folk still milder. A gentle breeze sweeps his cloak like a flag around him, along with those of his comrades, amidst the occasional snorting of a charger or an upcost in the river. The three dimensions of their surroundings settle to two as Collin begins to look toward the horizon and on to lands he would wish to see further still to the sea for which his heart longs, rather than to his immediate surroundings. Alas, he is escort in this green land. Would that he could come at other times and spend other hours watching the water bid farewell to his home and greet the sea in due time. Would that he could watch the clouds and join them to see the distant lands of which he has only heard. Would that he were mortal, and had fear of death so that he might spend what days he had in the streets of the cities of men and gaze at their work such would be ambition to an elf. The clopping of hooves continue, loudly to elven ears, as Collin is brought back to his own countenance to watch for shadows in the woods or tracks near the river which the cavalry men are too high above to see, and his comrades yet too unskilled to note save his brother Gilcolm. Over all, a warm sence of righteousness fills his heart, would that he could have met these mortal men ere their parting. Alas, his duty kept him from friendship and knowledge of that which he would deem dearest. Purhaps for the better, for now friendship will not keep him from duty.

Silently under the starlight, travels the Company of the Sword once more. The sound of hooves fills the surronding darkness, as this men of the south ride on their journey. Tall men the are, descendants of those who were once kings among men and dear friends to the Firstborns, which has almost been forgoten. Yet among those men, the walls around their hearts were cast down, and the love of the old friendship found once more. Now they leave the Golden Woods and continue upon their quest, as tall and proud as they have ever been.

"Yrch!" one of the elven guards cries out, his arm stretched into the eastward direction. The keen eyes of Altharion have not betrayed him, for there, in the seclusiveness of the trees one of the dark creatures fleds back. The word goes around the camp quickly...

At the cry, a quiet, subtle alarm is quickly raised in the company of Men. Doran, eyes wide though he seems calm and stern, nudges his mount back to the small circle of his fellows, staff still held upright with the standard of the Ship and Swan.

And with that single cry, the shadow reaches forth to make itself known -- even here, so close to the hallowed borders of the Golden Wood! But there are those who stand watch against it... Bright and chill with the fire of the stars, naked steel glimmers in the camp -- thus, with swift wariness, the Men of Gondor ready themselves for the onslaught that must surely come.

Not far from the Gladden river and its rushing waters, not far from the Hitheaglir, whose peaks pinnacle upwards, rivalling for a place in the heavens, not far from the lands of Lothlorien and her watchful guardians there lies the encampment of the men from the South. High up in the sky, the fields of heaven lie and in them, the many stars that glitter like living jewels - and slowly this living raiment of heaven gives way to the grey dawn. Alarmed stand the guards of the Elven Lord Celeborn, side to side with those of Gondor at the sight of the foul orcs. Grim their chiseled faces, keen their sharp ears and strict their sapphire eyes are.

Looking uneasily at the river, Indilzar Bragollach strokes the head of Huan the Wolf-Hound. Then with laconic ease he goes to his horse, Morang and mounts him. After mounting he touches a bright lock of hair that he has pinned upon his left breast. He calls over to Thorondur, "What ho, Thorondur Girithlin? Huan is ill at ease here."

Sat by the fire, long awake already, the Lord Girithlin removes his thick cloak of sable furs, the gift of Denethor. Standing then, refusing to hurry, Thorondur dons the white mantle of his knighthood, and goes to remove the horses' hobbles. "Orcs, Indilzar," Thorondur tells the Bragollach. "Though how many and what sort, I know not."

Upon the raising of the alarm, Faengor's hand immediately turns to the pommel of his sword, stroking it gently with the top of his fingers as squinted eyes turn to the east. Calmly, he raises from his knelt position, grasping hold of the black horse's reins which stood next to him. "Yrrch..?" he repeats questioningly, yet with a biting undertone. Grimly his gaze turns to the Knight-Herald, waiting for his command.

"From the mountains no doubt," says Indilzar casting an aspersing glance to the west. He then laughs and says, "They shall prove to be good game then for Huan. Not since the Fords of Isen has the swords of the south sunk against orcish heads."

Short is the lass that is clad completely different from the guards. Petite as she is, she is dressed in the garment of a soldier. Over her silk green dress is a suit of glimmering chainmail, of quality not often seen. Set upon it in small green gems the three-trunked beech tree Hirilorn, symbol of Doriath, carrying the memories of the beautiful Luthien in its branches. She slowly walks around the campsite, her keen eyes piercing the surroundings. The hour has come - she looks eastward at the cry of the alarmed guard, or perhaps before... for Calriel, the Lady of the Green Elves is known to have the prescience of keen forethought. On her back is a long bow of yew, as used by the Galadhrim, and on her side hangs from her belt a long sheath. It is overlaid with a tracery of flowers and leaves wrought of silver and gold, a silent and merciless forbode to any enemy.

Himself still, though watchful, as a young hawk might warily behold peril so near, is the tall Blue-Squire Amano, upon the fringes of the gathering of Men. Reining the stallion in with a calm hand, he bends his gaze to where the elf-guard had pointed, though nothing at first does he discern, being not as keen-eyed as the First-Born, strain as he might. Young as he is, grave and still, is his glance, and it is quietly, so as not to cause a stir, that he paces his mount near his kinsman, Doran, bearer of the Standard of Dol Amroth whether he had chosen that post to watch and wait, cannot be told of his countenance cold and icily still in the winter light yet the words that slip from his lips are precise, and without hurry: "Orcs then, cousin.. so soon out of the fair wood, so soon reminded of the darkness.."

As he frees the mighty destriers of Belfalas from their place of rest, the Lord Girithlin looks upon Faengor, sternly and with wisdom. "The squires will be afoot, Man of the Tower -- I would have you and your fellow lead them." Now though he looks to Indilzar, and wonders. "The Elves look to the East," he says, "as if the maggots come upon us from the river."

Durgum grudgingly follows the orders of Revoltang as he stumbles west. Often falling and picking himself up in the blinding light.

From the west, a great shadow indeed does reach forth from the banks of the Anduin, its terrible darkness taking shape as it draws near. Tendrils of silhouetted darkness become banners, marked with the Sigils of both Mordor and Moria. Spikes of blackness become spears: Thus come the Orcs. At their front, a commander, clad in mail, and a round shield bearing the sign of Khamul the Easterling. This is Grishnakh, Commander of the Orcs of Mordor, and behind him march orcs of both East and West, North and South. Mordor and Moria are rallied behind him, and despair follows in his wake.

"Trust then to elven sight," says Indilzar at length, "Nothing shall bar our going."

Indilzar wields Inalantadil.

Remaining upon his steed, Doran looks for the elder knights to receive instruction. The standard of Dol Amroth he holds tightly, knuckles turning white with his clutching grip. Held firmly atop his steed by his strong legs, the squire reaches down to his belt, and out sweeps a cold Isilrim blade. He nods at his kinsman, a grim expression on his fair face.

Sword and shield now in hand, Tamran moves towards Faengor as the sounds of alarm echoes around them. A brief glance and a quick nod does the guardsman give to Thorondor, before glancing towards the nearby squires. "Stay close to us!" he says to them, before turning around. Tamran pulls the sword from its sheath, strangely, the sword leaves and erie silence. Quickly Argoth spins the sword to the side of him gracefully, leaving trailmarks of the black nothingness that makes up the blackhole essence of the blade. He quickly holds the sword out in front of him in a fighting stance.

And before the lone campfire -- burning low now, it's pale glow seeking in vain to stave off the shadows -- stands another man, tall and with cloak cast back to reveal glittering mail. To the West his gaze is bent, grey eyes aglimmer -- until they find that which they seek. And calm yet is his voice, if stern, unhurried even in the
midst of this:

"They come."

"Then let us raise our blades together once more," Thorondur tells Indilzar, and his laughter is fey and fell to hear it. Now swinging up into his saddle, the Knight-Herald of Dol Amroth signals with steel to the assembled squires. "Men of Dol Amroth," he tells them, "today you are Men of Gondor most truly. Arnafel, Indilzar and I must ride together. Those of you ahorse will cleave to us -- those of you afoot, your command I give to Tamran and Faengor of Minas Tirith. Follow them as you would your Prince, and they will lead you safely through the fire."

The sound of horns rise braying from the Mordain army, and these are not the sweet horns of the elven kind, or of the men of Gondor. These are the black horns of the orcs of Moria, the sound praising the destroying flame. With the sounds of horns are the sounds of singing, foul tunes of death and destruction, the dirty mirror of the high songs of the elves. The forces of Moria come with the shadow of the forces of Mordor, adding their might to forge one weapon to strike at the forces of good. At the head of the Morians comes the Goblin Revoltang, his hammer raising high into the air, his lips drawn back in a scream of rage. These are the dark warriors, these are the blighters and the burners. The uruk mass has come...

Within this massive host, this amalgamation of nefarious beings, one faction can be distinguished perhaps due to the banner that flies wide overhead, dancing against the taunting winds: the sigil of Dol Guldur. At its head, one orc seems to march with purposeful and steady ease, his scarlet spheres scanning the mustered foes before them. "Bows," he orders, a marching line forming horizontally behind him as he himself unslings his own weapon. "Be ready."

"SO BE IT!" cries Indilzar aloud and then he holds high the shining blade of the Bragollach. He then turns to the council, "Let the horse men go first, and we shall pierce through the ranks at need. Do not stay long in engagement but trust your fellow Men. We are to help the elves, but we have our errand before us."

Still walking, his weapon a bit down, Krack is making his way, behind some large uruk, but as he's pretty large too, he can't really hide. Showing two bloody red eyes from under his hood, the Rakarg says silency to the group that is following him,"Prepare! Weapons up!" The slip of saliva that was falling from the mouth of the uruk before, still there and just shows a thing he needs Blood. His gaze just seems to search for a victim wait for the command of the vorazg.

"Such I shall, Lord." Faengor replies, serenely inclining his head towards Thorondur, ere turning his gaze to Tamran and greeting him with the same nod. Then, he grabs a firm hold of his sword's hilt and with a mighty swoop it is draw from it's scabbard under the rinkling of polished steel against steel.

"We fight, together oncemore Tamran" Faengor speaks gravely as he takes a defensive stance his sword held out in front of him. One last gaze is given to the squires behind him and then his voice is raised, "Follow then, squires of the prince and remember the words of your Knight!"

Guruok marches with the uruks of the Dol Guldur garrison, right beside a large Uruk-hai wearing multi colored bands around his upper arm. Hefted in his left hand is a large war standard, depicting a ring with flames like the teeth of a saw blade extending out around it on all sides, the circle inside being perfectly smooth and without blemish. This is the emblem of the Eclipsed Sun. Keeping it high for all to view, it inspires all those who figh on the side of darkness to greater efforts. "Today we shall cause much pain and suffering" he rasps to Nardakh.

Collinmar does not sleep for he one of Lord Celeborn's people from the Golden Wood. Like light manifested into a living thing of flesh and conscience, Collin emerges from some philosophical question inwardly asked in regards to the wiles of water and earth and all things that are in elven charge. As the cry is heard, the foul ones emerge, though they appear a bit out of place, foolish rather, to ambush to camp of elf and friend. Collin strikes his longbow from his shoulder with the fluidity of one who has studied the movement of grass in a gentle breeze. Eyes gaze through the last gasps of several low cooking fires around him as the foul ones rush into the camp giving out their hateful war cries and spurting their ugly heathen mouths to foul the air with noise and stench. The Knight-Bachelor of the Order of Lorien has just realised the purpose of war to heathens, both orc and man: to take and keep at the expence of your foe. Alas, his elven mind sees no logic is such philosphy, but glory and sport are attributes he understand quite well. A grey fletched missile is quickly nocked to a silver string and pulled to the corner of his jaw. A grin graces his noble, fair face as he targets the beedy eyes of some, apparently adolescant orc.

Now standing tall in his saddle, white mantle rippling in the wind behind him, the Lord Girithlin cries aloud, "Then these frightful folk of the tunnels, and shadowed halls under hill and dale -- let them know who they face, for the might of Westernesse has long gone unseen in these wild lands."

"Doran! Raise the standard!" And now Thorondur lifts to his lips a golden horn....

BA-WHOOOOOOOM! BA-WHOOOM BA-WHOOOOOOOOOM!

Making her way through the throng of bloodlusted uruks, the Logaz Spinnekop stands close behind the large form of the Mordain Smith, Krack. Her eyes gaze forward, moving from the morians, to the smith's back. Seething hatred for the creature before her burns in her eyes, and she carefully wipes dried blood from the blade.

The sight of that shadow streaming forth from the riverbanks, as a floodtide that naught might stem but steel, Amano 's glance glitters, though his brow, icily pale, is marred by a fierce frown, as a cloud shadowing the cold grey skies. His answer to the summons of the Knight-Herald is a nod of silent acquiescence, and white leaps a fire from the depths of his glance, that finds reflection in the bared blade he wields. No shimmer of masterfully wrought steel from this, a sword, serviceable and without trapping or gilded hilt and unwavering is the young hand that draws it from the scabbard. Even as the shadow draws nearer, the Squire spurs his horse close behind the Knights as had been commanded not lacking in courage, though far younger and less wise, than the Lords of Gondor he followed into battle.

"Come, cousin," Doran calls now to Amano as they join themselves to the knights. "Let us help to clear a path, so that the others might follow unscathed." The unfurled emblem of fair Dol Amroth he now lifts up with a clear cry. Sword at the ready, the squire steels himself, prepared to stare into the face of death.

The horns of Gondor ring out aloud, and the echoes of Westernesse sound down through the ages the song of the horns, bright upon the new-come rays of the rising sun, lifts hearts and spirits among the Dunedain.

Collinmar draws an arrow from his quiver, and nocks it to the string. He looks around for suitable target.

As they march along comming ever closer to the time of blood and death to the peace and sun loving men and elves, Felmompant screams only louder, "BAAAALOOOOOD! BAAAAALOOOOOOD! SEND 'EM T' 'ELL GATES! BAAAAALOOOOOOOD!" He licks his axe blade as if there were already blood on it.

Uberghash charges behind Revoltang, giggling like a maniac. Raising his sharpened meat fork, he searches for a likely foe.

Grishnakh remains at the head of his troops, his scimitar held firmly in his hand as the morning sun flashes against its metal, causing it to give of an aura of evil. He is chanting, now, to himself, prayers to his Dark Lord. "Forward! Regain your lives for the Glory of the Eye," he screams, and with that, the Orcs charge...

The eyes of Indilzar shine grey and now as will after be told a great rage falls upon him at the song of the Horns of Men. Then by him the Hound Huan leaps forth, eager for the joy of battle.

A moment longer he remains thither -- the Lord of the Isilrim, leaning upon his blade limned with cold silver -- and then he too strides to the horses, and mounts. Quiet is his voice, and thoughtful -- a counterpoint to the brave, defiant call of the horn, "So...three Knights of Amroth and their Squires to ride against the orcs. But Arien rides with us in her chariot of fire."

Collinmar eyes the screaming beast licking his axe, an intense hatred for the blatant blasphemy spoken on his foul tongue in a speech that ought to be more fair. The Knight-Bachelor begins to stalk to his right so as not to be noticed by the ugly thing.

West Bank of Anduin, Bridge for Old Forest Road
The hard-packed east-west road continues here, meeting an elegantly adorned, arched stone bridge that could only be the work of the dwarves. The bridge crosses the wide and swift river and you can see the road leading to the east towards the murky line of the woods. To the west, the snow-covered road cuts a path to the growing peaks of the Misty Mountains.
It is snowing. The late morning winter air is cold and dry around you. The moon is not visible.
Contents:
Arnafel
Huan, Wolf-Hound of Dol Amroth
Grishnakh
Indilzar
Obvious exits:
SouthWest, South, Into River South, Into River North, West, Bridge, and
North

A shrill and high-pitched wail, full of despair and evil, echoes over the area.

Indilzar Bragollach is seated upon his horse. As the cry lifts up his ears almost twitch. He then says, "I know that voice. Long are the leagues from Osgiliath but I still remember the footsteps of terror."

The Orc commander breaks off from the main group with a few of his favored warriors. Well-armed and trained, the scream that echoes through the area gives these dark creatures an eerie comfort - whipped into a frenzy by the terror it causes. Grishnakh himself stands, his blade held firmly in his hand. "Nazgul," he whispers with a grin, "The Eye truly favors our efforts."

Darladad started to trmble. Never in his whole life so much despair was set free in his young dark hearth. He tried to flee, but the oustanding force of his commander keep him with the rest of his unit.

Too does the Lord Thorondur pale at the sound, the shrill and evil song of sorcery. To Indilzar at his side, the knight looks with a stern resolve. "We must face him again, though it be to our own doom. If I fall here today, my friend -- remember me to my father, my mother and sister, and to Lothiriel."

Thither, a glimmering circle of light in the midst of darkling tides, the Lords of Westernesse sit astride their steeds, awaiting the foe. And yet, at that cry, the horses neigh and pull at their reins, and not a few among the Squires pale. Grim indeed the Silver Knight seems now, "Their Captain comes."

The grey dawn is suddenly choked to darkness. From the East comes thick clouds a storm rides, and swiftly does it overtake the Anduin and her banks. Despite the clamour of battle, hoofbeats throb in every ear and a cold, deadly laughter rushes over the field with frigid gusts. Over the bridge it rides, a fell Black Rider and atop his head is the majestic iron crown. The darkness welcomes him. Death spurs its hell-bred steed towards the fray and before it a madness spreads.

The cloth, dancing to a soundless tune, flaps around Nardakh's body in seductive waves challenging seduction, luring any enemy daring enough to defy him. Within those sockets of his, two red whirpools glitter with lust for the blood that equals their hue. His club held in a white-knuckled hand, his shield not just fastened over the other arm, he awaits, lewdly grinning, mockingly watching.

"So shall it be sung," says Indilzar grimly, "if there be any harper who would write so sad a lay. But I think our doom shall not be here whither Isildur fell long ago. Come now, there is much strength of Men and Elves among us. I shall drive into the captain of the orcs. But what shall you do I wonder? Even the bold Men of Gondor cast aside weapons at the rumour of his coming. Yet strangely, my fear is not as great as once it might have been. Great indeed is the bliss of Lothlorien and even though the Sunlight may be blotted, it shall yet ever shine. So uplift your hearts Men, and do your duty. Our doom shall not be here."

Even in the darkest of nightmares, the young Isilrim squire has heard nothing like to that cry of evil doom. Doran nearly swoons and falls from the saddle at that dreadful voice, as he feels the very shadow of the Black Land prevading the air as a foul mist to poison and confuse the mind. Gripping the standard that is lashed to his mount, though, the squire remains horsed, following close behind the three gallant knights.

Solemn and sombre now, their white and blue and silver mantles -- solemn and sombre their banners from far afield. Yet an answer comes, to the cry that chilled their souls, and the Men of Gondor take heart in its hearing, and not least in the memory of Lorien fair. For Thorondur Girithlin, Edrahil the Elf-Friend, sounds the Horn of Amroth once more: And together with the Dawn does it signal their fated charge.

Running like he never did before, raising his sword high over his head, Krack is just making his way through this area. His gaze is just looking for a opponent to fight as well he could ever do. The blood already falling from some combatants makes Krack feel better. His eyes turned to a bloody red even more that they are habitually. The slip of saliva that was falling from his mouth still there, holding a wish in the deepest part of his body Blood. Yelling loudly, Krack continues his way, fighting with some humans. When the smith finally reaches a place where the vorzag was, he stops to think in some way. His earth seems to stop at the vision of the nazgul and Krack continues his fight, filled with some kind of force.

"Archers!" Grishnakh calls, "Kill their horses! Get the riders to the ground where we can better attack them!" Bows are drawn and shafts are let loose in the direction of the charging humans. Indeed, the presence of the Wraith has whipped the Uruk-Hai into a frenzy, their fear only driving them into a madder bloodlust - and Grishnakh at their lead.

Guruok shivers at the sound of the Nazgul's cry, its sound causing changes in him that he is unable to control. No longer does he squint his eye in the morning light and he seems tense with scarely controlled bloodlust. Still, however, he stands at Nardakh's side, mindful of the larger uruk's threat against him. He still holds in his hand the standard to which he has sworn his life.

"Then may Ulmo watch over you, Bragollach. But Thorondur and I must ride to face the Black Captain -- or all is lost." And in that moment of deathly stilness which follows the call of the horn, the Isilrim turns one last time to the golden flames which gild the horizon, heralding the coming of dawn. And then, they charge.

Slicing his sword through the air, Indilzar checks his pace and then rides with his flashing sword. Then he charges and with him paces Huan the Hound who desires war as much as his friend Indilzar. On and on he rides and Morang rides in the mirk like Nightshade. It is thus that Indilzar comes upon the orcs and perhaps some of that fell brood will mark him for who he is: Indilzar the Bragollach, not the least of the Knights of Dol Amroth, and well known in the fields of Osgiliath so far away.

As the sound of the Horn of Amroth echoes in the air, another rider comes forth. Clad in black and silver, his helmet glitters slightly under the starlight, his sword held firmly in his hand. No knight or squire is he, yet a man of Gondor he is and as his cloak opens before him, cast behind him by the wind - the crest of the Silver Tree can be seen. A guard of the Tower he is, proud and tall he rides forth, joining the men of the south.

Indeed, the darkness falters so near the sacred wood of Lorien. The sounding of the Horn of Amroth, too, causes a break in the clouds and the Sun prevails. The orcs are thus pinned between the shrill cry of their Captain and the bellowing of the noble Horn. However, the fell Morgul-lord is not daunted. His steed bears him forward madness drives the orcs into their foes. Relentless is the assault. The Nazgul pulls his black mount to a sudden stop at the flank of the orkish mass. Beneath the kingly crown flash two red eyes as they peer over the soldiers. The cold and heavy gaze falls on Thorondur, wielding his horn.

They charge, indeed, and their horses bear them forward -- no mounts of Rohan, these, but the great destriers of the Belfalas, and the barding they wear thwarts the arrows of evil. Yet little it will avail them now -- for together, Thorondur and Arnafel are borne rapidly toward Doom embodied. Fair they ride, an angelic vision, a mirror of Men in their ancient glory. Into the arms of the Shadow, the Lords of the Dunedain ride.

Darladad ste his spear to stop the charge, laughing about the tactical mistake that means a horse charge in an unsecure terrain. He limped along the lines trying to get a better position to secure his spear, and waited.

Indeed, Indilzar is recognized to Grishnakh, the Vorazg of Mordor. The Orc's scimitar is held high in the air, ready for the assault. "Archers...LOOSE!" He calls out, and more arrows are fired at the charging humans from the small force of Uruk-Hai who stand behind their master. "Be ready! They draw near!"

The banner of the Ship and Swan had wavered, at the oncoming of the Captain of Despair. But his will now hardened by the peals of the Girithlin's horn, reminiscent of the wind singing sweetly through the cliffs by the Sea, Doran holds the standard aloft. Charging now at the flank of Indilzar's steed, the squire readies himself for the fearful clash. The southern tokens, silver and blue striving against deathly black, will meet within moments.

The arrows are of no avail, for they launch over the head of the Black Knight. Then with flashing grey eyes he crashes into the ranks. First and foremost he decides that his best course is to take their leader: Grishnakh, althought Indilzar knows not that name. Therefore, stooping Indilzar wheels his horse and slices his sword at Grishnakh.

Grishnakh is wounded by the blade slashes his left arm, causing black blood to spill forth from the laceration. A growl is elicited from his lips, though no other sign of pain comes from them. Almost immediately, the Orc warrior swings his blade back at the Knight, hopefully before his horse has ferried him out of range.

The blow catches the leg of Indilzar, and only the slightest of wounds scathes him. This however, enrages Indilzar and he wheels his horse about again. He swings his sword down low, to the skull of the orc..

The laughter of the Black Captain rises over the battle as Thorondur and Arnafel spur their steeds towards him. "How noble and majestic thou art, returned from the dead!" he cries out shrilly as he produces a longsword, fringed with a sickly glow. His eyes flash between the two captains as he sits, almost placid, waiting for the brave dyad to seal their fate before him.

Witch-king pulls an ancient blade froms its unseen sheath with a deafening hiss of steel. The long sword shimmers with sorcery as dark as its wielder.

Darladad gets near an human, showing his spear and his evil grin. He run and charged against him!. His secret training in the forest worked, and in a moment of inspiration he started to sing. The sword over sword, the death over death Who are the men coming this field? - "Long time ago Isildur here was killed And in this very earth his blood was spilled You came here to die? Little weak men? The end you are waiting will come from my hand!" -

Tamran continues to ride forth, getting closer to the knights and squires already in battle. As he approches the front, his gaze falls upon Nardakh. Clenching the hilt of his sword, he makes his way towards orc.

The blade of Indilzar is, indeed, swung with skill. The Vorazg of Mordor, however, dodges his head out of its way, leaning away from its lethal edge. His arm still bleeding, the fabric of his vestments becoming soaked with the sable fluid, he swings again at the Swan-Knight of Dol Amroth with his scimitar - amazing celerity in his actions - hoping to score a deadly hit.

With both rounds of this dance of death missed Indilzar rides through. He tramples over the dead and then turns. He kicks Morang to a hearty race and comes again at Grishnakh, the sword of his fathers glimmering...

Across the field of battle, through the midst of death and ruin they charge -- untouched, unscathed -- for it is a more terrible Doom which awaits the two Lords of Gondor. And yet, in that last moment, the Silver Knight is betrayed by his steed -- a dozen paces from the Fell Captain it halts, and it will go no further, despite its master's will. "Back to the dark pits whence you came, foul one! Back, lest your master's will is shattered and broken by the fire of dawn!" -- stern and grim Arnafel cries and yet, it is as if the flame which gilds his blade dulls and fades under the weight of that dread shadow.

Guiding his steed away from the rain of black-fletched shafts, Doran now spurs his horse back towards the vanguard of the orcs. The squire wheels his mount back with considerable skill, following the wake of Indilzar. He finds himself now at the fore of the battle, and steadied by his grip on the proud standard, Doran stoops from his saddle to smite upon one of the foul spawn of evil with his sword.

Yet where the Silver Knight is halted, beside him the white surges forward -- never pausing. For Amrandir has faced this fear before, and his rider comes cloaked not only in the valour and courage of purity -- but in vengeance, vengeance bred of ancient loss. "I know thee, Lord of Morgul!" cries the Herald of Imrahil, the sunlight shimmered golden about him, though he plunges into Shadow. "I know thee, Betrayer," Thorondur cries, rising in the saddle with upraised blade, "and I call thee to justice! Gondor!"

As a sword flies to the smith on his back, Krack just makes a turn on his right foot. Moving down a bit, he avoid easily the sword but with no more hesitation, the rakarg starts to yell loudly. Moving his arm up, Krack takes all his strength and swings his scimitar to the bottom part of the chest of the human who tried to take him down.

Once again, the Knight's Blade cuts into Grishnakh. This time, however, the Orc commander is thrown back, upon the ground. He scrambles to get back to his feet, and as he does so, he calls, "Archers! Kill that Bloody Horse!" He stands, now, preparing for Indilzar's next attack.

Indilzar turns his horse and gives no heed to the fallen orc. He now rides to the aid of the squire Doran and he rides toward the orc that is assailing him. Coming in at the flank, he cooly swings his sword toward him...

The laughter rings over the Morgul-king as Arnafel is forced to halt his charge behind Thorondur and his raised steel. For a moment, brief and fleeting, the Witch-king seems to have shrunk in glory before the majesty of the Lords of Gondor. The despair is lifted as if granting breath to the enemies of the Eye. However, the laughter rings clearer in defiance and malice seethes forth. "Fool! Thou doth not know me or my Master to whom I give service. Knowest thou the power of Death? Ride and challenge it, and it will certainly prevail!" he shrieks, raising his black sword high above his crowned head.

Indilzar continues to ride through and now wheels his horse and shouts to Doran, "Strength and honour Man of Gondor!"

Nardakh's eyes alight upon the figure galloping his direction. "Ah," he says, smiling, "so one of them is bold enough?" Replacing his club into the scabbard, he unslings his bow and fetches an arrow, the rear held tight between two fingers. "Off your horse, tark!" And he releases.

The Vorazg smiles as Indilzar rides away from him - a brief reprieve. He rubs his wounded shouder with a frown upon his lips as, now, he runs toward the rider. He reaches him too late to prevent the Knight's blade from harming any other of his kin, but leaps toward the horse, and its master, hoping to knock Indilzar from his mount once again as he charges...

The orkish blade cuts deep into Doran's lower leg, and the squire winces sharply. The cut having indeed opened up an old wound, just newly healed. Though the squire seems unfazed by his hurt, as of yet. With his knees the squire steers his horse about to strike again. He smiles at the Bragollach, saying nothing, but now leaning from his saddle once again his blade is swung down at one of the foul orcs milling about his horse's flanks.

But lo! Not with such ease will the Knight-Admiral fall back before the Shadow -- for lightly he leaps to the ground, and his steed is set loose. And afoot, he strides forth into that circle of peril.

And now perhaps in their darkest hour, their light dimmed before the revealed and potent Evil of the Morgul-Lord before them, the Lords of Gondor face their direst foe: Death he names himself, and has not Death ever been the bane of Men? But lo! As he strikes at the Black Captain does Thorondur cry, "Avaunt thee, shade of Udun, and all your dark deceits! For our Fate is not thine to determine, but the One's!"

As the rakarg was attacking the human on an horse, another one is coming to him. Trying to avoid the blade that moved in his direction, Krack makes a bad step and nearly falls. But with a second boost of strength, Krack stands up but too late to avoid the sword. The deadly weapon just hit the uruk on his left shoulder. Badly, Krack continues to move. Bleeding rapidly, the rakarg moves his sword up one more time and swings it as best as he can to the bottom part of the belly of the new rider that came to him. Krack just seems to have a bit of difficulty to hold his shield but, with the force going through his, Krack can handle it.

Indilzar glances up in surprise as a hairy orc-lord comes flying over him. He wonders if he is 'okay'. Well nevertheless, Indilzar wheels his horse about again and this time essays to smite Grishnakh again, marvelling at his hardihood at withstanding so many of his blows.

Guruok readies his scimitar as he see's Tamran come in on his Teguk's position. Since Nardakh has shed himself of close in arms to fire at the human approaching, he quickly plants the standard he holds at his feet, and steps in front of it and the Uruk-hai, protecting them both with his weapon and his will, setting himself for the Knight's charge.

Into the fray leaps the battle hardened Teguk of Minas Morgul, Captain Ugarit. A scowl hangs on his face, but could it be a grin through all his fangs. Blood coats his crimson uniform, though most of it is not his own. He glances about vainly at the field of battle, searching for a target. Seeing one, he begins to move towards the enemies of the Eye, his axe ready in hand.

Checking his steed, Indilzar turns again and looks at the orc called Krack. He then rides toward him again, ignoring the orc-lord at his flank. Rumble.... rumble... Morang rides on: horse and horseman, hoofbeats nigh!

This time, as Indilzar passes upon his steed, Grishnakh dodges the longsword's dangerous bite and counter-attacks not the Lord himself, but instead, aims his scimitar for the beast beneath him. He swings his scimitar at the horse, hoping to wound Morang.

The arrow flies harmlessly past Tamran, as he approches Nardakh. Almost like lighting, does the sword of the rider comes down upon the orc, as he comes besides him. "Go back to your foul pits!" he shouts, as the steel blade cutting thourgh the air towards Nardakh's shoulder.

Darladad receives a strong blow as he was getting off his struck weapon from a dead human body. His eyes burnt the area, only to see a terrific full armored enemy, sending powerful blows against him. He searched for an exit from the battle, but the mess kept him in his very place. He shouted and attacked: -"The Eye, For the Eye!!!"-

Either a misjudged attempt or the very sorceries of the Captain of the East, the sword misses the Witch-king. He turns to Arnafel as he drops to his feet and sends a pain and torment into his abandoned steed. Capitalizing on the momentum of the failed charge, however, the Lord of the Nazgul turns his undaunted mount aside and brings his sword longways for the mighty Dunadan's side! "None have challenged Death and left unscathed! Nor will the filth of Gondor this day." he cries in a hiss.

Indilzar rides on and swift Morang escapes the blows. He then bears down again to fight with the orcs that swarm by the river.

The rakarg just moves down as the rider comes to him one more time. As the ride seems to be attract by the vorzag's attack, Krack moves his sword up for another time, and with the whole strength he could find into his bleeding body, he swings his sword at the front part of the horse, trying to make his rider to fall down.

Screaming as the blow impacts, Nardakh releases his bow, the pain unbearable to stand. He soon recovers, however, and once more draws forth his club. "Tark," he swears, "you will bite the ground! Dog, strike his horse down!" That order given, he lunges forth after the rider, awaiting for the human to turn in order to swing his weapon as directly as he can against the horse's head.

Indilzar spins on his horse as the battle now draws to close quarters. He swings his sword heavy-handed down at Krack, trying to beat him to the earth. The cold sad, defiled earth.

Wheeling his steed back about, after his pass, Doran is struck soundly in the chest by a long, evil spear. The weapon's stinging head glances off the squire's jerkin, after piercing deep into his flesh. Breath now coming hard, Doran spurs his mount forward, swinging his sword down to smite a terrible blow on the spear-wielding orc. "For Gondor!" he cries, "I shall silence your vile words, spawn of darkness!"

Guruok has readied himself for the attack of the human Tamran, but the Knight foolishly rode directly past him in order to attack his Captain. Leaving his back is a mistake, and Guruok swears to make him pay for that mistake dearly. Hearing the order from Nardakh, he immediatly complies, swiping his curved blade at the horse of the rider that is molesting him.

Borne past the spectral foeman by the speed of his charge, Thorondur gentles Amrandir and wheels him about. Now the Black Captain lies between them, White knight and Silver -- and the former levels his blade toward the enemy. "Lies, and little else, betrayer," Thorondur calls the Witch-King out, though his own fair face is pale and drained, pale before the Lord of the Nazgul. "Lies are all that pass thy lips. Perhaps the truth of the West wilt thine undoing be."

"Flee, Smith, FLEE!" Grishnakh orders Krack, "Get out of here. This is /my/ fight." The Teguk of Barad-Dur yells. His attention, now, is turned to Indilzar and his steed. He swings at the riding Knight, his scimitar aimed for the Lord's leg...

Noticing his Dol Guldur counterpart taking a heavy assault with little assistance, the Teguk Ugarit leaps into battle just as the Pulgorzob Standard Bearer misses his mark. His eyes agleam and his mouth frothing, the orc wields his heavy battle axe, seeking to put an end to this Tark Tamran.

Ugarit attacks Tamran with his Battle Axe, but he misses by a handspan.

As the sword of the rider comes one more time to the body of the rakarg, Krack tries for one more time to avoid it. Again, it seems to be unless any try, the sword hit Krack really badly. This time over his left shoulder. With a loudly yell, Krack drops his shield and starts to run with the order of the vorzag.

Throwing down his shield there is a mighty clash as the curved blade of Mordor meets the iron wrought shield of Indilzar. Indilzar counters and then turns his hard blade toward their commander and now from upon his horse casts his blows upon him.

An evil laugh, interrupted by the gondorian blow, born in Darlada throat. He laughed almost maniacally, and started to say. -" So you are weak, human?, as your child, or women. You are worthless, well your are very tasty, but I will nourish in your wife and in your children, after showing them your dead corpse. Tell me your name, so I can find your family, vermin." - Saying this, the Uruk sent a mighty blow

The orcish club impact the horse, casting the rider upon the ground. Hard does Tamran fall upon the ground, yet quickly does he regain his footing. He sees the deadly scimitar coming towards him, and with a few steps to the side he dodges his attack. A limp could be noticed from the guardsman as he moves, but skilled he is and that does not slow him down. Yet no time to he have to look at the situation for a third orc takes a swing at him. The axe cuts through the air, yet as quickly as before, Tamran steps out of the way. No wasting any time, he thrusts his own sword towards the axe wielder.

A minor wound is inflicted upon Grishnakh, and he is stunned momentarily as the rider passes him, Indilzar's longsword becoming stained once again with his foul blood. A wild swing of his blade is sent in Indilzar's direciton as he passes, more to prevent another swing of his blade, than to actually wound him.

Smiling, Nardakh fastens his shield. "The tark is off the horse," he comments to the other two, charging with his club. "He as good as dead. For the EYE!"

The shield of the south once more saves Indilzar Bragollach. He counterattacks in the press, his sword swinging with a hard flash down at the orc.

A sharp hiss seethes from the Black Rider at Thorondur's words. His eyes flash brightly for a moment and, again, the clouds above gather thick. The Witch-king's sword shimmers darkly, as if some unseen flame was kept within. "The West?" he asks mockingly, the laughter his backdrop. "Thou fool. The West will soon fall to Him. Knowest thou that the East is forever the Dark Lord's domain! He will crush thee if thou art bold enough to pass into it. Go back and perhaps I will spare thee in the future, for now thou art trespassing." he hisses before spurring forward, Arnafel behind him, to swing up for Thorondur's chest in passing.

The human is now on the ground, surrounded by Uruk's of Mordor, a brown head awash in a sea of darkness. Guruok charges, as soon as he see's that the Tark is accupied with Nardakh's attack, he sends his scimitar flicking out again, this time at the sword arm of the human.

Running away, the rakarg is still yelling loudly with the pain going through his body. Stopping for a second, Krack turns his head and just see the Vorzag hit one more time by the rider. With a second though, the rakarg stops and remember the words of the vorzag. Turning back, the gaze of Krack just falls on the rider he fought before. Running away in his direction, Krack says with a loduly voice,"Snaga(*to Darladad*), FIGHT!!!!!" Krack just moves his sword up and stops near the fight between Darladad and the rider. Fighting with humans that comes to him, Krack seems to forget the rider called Doran for a second.

"Vermin, is it!" the squire returns. "It seems I must separate your head from your body to end your foolish words," Doran says cooly. The squire's horse, trained somewhat in the art of war, steps aside, and the orc's spear thrust passes through empty air. Bearing his steed down upon the orc once again, Doran's sword sweeps down in a deadly arc.

Despair seems to tinge the face of the Vorazg, and the pain of his wounds is beginning to become more acute because of this. He looks away from his enemy for a moment, but his eyes fall upon his Morgul Lord, and his spirit is refreshed. Like the light of Earendil to an Elven warrior, the sight of this Wraith before Grishnakh revitalizes his warrior spirit, and with a renewed fervor, the Commander of the Orcs of Mordor leaps toward Indilzar and swings his scimitar at him with a loud cry of battle.

The ring of the battle is loud and fierce as the clash of sword upon shields ring. Indilzar again gives forth a great cry and essays to smite the orc-lord. The flash of his sword is like the red of fiersome Morgil.

The wrath of the Ulairi has fallen upon him, and now Thorondur braces before the onslaught of this Shadow personified -- but the ghostly blade catches upon his shield! A shield, and upon it painted a golden star: the Star of Elendil. "You trespass in the lands of the living, Lord of Carrion! Go back! Go back to Mordor," the Dunadan cries, bringing his own blade hard around in reply.

As his sword eats once more throught the orcish flesh, the deadly club is aimed towards his direction once more. No time does the guardsman have to move, thus bringing his shield up. The club hits with a mighty force, his shield arm vibrating from the impact but Tamran ignores the hit as he sees the scimitar swung once more. Quickly he takes a step back, avoiding the deadly blade. Now raising his own sword, he turns towards Nardakh and once more he brings his sword down upon the same shoulder.

Yelling loudly, Krack hits badly the human with who he was fighting. Looking back at the snaga, he sees that he's being attacked by the rider. Running like he never did before, Krack runs in his direction, moving his sword up, the rakarg swings one more time his scimitar to the rider back. Trying to wound him as best as eh can to defend the snaga.

Darladad scream in rage when his attack swinged the air were second ago was the Gondorian raider. He was then hurt, like the human was playing with him. The words of the Smith inflamate hsi dark heart, and said: - "My name is Darladad, vermin, remind it when the Eye call upon your soul" - then he strikes forward, stepping in the body of his last victim.

With ease does Nardakh avert the blow, merely bending his body aside and allowing the attack to slide past. Smiling, the Teguk whirls about, his club following his flowing movements in a perfect circular motion that is intended to end fleetingly upon the knight's back. The orc known as Ugart scowls as the attack comes his way, and he throws his axe up to block it, but it slips past his defenses and nicks him on the arm. Hefting his axe he aims again at the Tark, his swing level with the ground.

Guruok curses in fury as his blade is easily dodged by the human. Not only that, the eye is not smiling, as all of the uruks miss their targets. Recovering himself from the attack he launched, he studies the humans move as Tamran sends out his long blade once again toward Nardakh. This time Guruok is relatively crafty, circling around to get at the Tark's back, before swiping his curved blade down toward the knight's shoulder. "" he cries as he attacks.

Grishnakh feels not the steel of Indilzar, as he is still operating on the frenzy that comes from the presence of the Lord of the Nazgul. He fears not death at the hands of this Knight, as no death could be worse than that inflicted by one of the Nine, save, perhaps, by the Dark Lord himself. Another swing at Indilzar comes, the Orc still trying to knock the rider from his mount, a froth forming at Grishnakh's lips, fire in his crimson eyes.

Indeed, for wrath it is. The Lord of Morgul is terrible to face, yet his foe has apparantly uncloaked a hatred that has lasted an Age before. Now, side by side with a Lord of Gondor, the Witch-king bends his malice towards his opponent. Tearing into his mind, cold and unseen fingers molest his opponent. The Black Captain is not turned aside with such words. "Then join us, the dead, and leave thy fearful life behind." he invites, though his sword is stayed. Behind him is Arnafel, seemingly forgotten.

Success for Grishnakh! Indilzar is thrown from the steed and comes to the earth with a dull....

*THUD*

The knight of Gondor rises and dusts off his clothing for a moment. Now indeed he looks 'put out.' He then watches as Morang rides away and then suddenly comes at Grishnakh with a quick lunge, his stance taking up as one who knows well the 'Southern Style.'

Intent upon the verbose orc stabbing at him with the spear, Doran is unable to avoid the blade of the other that comes at him from the side. Feeling the wickedly curved orkish sword striking him, the squire raises his own blade, which is just in time to deflect the thrust of a maliciously aimed spear. Now turning his back on the orc with the polearm, Doran wheels his steed upon the other foul creature, grimly stabbing at it with his sword

Forth the Silver Knight strides -- into the shadows of darkest night which veil the Fell Captain forth to breach that wall of despair and horror. In his eyes is Death, and upon his brow sits Doom -- but ever forth. Hark now fair and defiant, as if from the deeps of time when the Fathers of Men stood against Morgoth Bauglir: "Lacho Carlad! Drego Morn!" And Inalantadil's fire is kindled anew.

The impact of the club is great, as the weapon strikes Tamran flat on the back sending him forward. Yet, ironicly, the hit might have saved his life, for the large axe swings once more, over the the position he was standing moments before. Regaining his balance, the Guardsman looks at his three opponents for a fraction of a moment before attacking again. He thrusts his sword towards the strongest of his foes, Nardakh, his movement seeming a bit slower than usual.

"Haha!" Grishnakh calls, his black blood now no longer flowing, but soaked by his clothing. The froth continues to form at his lips as his black tounge darts in and out of his mouth. A clang comes from Grishnakh's shield, and it rings like a bell, the Sigil of Khamul protecting him as he does. He quickly counter-attacks the Knight-Lord of Dol Amroth with his shining scimitar, its cruel edge destined for Indilzar's upper torso.

As the longsword of the rider comes one more time to Krack, he tries to avoid it. Unsuccessfully, the sword hits him on his chest. Bleeding and yelling at the same time to cover his own pain, the rakarg moves back and raises his scimitar. Swinging with all his strength one more time, Krack tries to hit the chest of the human.

Taking a moment as the various attacks against the Tark Tamran seem to foil each other, Ugarit howls, and giving momentarily glances to Nardakh and Guruok, and motions to Tamran as he moves to strike once more.

Perhaps doom as found Indilzar Bragollach this day but the scimitar of the orc strikes home and blood pours forth. Yet this does not daunt him. Rather he strikes as well and with speed.

Again, Nardakh has but to sidestep, the Knight's attack failing and attempted to no avail. The lust for blood runs deep now in those eyes, the same scarlet spheres which guide the following blow, one aimed directly overhead and down.

Guruok curses his fates as the human is knocked prone, making his scimitar blow useless as it flies in the air above the Tark. Growling visciously, he decides that the two uruk-hai Teguks can deal with the impetuous human, and directs this attack instead at the warhorse that Tamran was dismounted from, ensuring that there can be no escape and no surrender from this battle.

In the light of the morning, the eyes of Calriel, the elven lass, glint dully, and her hair floats restless in the wind like a golden cloud. The little colour on her cheeks fades away, and she is pallid, white as snow, and her lips are dry. At the head of a small group of Quendi, the Herald of Celeborn charges forward after leaving the eastern front.

And now the full weight of the Nazgul's mind is bent upon him. Mighty among the Lords of Gondor, the High Men might the Herald be -- but here he staggers, his blade does falter, and he seems to be balanced on the edge of the precipice --

Darladad says his master attacking. His cunning eyes sparked, and he flanked the human, attacking him by the back, with fierce passion. When the spear bites the human flesh, the Uruk gets closer the human ear. - "I will kill your family, after this, piece a piece, human." - Saying this he bites his ear,!

Grishnakh falls to the ground, and he lets out a scream of pain as Indilzar's blade cuts into him, eliciting a spray of black blood from his wound. He begins to crawl away from his opponent, slowly, hoping to escape death...or at least bide his time until he can fell Indilzar when he is off-guard...

Indilzar turns swiftly and ignores Grishnakh. He whistles for his horse and swiftly mounts him once more: wounds and all. Then he rides off to Doran to succour him in his need...

Tamran side steps, trying to avoid the incoming attack, yet to slow he is and the club hits the man of Gondor staight upon his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he sees Guruok taking a swing at his steed. To his content, the horse avoids the hit but quickly rides away, leaving his master between the orcs. Adrenaline now flows thourght his vains, as Tamran stands striaght, "For the Tree!" he shouts, swinging his sword towards the axe wielding orc, Ugarit, who's attack just missed the guardsman.

The sword of the Nazgul is raised above the Dunadan's head and readied to bring Death to the Man of the south. The laughter seems to scream in every mind on the field. However, the Witch-king falters at the cry behind him. He tugs his steed to the side to look down to the Knight from which the call came. Thorondur is forgotten but for a moment. "Perhaps thou would join us too. Then, to each thy turn!" he calls. The sword turns with the horse, aimed for the neck of the mounted Knight beside him.

Nardakh laughs. He actually laughs. A hoarse, guttural sound filled with a sort of amused disdain, if such a thing is possible. "The foolish tark," he comments acidly, emotion gone in a blink from his face, a stone-carved reflection apathy. Once more, he leaps, club seeking aim... yet, foolishly enough, he unveils an exit that was previously closed to the human, a pathway that allows a direct connection to a group of his own.

Guruok cant seem to believe his luck today. not only has his blade failed to taste the flesh of any man. but his attack on a /horse/ has now failed. Taking a deep breath, he roars his anger, turning with lightning like reflexes to feast his eyes upon the Tark of his fury. Raising his scimitar high, he charges, disregarding all defense in his desperate attempt to actually hit his target.

Enraged now by the disgusting words from behind, Doran moves to turn his horse about once again. The misfortunate squire is caught between tearing blade and stabbing spear, like anvil and hammer. Still, he remains partially upright, able to wield his sword. Doran's horse rears, and the squire brings his sword down on the spear-wielding orc with the force of his descending mount.

At the last moment, great Amrandir lurches forward, for though Thorondur is ensorcelled, the steed himself is under no spell of evil. Thus does the killing blow only fell the knight from his saddle -- A hard fate, as he hits the ground, but better yet than Death.

He comes now, Prince of Amroth, son of Imrahil, blade flashing in the light of the sun, his raven hued charger closing the distance between he and the men of Gondor as they fight for their lives. Quickly he comes, the sound of his charging horse almost a steady clap of thunder, and like a wave he crashes into the band of men fighting, slowing his mount and readying his weapon, Erchirion eyes the field for but a moment, then rushes forth to help one in need, a squire, hard pressed by two Yrch. A grin, and a flash of his blade, and the Prince is by the side of Doran of Amroth, "Fear not young one," he Prince speaks forth, "I am here to aide thee."

Darladad received a tremendous blow. He fell. Then he recovered and run. When he was a dozen feets away he threw his spear, aiming to the human head and shouting: - "Die, now, Vermin!" -

Lords of Numenor that was, children of the mighty Edain in whom the blood of old runs undiminished, the Knights might be -- and yet in this hour, White and Silver must fall before Black. Unless they stand together. And with raised blade akin to a leaping flame, forth the Lord of the Isilrim leaps to his friend's aid -- alone, and yet, unyielding.

This time Tamran raises his own sword as his opponents club aims for him once more. His arms shakes for a moment as the two weapons collide, "Close your foul smelling mouht!" he shouts at Nardakh, yet as he says this words, another dark blade comes towards him. In a quick step, he moves out of the way of the scimitar and without wasting a moment, he thrusts towards Guruok, aiming for his ribs.

Dully glimmers Calriel's chain mail that is of quality not often seen. Set upon it in small green gems the three-trunked beech tree Hirilorn, symbol of Doriath, carrying the memories of the beautiful Luthien in its branches. Indeed, already morning has lazily stretched its rosy rays across the distant horizon, gracing it with orange hues and crimson layers. Clouds, however, gather firmly over the battlefield. The maid looks up now, and as if commanded by an unknown strenght, she draws the long sword at her side, her eyes fixed on the dark visage of the nazgul, wrapped in its sinister cloak, foul and unholy - so far from its southern lands, from the eastern edge of the known world. And then her eyes dwell to the others in dire need. Elves, orcs and men alike are wounded on this dark hour of morning.

Calriel unsheaths her sword from its scabbard and holds it to the sky.

Eyes widened at his failed attack, the Teguk of Pulgor pushes on, trailing after Tamran and swinging his club in an amused/angered frenzy. The pathway remains open, and, given the orcs focus, shall remain so.

Krack just turns back and say with a loudly voice,"SNAGA take this tark down!" Suddenly, the rakarg starts to run away. Krack doesn't really go too far, maybe 10 steps behind the rider he was attacking. The gaze of Krack just falls on the human who just arrived behind Doran. Rapidly, Krack moves this other rider and holds his scimitar up. With a strong voice he yells,"Die Tark!" Swinging his scimitar covered with blood, Krack tries to hit the stomach of this human.

Guruok hisses as the humans blade scores a line through his leather armor, and dark blood begins to seep from the wound. Not too serious, but enough of those would put him out of comission. Seeming not to even notice the wound, he immediatly swings again at the human, scimitar flying horizonally at the throat of his opponent

Guruok attacks Tamran with his Scimitar, but he misses by an arm's length.

The black horse supports its Master boldly as the Prince, Silver Knight, lunges towards him. The laughter finally fades and the heavy air becomes burdonsome for all to bear. Thorondur is left to his wounds, fallen from his witful steed. The sword comes across the Witch-king's robes but no resistance is met.

The sword of the High Nazgul glows brightly, bent on murder, as it is raised above the dismounted foe born down swiftly for the ultimate enemy, the Dunadan, tainted with the blood of the Western Men.

Despite his wounds, despite his life-blood that seeps from many gashes, the battle fury carries Doran further still. Still horsed, his faithful mount bears the squire down upon the spear-orc once again.

Not but a second before the scimitar would have struck home does the steed of young Erchirion step aside, rendering the blow a miss. Grinning openly now at the foolishness of the Uruk, the Prince turns now his bright blade upon the beast. "Come foul one, and taste of my steel." The words, a promise of a grim fate, and the Son of Imrahil strikes, quickly and surely, blade flashing towards his opponent.

And it is the cry from the drowned hills of Dorthonion that wakes him, and brings Thorondur again to his feet. Children of the Sun, the Secondborn race, and the light that flames in their eyes and their hands -- It remains, passed down from their fathers, from Hurin Thalion and Hador Lorindol, in the days when the world was young. "Drego morn," Thorondur echoes -- flee night -- and swings once more into the saddle of waiting Amrandir..

Dark blood drips down his blade, as Tamran's attack connected once more, yet no time does he have to contemplate this moment, as the Uruk-Hai attacks him again. The shield of the guardsman stands against the attack, while his sword blocks a second attack, this on from Guruok. Using the this breif moment to his advantage, he takes a step forward towards Guruok, swinging his sword towards his opponents shoulder.

A swing and a... miss? Nardakh growls now, pure anger and now amusement, the lust for blood now an utter desire for retribution at the shame.

The thrown polearm pierces Doran's left arm and falls to the ground, rending a deep score just below his shoulder. His limb dangles, hanging useless now. But still, as the squire is born down upon the orc, he finds the strength to swing his sword down once more, as his horse passes by.

Guruok gives ground slightly, as it seems that the Tark's attention is solely focussed on him now - he can afford to let Nardakh do the hard work. Stepping back, he allows the sword to flow past him without meeting it, then flicks his scimitar lightly back at the human.

As the sword of the human, that he tried to attack before, flies to him and hits him badly, Krack puts a knew on the ground. Rapidly, Krack just turns his head. With the last remaining strength that he found into his body, Krack raises his sword and yells,"Tark Will..." Krack doesn't even finish his sentence and starts to run away, faster he would ever run. The strength remaining in his body just seems to be enough to run and leave into some shadow made by some trees.

Helmless, with raven hair streaming in the western wind, the Lord of the Isilrim defies his foe most dire -- and the wicked blade of the Black Captain finds naught but cold steel in reply. "Did you think that the blood of Westernesse would be humbled with such ease, dark one? Nay, not even by your master!" Pale and stern, a glimmering beacon in the midst of despair he stands. And forth he drives again, "Together, Thorondur!"

Indilzar rides up to Doran and then says to him, "Quickly! How sorely are you wounded?"

For the third time, the great club of the Uruk-Hai hits Tamran, bending him armor once more. In quick steps, he moves away from the other attack, as Guruok flicks his scimitar towards him. Tamran caughs, from the impact of the club, yet that does not stop the man of Gondor. Gripping his sword tightly, he thrusts his sword towards the Hai's chest.

Darladad runned away, keeping his nuts enough to take his spear with him

Darladad picks up a Spear.

"Together," agrees Thorondur, now joining his comrade-in-arms, "for Gondor! Amroth for Gondor!" And with that, he brings about his own plain blade -- and the attack is joined from the other side.

Watching, if but for a moment, as the Uruk flees before him, Erchirion turns now to face the other that torments young Doran, seeing the too be bitterly wounded the Prince rears up in his saddle, raising his blade before the beast that remains even as the Lord Bragollach approaches, watching this one flee as well. Wheeling his horse to the squire and Knight, the Son of Imrahil nods once to Indilzar before he charges off once more, towards the darkness that even now the Silver and White face.

Indilzar watches as Erchirion rides away, but now his attention is focused solely upon Doran.

With disgust filled now is the face of the lass at the hideous visage engulfed in battle with the fair knights of Gondor. In her pride now stands the Hiril of the Laiquendi raising her pallid hand slightly, her look now stern and she leaps forward. But the path is blocked by more bloodshed. With a move combining agility and grace her long sword blocks the hammer of one of her foul oponents. In support of the two Knights, from the dry lips comes a clear voice, commanding, in the language of the Noldor - one well understood by the old Lords of Numenor: ""

The horse of the squire bears him out of the deadly fray. As Indilzar approaches, Doran Isilrim manages to look up, still clutching the standard of Dol Amroth. The emblem of Ship and Swan, still held up proudly acts also to balance the ravaged body of the squire, keeping him from falling to the ground. "I am sorry, m'lord," Doran manages as he looks up with a haggard face, his pierced and slashed chest heaving with each laboured breath.

If Nardakh moves to avoid the blow, it is not fast enough. Perhaps fast enough to avoid death, yes -- but not fast enough to avoid pain. Major pain. Excruciating pain. He dodges back, yet the blade does not stop, slashing clear over the chest, opening a wide, dark gash which spits dark blood in flows. A terrible scream escapes the Captain's mouth, a deep sound filled with agony and a failure, one that trails after him as he falls to the ground, hands warding his chest and stopping, or trying to stop, the flow. His eyes however are shaped into a fierce glared directed at the human.

Guruok's attack meets air as Tamran once again switches his foe. Muttering under his breath a prayer to the eye he steps forth again, getting more aggressive with his attacks as he allows Nardakh to take the brunt of the foe's wrath. Guruok flails his scimitar in a slashing blow at the humans side.

Finally shaking of the blow dealt to him by the one called Tamran, Ugarit rubs at his chest, where the Tark's blade managed to penetrate his armor. Hefting his mighty axe and howling in full battle rage, the Captain of Dushgob leaps into the fray once more, in an attempt to take the head of the one who injured him.

The Witch-king rears back as the sword finds a mark the glove upon his sword hand slits open with the thrust. However, before the great Nazgul can laugh at the attempt, his shoulder is met with the cold bite of the sword of Thorondur.

Though valiant are the Men of Gondor and their blades, today their swords are met with a greater power, not felled by the weapons of mortals. However, the words of the elf do burn him and he spurns forward, away from the two knights to better espy Calriel. He hisses. "Foolish! None dare defy me! For if I leave, I shall only return with strength unimaginable. Nay, you return to the safety of thy wood, which shall last for only a little while. The East is the Dark Lord's." he says from his saddle, unaware of the Prince's ride to the aid of his fellow noblemen.

Wounded as he is, the guardsman still proves more skillfull than his Orcish foes. Quickly he moves, avoiding the incoming attacks of both Yrch, letting the scimitar and axe swing harmlessly throught the air. His eyes look for a moment with those of the Hai, yet he does not blink. The staring contest is short lived, for in those few fractions of a second, he swings his own swords at the nearest of the threesome, the axe wielder.

Indilzar says, "Come! We shall ride together." He then looks upon Doran and nods gravely, "Let your wounds be the mark of your manhood! Such valour shall not go unrewarded, not if I can help it."

Reigning in, Erchirion stops but a bit from the epic battle of Black against the combined forces of Silver and White, he looks for but a moment about him, watching those about him struggle, and his gaze falls upon one lone warrior amidst three, holding his own even though he bleeds even now. "He holds," the Prince speaks to himself, "but for how long?" Then his eyes turn back to the Dark one atop his foul steed, "Nay, I cannot turn from this, yet." And thus he rides for, the Blue to join White and Silver, coming now to stand by them as they seek to drive away this terror of the East.

Slipping a bit in his saddle, the squire reaches out to clasp Indilzar's shoulder, leaning on the knight. Doran looks up with red-rimmed eyes, blood streaking his face in a most ghastly fashion. "Thank you, m'lord," he gasps. Then with a cough, wiping blood from his mouth, Doran grips the staff, righting himself in the saddle. Bent far forward, his nose nearly touching his horse's neck, the squire follows close by the Bragollach's steed.

Shrugging and howling as he misses, the Captain of the Morgul orcs faces down the guardsman and takes another scratch as the Tark's longsword barely manages to hurt him. He laughs out loud, gutterly, and aims a blow at the human's leg.

But untrue are the Black Captain's words, for the Lords of Gondor defy him. As they ever have. And the Silver Knight's voice rings out in challenge then, "In the East he shall remain, and come no further -- for never will the White Tower bend knee before your master, foul one!"

Slowly, Nardakh stands, the blood pouring forth. "One last time, tark, for luck's been with you tonight," he utters, swinging his club for the last time towards the human's head.

Indilzar grabs the reins of the steed of Doran and rides through slowly and to safety. A hollowed knoll away from the battle. It is there that Huan comes forth and looking upon Doran whines in pity. But Indilzar dismounts and says, "Come, I shall help you as I might."

And Thorondur's voice rises to add its own challenge. "The leaguer will be kept! Never again shall the Shadow pass the Great River!"

Two orcs oppose her now. Dark is their skin and fire burns in their eyes... yet Calriel, whose race long ago dwelled in the rich lands of Ossiriand, is nimble and avoids the first blow. Although the concern for the faith of the two battling knights prevails in her eyes, for a moment she is diverted to her opponent. Quick her sword finds his flesh. And as the other prepares to strike again, she herself is saved by the quick block of a Squire of the South. She calls out again to the dark rider her words spoken with strength and provoked anger:"" says Calriel with scorn. ""

The direly wounded squire eases himself from his own saddle. Leaning on the Bragollach lord for support Doran's voice comes out in slow, laboured rasps, "Thank you, sir." He looks up at Indilzar, trying to manage a small grateful smile, but his clear grey eyes are now clouded, their surfaces becoming glazed over.

"Lie back," says Indilzar softly. Huan at this point paces into the brush... He then opens Doran's shirt and armour and begins to examine the wound.

Proud, and defiant, the Prince faces the Shadow Knight, yet his rest, silent before he that serves the Dark Lord of Mordor.

No speech does Tamran give in battle, no smile appears on his face when his blade cuts though his foes flesh. A soldier he is, pure and simple and even outnumber he stands defiently before his enemies. As the axe of Ugarit, swings against him and misses once more, another weapon comes towards him. Again he tries to avoid the hit, and almost succeeds...almost, for the club hits upon his chain mail. Yet it does not have the same force as the other hits and only a bruise will it give. Blood dripping from his cuts, Tamran counter-attacks, his movements obviously seeming slower than before, limping slightly. He aims for the scimitar wielding orc this time, once more aiming for it's wounded ribs.

The Nazgul now looks between the three the Blue, Silver, and White, and doubt seizes him. Finally he looks off to her - the Firstborn, ever bold to defy the Shadow of the East. He hisses and his sword dims. The clouds above are broken and dispersed. Though, still, the Lord of the Nazgul surpasses the might of any fell creature of Middle-Earth. "Quiet. For I daresay the valour of Gondor shall pass into the East unopposed. As for you - bide thy time, Gangrel of the Wood. For when it falls, thy skin will be made a banner for the orcs to defile." With that, a heart-piercing wail is loosed. His cold steed rushes forward and turns, bearing his master down the road. The time for flight is now.

Witch-king looks to the sky and lets loose a long and shrill scream. A shrill and high-pitched wail, full of despair and evil, echoes over the area.

Darkness stains -- no, it bathes -- Nardakh's blood-coated arm as he begins back away. "One day, tark, there will be retribution," he promises and turns, speeding away from the battle.

Announcement: Erchirion has changed the poll to: Witch_King screams like a girl!!!

The cry of the Nazgul washes over them, yet where lesser Men would quail do the Lords of the Dunedain stand tall. Thorondur Girithlin, wounded worst by that blade of witchery, shudders to face it -- but face it he does, as the black foe flees and the darkness is lifted from his heart.

The sound of horns resound in the heavens as glory is manifested in a host of the noble men of Dol Amroth in battle-forged kinship with the fair elves of Lothlorien. The righteous folk of the west pour over the terrain to lend aid to their comrades still afflictd with battle. Light has found a home in the eyes of elf and friend as they join the fray a war cry full of jubilation rises from a hundred souls to brighten the blackness that exist in the hearts of the foul ones, indeed the blackness that is the very fabric of the pinnacle of the right hand the lidless eye has sent forth from his dark land.

Hitherto the white phalanx of Gondorian swordsmen come a hail of arrows into the black mass of foul creatures from the darker places of Middle Earth. Silver beams of light race across the late morning sky like shooting stars brighter than all devine works of ages past to smite their targets on the opposing side of flood plain around the sweet Gladden.

The Teguk of Dushgob peers around as his swing yet again fails to connect against the wounded guardsmen. Howling with rage, he stops momentarily at the cry of the nazgul. With the power of that sound, Ugarit steps around his enemy, lofting his axe between his clawed hands, seeking for a moment to strike. Seeing the Tark land a blow against Guruok, Ugarit surges forward, seeking to take advantage of the moment.

Guruok watches the longsword and tries to get his scimitar back down in order to block it, but is far too slow. The scimitar gashes open his leather armor and blood gushes forth. Hearing the nazgul cry for retreat, he see's that Tamran is still engaged and will be unable to follow, and so he quickly flee's with the rest of the uruks, stopping only long enough to grab his garrisons standard.

And once more, the Shadow flees before the might of Gondor, yet the day is not done, nay, there is still much to be done, "Thorondur, are you gravely injured?" the Prince speaks, even as he turns his eyes once more to Tamran, "Lord Arnafel, I think your blade is needed once more." He says with a nod in the direction of the wounded guard, "I shall be there shortly."

The hit is great, as the dark axe connects for the first time against him. Quickly he takes a few steps back, looking at the two fleeing orcs and the other one still standing before him. He still holds his sword up high, yet with much effort it seems. He does not attack the axe wielder this time, but his gaze is fix upon him waiting for his next movement.

The squire, sorely hurt, lays himself down as best he may. The cry of the Nazgul passes unheeded, or perhaps Doran is for the moment incapable of recognizing such terrifying noises as a part of the waking world. Rather they are like to the dark dreams that pool in his mind, as his blood pools upon the ground. The Black Captain's scream manifests itself in Doran's nightmares now as the cruel hand of death, reaching out to take him in all finality. At Indilzar's administrations he stirs faintly, as his jerkin is removed. His undertunic is soaked in blood and sticks to him as a second skin. The spear-wound in the center of his chest is deep and grave.

From the brush, Huan returns and in his mouth there is a leaf. Bright and green, he sets it by Indilzar. Indilzar then takes out his water-skin and pours water over Doran's wound. He then takes the leaf and with it staunches Doran's wounds. He says, "You have done well and are not worse for wear. This leaf shall clean the wound, and I shall bandage it myself. It looks well though, the Orcs seem to be fleeing and thus our path is open."

Fair, he has long been called, and handsome -- yet now Thorondur's face runs to alabaster. Defiant he might remain, yet his lack of colour is more telling than any smile he might force. Yet smile he does, if wanly, to Erchirion. "I will... be well," the White Knight assures his Prince's son, swaying a bit in his saddle. Unnoticed, gloved hands clutch the leather reins tightly.

Indilzar tends to the injuries on Doran.

Grishnakh crawls eastward to the river. Slowly, his claws dig into the damp earth beneath him, his black blood staining the snow beneath him as he does. He continues to move until at least he collapses, unconsious, upon the ground.

The head of Doran is raised only slightly, as he glances up at his care-giver. The squire looks as if he essays to speak, but the effort is too much. He gasps and falls limp again, lying upon the cold ground, blood-stained blade still gripped tightly in hand.

Indilzar smiles slightly and says, "The pain is much. Yet it shall pass." He continues to bind the wound even as the great hound comes by his side and licks Doran's face gently.

From the south runs an orc scout, earlier the one who revealed the location of the men and elves. He frantically surveys the blood-dampened field before him, still shivering from the cry of the Nazgul. Running towards the road, and avoiding any combat with all his might, the little orc spots Grishnakh just as he tumbles over him! He hurries to his feet and recognizes his fallen Vorazg. Taking the huge Uruk by his armpits, the little orc manages to drag him along the road, face-down. Though an amusing sight to behold, the orc does drag his beaten Commander down towards the bridge...

With the passing of the Fell Captain, dawn comes in a flood of gold and crimson, and the darkness flees to bide its time in the eaves of Mirkwood. But the Men of Gondor have not won a bloodless victory. And leaning upon his blade, the Lord of the Isilrim watches the end of the battle -- afoot, beside the two horsemen. But not for long. And turning then, he casts a sharp glance to the Girithlin, "The Guardsman has little need of aid...they retreat even now. But come, Thorondur has taken a wound from the Black Captain's blade and such things are held to be perilous!"

A grin of triumph crosses the face of Ugarit as his axe blade connects with a sickening crunch. Tightening his grip on the axe the Morgul Captain glances about the battlefield. Though he holds the upper hand at the moment, the battle is not his. Hissing softly as he barks in the common tongue, in a cold, gravelly tone. "Well fought, Tark." He pauses to lick his blade, tasting the warm blood coating it. "Were I not compelled otherwise, I would enjoy making your bloodwine." Raising his axe to the sky, the Teguk lets loose his own scream, though nowhere near as deadly as that of the nazgul, and howls, "Always at the front, last to leave. Oi, Ushataar Krimpatul!" He turns to flee at last, and seeing the struggling scout Ug, Captain Ugarit lopes along to his side, as the Dushgoi Teguk cover's the retreat of the scout.

Guruok flee's, leaving the humans behind, as well as those uruks too foolish to heed the Nazgul's cry. On the way he spots Grishnakh making his way to the east... on his hands and knees.... until he collapses and is helped by a small uruk. Seeing the snaga struggle with the huge -hai, Guruok lends his considerable strength to the task, and between them they carry the gravely wounded commander away from the battlefield.

"Nevertheless my Friend," the Prince speaks, eyeing the man carefully "You took a wound from a blade that has been known to slay with but a single scratch." But he speaks no more, for the honour of the White will not be tarnished by him, "Come then, let us see to the wounded." And even as he speaks, the spurs of Imrahil's second born set into the flanks of his horse, nudging the beast into a walk, which flows into a trot, in the direction of the man known as Tamran. He comes late, but still the guard stands, a great feat among men.

As he witnesses the three orcs flee before him, Tamran's blade slowly begins to aim downwards. His shoulder are bent and blood covering his tabbard, slowly driping upon the ground, mixing with that of the foul beasts. Slowly he turns around, starting to make his way back towards the kinghts and squires, but suddenly the Guard of the Tower falls upon the bloodstained snow.

His face tickled by Huan's rough, very wet tongue, awakens the sorely hurt squire. As the sun streams down with warm soft light, Doran lifts his head up. "My thanks, sir," he coughs, yet manages to speak. With some effort, the squire props himself up on his elbows, craning his neck to look about. "How do things pass? Have any fallen?"

"I hold our lives themselves to be perilous," the Lord Girithlin says to the Isilrim, gazing down on his friend afoot, from the height of the saddle. "This, too, shall pass." Indeed, he nods to Erchirion's words -- yet for all his brave talk, Thorondur seems truly to cling to the saddle.

Indilzar stands after binding the wounds and says, "None that I can see." He then calls out to his fellows, "Lord Erchirion! Lord Arnafel! Over here!"

Indilzar tends to the injuries on his own person.

"It shall pass swifter yet", replies the Isilrim, "...if it is seen to." But he says no more, making his way towards Indilzar and the fallen Squire -- ever at Amrandir's side.

Indilzar turns back to Doran and kneels by him, "Well, there does not seem to be any poison on the wound. This is well." He smiles, "Can you walk Master Doran?"

Not called with the others by Indilzar, the Lord Thorondur never nudges his mount forward. Rather does he grit his teeth, shutting his eyes -- and fight his own battle, to remain in the saddle. But Amrandir has seen much, and is no mere beast. The white destrier, this horse who has borne his master from Lothlorien to the Emyn Beraid in the far northwest, moves along slowly at Arnafel's side.

Hearing the reassuring words of the Bragollach lord, Doran lays his head down once again in the beaten-down crust of snow. "Ah?" he looks up now, the barest traces of a faint smile upon his face. "I believe I could make arrangements, sir," the squire essays a simple jest. He sits up, wincing, with a loud groan. At this, he holds up his arm for aid, dropping his sword to the ground with a sigh.

The call of the Bragollach sounds, even as the fighting ends, and the land grows quiet once more, strangely hushed in the aftermath of all the ringing of blade upon blade, and shield. Yet, Erchirion draws near Tamran, and reigns in, easily sliding from his saddle as he kneels by the man. Two fingers check his the beat of his heart and the Prince smiles, "You'll live," he says to his fallen friend, gripping the man and hoisting him upon his shoulders and then onto his mount. "Come," he says to his horse. Thus it is that Prince Erchirion comes once more to the hiding place of the gravely wounded Doran the the Lord Indilzar the Black.

Indilzar does not give his aid to Doran until the last moment and then helps him to his feet. He then looks at him, "Excellent." He then says to the others as he comes up, "Have any fallen? The battle was fell and Doran took hurt, but his valour saved him. So much in fact that I shall testify to it upon my honour." He then glances to three: Arnafel, Erchirion and Thorondur with eyes that speak more than words.

From the field ride those who had fought, distanced from where the Knights had led their charge, a few unhorsed, and bearing upon litters the wounded, among them, the guardsman Faengor of the Nimothan. Though grim-faced, their garb blackened with grime and blood, a lightness lies upon them, as though the passing of the shadow had eased their weariness and the sting of their wounds. Though at no small cost the victory had been maimed and crippled are some, and others weak from loss of blood.

Straggling in upon a white mare behind the litter of the errand-rider, a mount nimble and slender where he had once been riding a tall stallion, Amano - from perhaps sheer luck or mere chance, not wounded grieviously - approaches, drawing nigh to where the Lords are tending to the injured tattered and torn is the white tabard he is clad in, though his still face belies naught but lingering tiredness. The black blood of orcs still flakes upon the fabric of his garb, and the sheathed sword that swings quietly at his side.

Indilzar tends to the injuries on Tamran.

A hand yet upon Amrandir's mane, the Isilrim comes to Doran's resting place -- and his brow furrows even as he glances to the blood staining the ground and thence, to his wounded kinsman. But at Indilzar's words, his gaze grows keen upon the Squire. "Did he carry the banner unfallen through the battle?"

"This one, Tamran,.." Erchirion speaks softly as he meets the gaze of Indilzar, then turns to Thorondur and Arnafel, only to fall once more upon Doran and his wounds, "..Is wounded and in need of your aid Lord Indilzar." And the Prince grows quiet once more, watching and waiting.

"It held high and hopeful," says Indilzar even as he comes to Tamran, "and even as the blood poured from his veins he grasped it with his strength. Even as the foes grew as thick as leaves he stayed the course. He is worthy - almost - to be a Bragollach." There is a smile of irony on his face as it is obvious that he jests. "Come Master Tamran," says Indilzar, "let me look to your wounds."

The grieviously wounded squire stands by, under his own strength, which seems to trickle slowly back into his limbs now that the light of day has returned. His gaze is clear and thoughtful now as he gazes between the faces of his elders. Doran cocks a quizzically arched eyebrow at Indilzar now, though he remains silent.

Blue eyes flutter briefly open, and in them the light of the West has not gone out: Thorondur will fight this wounding. And to the others he says, "I gave him the banner, upon the High Hill of Caras Galadon. He has done it honour." Then he looks down upon Doran, considering -- as if judging him.

With great pain and effort does the guardsman come down from the horse. "Just a few scratches, my Lord..." he says, forcing a smile.

"High praise indeed, Bragollach", replies Arnafel dryly -- but there is no lightening in his gaze. Heavily it rests upon the Squire, taking his measure in a manner beyond the ken of lesser men. And in the end, he nods as if satisfied:

"Are we decided in this?"

"I am," says the Herald, though he sways in his saddle.

"For my part I am," says Indilzar at length, "and only I would say thus being a senior knight upon this journey."

Again the Prince turns to meet the gaze of Arnafel Isilrim, Thane of Imrahil and Silver Knight, "Aye my Lord," the Prince speaks, even as does Indilzar.

The grey eyes of Doran, set amidst his fair features though soiled with his own blood and that of his foes, open steadily wider as he surveys the knights. Nervously, as all of the attention of the small semi-circle of valiant warriors is bent upon him, the squire shifts on his feet.

Quietly, a little apart from the gathering, the rough-haired Amano sits in his saddle, watching keenly and without stirring the cuts and scratches he bears, seem unheeded, the matter at hand of more interest. Absently he pulls his cloak closer about him, as he focuses his gaze on the knights gathered about his injured kinsman.

"Then so be it!" Grave and solemn, the Lord of the Isilrim glances in turn to each among the Knights ere turning in the end to his kinsman, "Kneel before me, Doran son of Lorendir." A cruel command it may well seem, to one wounded as the Squire is -- but there is a note of command in it which will not be gainsaid.

Quietly, even as Arnafel speaks, does the Son of Imrahil takes a place at the side of Thorondur's stead, even as his gaze rest upon the wounded squire.

Indilzar takes his blade and sets it before him. He sets his hands on the hilt and then draws tight his helm. He looks formally on and Huan comes nigh him and looks on gravely. It is thus that Indilzar stands, indomitable and swathed in black and silver.

Through the haze of his own suffering, the Knight-Herald too looks on in mute approval -- though he does not climb down from his high seat.

With a wide-eyed glance at the others at the sides of Arnafel, so does the young Isilrim stoop to perch upon bended knee. Pain flashes across his youthful, though haggard face, but he does not falter or slip. He kneels there, head bowed, matted hair encrusted with snow.

And not for the first time this day, Inalantadil is drawn -- but for a purpose far different. To the kneeling Squire, Arnafel holds forth the blade the ancient heirloom of the Isilrim, forged in the deeps of time ere the Fall.

"Take the hilt and speak even as I do: I hereby swear to serve faithfully in the office of Swan-knight. To honour the laws of Gondor, to fight with valour, to die with honour, to avenge wrongs done to the Prince of Dol Amroth and to aid him at every need. To this end, I shall be an example to all the people of Gondor and remember ever the old lore of Westernesse from this day forth until my Lord gives me leave, or until death take me, or the world ends. So say I, Doran son of Lorendir of the House Isilrim."

Hushed and quiet are the woods around the Men of Gondor, as if to better witness this sacred oath-taking -- and in that hallowed silence, the Isilrim's words fall heavily for in them is the weight of eternal loyalty and undying steadfastness. Such is the way of the Swan-Knights of Dol Amroth.

Awestruck, the young Isilrim looks up at his elder kinsman and lord. With trembling hand he reaches up to clasp the hilts of the great blade, and even as he does, gripping the pommel of the sword, strength seems to flow into his hand, arm, his entire form. The words of binding allegiance and service he slowly, carefully repeats, though with wheezing breaths,

Indilzar crosses his arms over his chest and bows his head, "Hail Doran! Swan-Knight of Dol Amroth!"

And from his high seat, the Lord Girithlin speaks his blessings in a tongue that will echo the Woods of Lorien now behind them: " May the Sun shine brightly upon your path, Doran of Isilrim, Knight of Dol Amroth."

"Hail Doran!" Erchirion cheers, raising his blade before the lad, then after a time loweres it once more. Turning, the eyes of the Prince falls upon the squire Amano, "Squire, the day is cold, and the wounded will be in need of warmth soon, for a time before we leave this place. Set a fire for us, but be mindful of the wood you find, for we still linger close to the woods of the Lady." And smiling once more, the Prince turns back to the newly made Swan-Knight, cheering with those around him.

Exasperated, at a loss for words, Doran rises, gripping the proferred hand firmly. Shaking his head, as if to dispel what cob-webs might linger from his misfortunes from the battle, he looks up at Arnafel. "Thank you, lord," he finally manages, a bright smile creeping across his wan face.