Elendor
The Chase
A patrol of the Company of Ithilien has been ordered to hunt down and kill a group of orcs. No matter the cost.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Ithilien
Game Date: January 7, 3046
Description: South Ithilien Road(#26464Rnto)
The looming Ephel Duath are not so near now as they were before, but still they tower in the east, vast and menacing. The road continues in both directions until it falls out of sight, and upon either side a thin forest stretches. The ground below is packed hard, and the dirt is cracked as though from drought, yet the track seems well travelled.
[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Midnight on Sterday, Day 7 of January.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 21:03:51 MDT on Fri Jan 23 2009.
Night has not yet fully fallen, but even so, this patrol of grim-faced men of Ithilien has set out with all speed across the lands. North they travel, tracking the patrol of orcs that had attacked them--the servants of the Dark Lord moving rapidly north and east. In the bushes and the trees, this Company of Ithilien has tried to seek cover--even more so for now they are on they very tail of the host of Mordain: Orcs and trackers, numbering about 20 and running at a trot.
Ceredir is among the group, the Master Scout now leaning behind a tree, watching the orcs even as he strings his bow. He looks toward the other men in the group as if waiting for a pre-arranged signal.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Hur is on this patrol, his green gauntleted hands wielding his longbow as he crouches behind a bush, his garment of green and browns blending with the landscape, his breathing low and controled, hardly detaching from the blowing wind.
The Ranger looks over to where Ceredir is. A brief nod given.
That nod is transmitted down the line, Ceredir relaying the command with a hand signal. And then volley after volley of arrows are suddenly released into the night, soaring through darkening evening.
The arrows hit, some thudding onto the ground uselessly, but many more hitting their marks. And then chaos reigns momentarily in the orc patrol: Caught unawares, their rear line falls, stumbling into the line above, tripping them. Shouts go up, grisly curses and voices, shields are raised.
A sudden roar--and the large uruk hai at the front line rages, demanding control. As one, the orc patrol turns into the arrows now, shields raised.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Yet where are the men of Ithilien? The arrows come from trees, come from bushes, come from here, from there, from everywhere!
Hur releases one more arrow before starting a crouched jog from the bush to a tree, a slice of green background oddly moving, he seems, whence another arrow flies. Then the longbow goes to his back and an even deadlier sound rings: steel rubs against leather a blade is drawn.
Waiting for an uruk to approach his hopefull still hideout, a whistle leaves his lips.
From his position in a stand of trees, Ceredir releases three more arrows swiftly before moving the bow to his back and drawing sword and dagger, one in each hand.
The orcs fall--five fell in the initial volley and then four more as the pack races toward the secreted patrol of men, eleven foul creatures remaining. They are moving fast--faster, perhaps, than was anticipated, and in a moment they are in the woods and in the trees, blades slashing at grass and weed, seeking Rangers and Scouts. A few more arrows are launched, from the trees, felling two more.
Nine remain.
The Uruk Hai leading them comes roaring into the hidden positions, and his scimitar blade cuts a wide swath into the trees, trying to find where Hur is hidden.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The blade does not find Hur: the Ranger is crouched below its reach. Nonetheless, the orc does find him: raising suddenly from his position, sword tip aiming at the creature's head, where neck comes chin, he silently attacks the uruk-hai, no cry emitted.
Around, the men of Ithilien are likewise mute, fighting as ghosts, they do, no bravado nor song heralding their presence. Those who still can, fire their arrows. The others prey or are preyed upon, blades drawn-- blood drawn. Gondorian blood.
Their prey having been scented and found, the orcs jump to it, doubling up where they can. Ceredir quickly fells the orc that stumbled onto his position a knife thrust into the creature's gut in a gap in the armor. And then the Master Scout turns, running to the aid of a younger Scout hard pressed by two orcs, the man having already taken some heavy wounds. Into the back of the first orc does Ceredir thrust his sword blade, twisting it for good measure.
Margl, the uruk hai fighting Hur, feints right, avoiding the Ranger's blade and then bringing his own blade down two-handed to try to block and to aim a heavy blow at the tark's shoulder.
Seven remain.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Margl's steel bites, though not with the strength that must have been meant: it slashes the side of Hur's arm as the Ranger sidesteps the uruk-hai, his own sword meanwhile seeking the creature's ribs beneath the open guard.
Two whistles now flow from the man's lips: close the circle.
Stabbed through the back, Ceredir's orc falls to the ground. The Master Scout yanks his blade out of the creature's back, pivots to threaten the second orc with steel: But orc and the other Scout are now locked in a hand-to-hand battle, moving this way and that so that striking out with his blade might mean that Ceredir hits friend, not foe.
There is a howling cry of pain and the orc falls--and then so, too, does the Scout who was fighting him, slumped to the ground and bleeding heavily, though not dead yet.
Six remain.
A quick glance is given to the fallen Scout--there is nothing to be done if they are all not to die here Ceredir obeys the whistled command, rushing in to close the circle around the remaining orcs.
Blood flies from Margl's gut as the Ranger's blade meets flesh, but the wound is not deep, the orc's torso protected by dark armor. Perhaps sensing a trap, the uruk hai swings his blade threateningly, but only to ward off a blow from Hur and to give him time to escape. "Fly!! Leave now! To our master now!!" The rough cry echos through the woods, and orcs start to back up, retreat, and then run.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Hur falls for the feint, taking a backward step that puts Margl out of his reach as the uruk hai turns to flee. A long whisper leaves the Ranger's lips as he gives chase, running on the outer side of the creature...
Around, the healthy scouts farther away from the orcs redraw their longbows, stringing darts they release upon pre-determined targets, rather than as a volley the others recognize the pursuit command, swiftly racing after their foes, avoiding, like Hur, to be on the way of their friends' arrows.
By the floor, four scouts now lie, if dead or just too wounded, it is yet to be seen.
THWACK. THWACK. Arrows take down one orc trying to flee, and still another falls by the blade as the circle closes in around them. Four remain--the uruk hai, another orc now struggling to flee from two masked Scouts. And two smaller orcs, fleet of foot who have darted off through the underbrush. Rabbit-like, they fly!
"To our master!!! Bring word to our master of the army of tarks!! Such is Margl's command, given before the uruk hai himself also flies, weaving between trees so as to avoid the filthy arrows of the men.
No such cry comes from Ceredir's lips as the Master Scout makes to pursue at the Ranger's command, though anger burns in his eyes. He runs, sword and dagger both still in gauntleted hands, making headway in catching up with Hur.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Hur remains close on the uruk hai's heels, swinging his sword when he gets an opportunity, at the creature's knee-- the back of it, obviously.
Indeed no cry comes from the men of Ithilien, only sheer efficiency as arrow after arrow are fired and as the scouts run: one newly sworn scout makes the smaller orcs his business, recklessly going after them with sword risen.
Three now remain: Back at the scene of the original ambush, the orc fighting to flee from two Scouts falls in a puddle of gore and blood as a blade slides through him. Its cry of agony is as disgusting as the ooze from its body.
Margl weaves, dodging left and right, but the Ranger's blade slices at the back of his knee, hobbling him. The beast snarls, turning on Hur instead of trying to run, slashing its blade through the air at the Ranger.
One of the two smaller orcs now stumbles, rolling in a ball at the feet of the pursuing new Scout, who trips, crashing to the ground. It's a feint--in a flash, the orc thrusts a blade towards the Scout's leather-armored core, and there now is finally a sound from a man of Ithilien: a sudden scream of pain.
A whistle--loud, shrill. Ceredir points toward the one remaining orc that runs through bushes and brambles like a panicked rabbit, gaining distance on the pursuing Company of Ithilien. The Master Scout renews his pursuit, not waiting to see who of the Company follows. East they are heading--ever east.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Though a large gash is opened through the leather armor Hur wears, it does not douse his battle fury. With a grimace of pain, he thrusts his blade at Margl. A low hiss scapes his lips, taunting his foe. "Coward!"
Now, even the archers are running, as their targets begin to take their distance and disappear through trees. A swift chase they give, knocking and pulling strings as once again they catch sight... of Margl and the one Ceredir chases. Yet if the arrows will hit such nimble foes, it remains to be seen.
Hobbled, Margl holds his ground, hacking and slashing violently at Hur to give the remaining orc time to escape. "Let us see who is the coward here, tark," he growls in reply as he suddenly lunges forward to close the distance to the Ranger. "Come die with me." A grimace marks the ugly beast's face as he slashes sideways with his scimitar--and as suddenly, a dagger in his left hand thrusts forward to the Ranger's stomach.
Again and again, the orc that tripped the Scout thrusts a dagger into the helpless, screaming man--the orc laughing maniacally, as if it were a game. The sound is abruptly cut off as an arrow takes the orc in the throat. Whether the Scout lives remains to be seen.
One orc remains ahead, running as if Sauron himself is chasing it. North, and east, its path twists suddenly into a rock-filled gully, and the arrows bounce away uselessly.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The scimitar slash is parried with the green gauntlet, though a deep frown of pain twists the Ranger's face at the contact. And then a grunt, pained, surprised, somewhat muffled by the mask he wears, is emitted: through his armor, through his flesh, the dagger goes.
Eyes wherein belief is amiss lock upon the uruk-hai's as he attemps a punch at the dagger holding hand and forces his weight downwards, as if to open further the sword wound.
Birdcalls coordinate now the chase of the Company of Ithilien as the small swift orc gains his distance at every step. Still hurried arrows are shot, still men unwaveringly carry on.
Still the uruk-hai laughs, eyes glinting at the man he is locked in battle with, and his hand trying to twist that blade in the Ranger's gut despite the punch at the hand holding the dagger. But the sword cut is what does the trick, the wound opening further now so that suddenly blood is pouring out of the uruk's trunk and the strength in his grips is failing. He falls to a silent death. Does he take the Ranger with him?
But the chase of the remaining orc does not stop. The night grows darker, the hours are passing faster than the men might realize, and the orc seems limitless in its energy. Across rocks and dead stream beds, eastward they traverse, sometimes gaining on, sometimes falling behind the orc. And then one man, bow in hand, stops on a high rock and looses an arrow into the sky.
A short cry of pain is heard, orc-like.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Hur falls to his knees, though conscience has not yet abbandoned him. Bloodied lips now release a constant moan, full of air in it. With his remaining strength, the Ranger tries to free his sword from the orc, and sit, a hand again trying to brush off the hand holding the dagger... the small blade is to be left in place, to keep the already blood pouring wound from bleeding more.
The orc-like cry of pain seems to give further speed to the Gondorian legs as the scouts continue in their chase. Though some reminder of secrecy still pervades their minds as no shouts celebrate...
Down into a rock filled gully the men now clamber, swords drawn and ready. The orc is easy prey, with an arrow in its side. Though it slashes out with a dark blade, it is quickly overtaken by the scouts that surround it.
Then whistles again, bird calls traveling back across this barren land, a signal that the enemy has met its death, so that some of the company--those in the rear--now hurry toward Hur to try to stem the Ranger's bleeding.
Those in the gully, Ceredir among them, are slow to move out. They bend over, catching their breath after so long and hard a chase, pushed to the limits of their endurance. And a strange affliction of the heart seems to have overtaken them, so that it is hard to move their limbs. But move they do, one step after another, until they are back to where Hur has fallen.
"He lives still." The Master Scout says it more as a statement of fact than a question, his voice heavy with the oppression the land has suddenly put on them.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Though there is relief at the task fulfilled, indeed each step north, each step east, bring more shadow into the hearts of men. Hur, lying as he is, cannot but blink dimly at Ceredir, death written upon his face even as he forces speech out of his blood-stained face mask... the perfect shape of lips pressed in red against the brown leather.
"Is all done? Get the wounded... get the dead... we leave no Brother behind." he gasps for air, a hand reaching out at Ceredir's garment. A rasped whisper. The motto of the Company. "I will... keep faith in thee. Brother to Brother... through life... "
"Unto death."
Then nothing else.
"Sir..." Ceredir falls quickly to his knees, sinking next to Hur so as to hear the Ranger's words more readily. "I will, sir. None behind, sir. Sir...?" The Master Scout's own breathing is raspy and he leans closer still. "Brother to Brother...through life...sir...sir..? Hur."
Ceredir's head slumps forward on the Ranger's chest as Hur exhales his last breath, and the young Master Scout nods to the man's last's words, one arm going across Hur in a last embrace. He sobs, though it is silent, only his shoulders heaving with grief.
A moment more, silent, grief enfolding him, and then Ceredir slowly gets to his feet, his eyes betraying no tears, yet there is grief writ in them. "Find the wounded, find the dead. We leave none behind."
And though Ceredir himself is slim and not at all tall for a man of Gondor, he kneels down and picks up Hur's body, carrying the Ranger over his shoulder, though he staggers for a moment under the weight.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The sadness that befalls Ceredir touches the seven remaining unhurt Scouts and the oppressive atmosphere! the tiredness! Like walking dead they move about, heeding the Master Scout's words.
One reaches down at the several times stabbed scout, fiery eyes regarding the dead orc at whom he spits ferociously. Unfastening the man's cloak, he whistles at another scout to help him carry the ravaged body that might otherwise fall apart: each grabs an end of the cloak, carefully carrying the corpse.
Two other scouts find comrades gasping for air, with gashes on chest and legs, and embracing them, aid them in their walk back. Another scout throws a corpse's arms over his shoulders, carrying like a backpack the man for whom tears crawl over the blood stained face.
Two other injured scouts, well enough to be on their feet, wield bravely their longswords, still attempting at secrecy, for protection of his burdened comrades: two others carry corpse and fellow.
As for Hur? His limp form does not oppose Ceredir's touch.
Likely it is that the mask the Master Scout wears does much to hide his tears, for Ceredir does not try to stop them from flowing for a while. Yet with the mask, no tracks can be seen on his face. But duty must take precedence even over grief, and it is not long before he grimly controls his emotions so as not to collapse with grief. With the Ranger dead, Ceredir truly now leads this patrol, and he steps up to this duty, first moving the patrol south and west, so that the burden of shadow is eased somewhat, and then finding a place to rest and hide for a few hours before they move on again with their burdens.
The way back will be long and hard--more so than the pursuit out. Yet it is gained, step by grim step.
The looming Ephel Duath are not so near now as they were before, but still they tower in the east, vast and menacing. The road continues in both directions until it falls out of sight, and upon either side a thin forest stretches. The ground below is packed hard, and the dirt is cracked as though from drought, yet the track seems well travelled.
[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Midnight on Sterday, Day 7 of January.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 21:03:51 MDT on Fri Jan 23 2009.
Night has not yet fully fallen, but even so, this patrol of grim-faced men of Ithilien has set out with all speed across the lands. North they travel, tracking the patrol of orcs that had attacked them--the servants of the Dark Lord moving rapidly north and east. In the bushes and the trees, this Company of Ithilien has tried to seek cover--even more so for now they are on they very tail of the host of Mordain: Orcs and trackers, numbering about 20 and running at a trot.
Ceredir is among the group, the Master Scout now leaning behind a tree, watching the orcs even as he strings his bow. He looks toward the other men in the group as if waiting for a pre-arranged signal.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Hur is on this patrol, his green gauntleted hands wielding his longbow as he crouches behind a bush, his garment of green and browns blending with the landscape, his breathing low and controled, hardly detaching from the blowing wind.
The Ranger looks over to where Ceredir is. A brief nod given.
That nod is transmitted down the line, Ceredir relaying the command with a hand signal. And then volley after volley of arrows are suddenly released into the night, soaring through darkening evening.
The arrows hit, some thudding onto the ground uselessly, but many more hitting their marks. And then chaos reigns momentarily in the orc patrol: Caught unawares, their rear line falls, stumbling into the line above, tripping them. Shouts go up, grisly curses and voices, shields are raised.
A sudden roar--and the large uruk hai at the front line rages, demanding control. As one, the orc patrol turns into the arrows now, shields raised.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Yet where are the men of Ithilien? The arrows come from trees, come from bushes, come from here, from there, from everywhere!
Hur releases one more arrow before starting a crouched jog from the bush to a tree, a slice of green background oddly moving, he seems, whence another arrow flies. Then the longbow goes to his back and an even deadlier sound rings: steel rubs against leather a blade is drawn.
Waiting for an uruk to approach his hopefull still hideout, a whistle leaves his lips.
From his position in a stand of trees, Ceredir releases three more arrows swiftly before moving the bow to his back and drawing sword and dagger, one in each hand.
The orcs fall--five fell in the initial volley and then four more as the pack races toward the secreted patrol of men, eleven foul creatures remaining. They are moving fast--faster, perhaps, than was anticipated, and in a moment they are in the woods and in the trees, blades slashing at grass and weed, seeking Rangers and Scouts. A few more arrows are launched, from the trees, felling two more.
Nine remain.
The Uruk Hai leading them comes roaring into the hidden positions, and his scimitar blade cuts a wide swath into the trees, trying to find where Hur is hidden.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The blade does not find Hur: the Ranger is crouched below its reach. Nonetheless, the orc does find him: raising suddenly from his position, sword tip aiming at the creature's head, where neck comes chin, he silently attacks the uruk-hai, no cry emitted.
Around, the men of Ithilien are likewise mute, fighting as ghosts, they do, no bravado nor song heralding their presence. Those who still can, fire their arrows. The others prey or are preyed upon, blades drawn-- blood drawn. Gondorian blood.
Their prey having been scented and found, the orcs jump to it, doubling up where they can. Ceredir quickly fells the orc that stumbled onto his position a knife thrust into the creature's gut in a gap in the armor. And then the Master Scout turns, running to the aid of a younger Scout hard pressed by two orcs, the man having already taken some heavy wounds. Into the back of the first orc does Ceredir thrust his sword blade, twisting it for good measure.
Margl, the uruk hai fighting Hur, feints right, avoiding the Ranger's blade and then bringing his own blade down two-handed to try to block and to aim a heavy blow at the tark's shoulder.
Seven remain.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Margl's steel bites, though not with the strength that must have been meant: it slashes the side of Hur's arm as the Ranger sidesteps the uruk-hai, his own sword meanwhile seeking the creature's ribs beneath the open guard.
Two whistles now flow from the man's lips: close the circle.
Stabbed through the back, Ceredir's orc falls to the ground. The Master Scout yanks his blade out of the creature's back, pivots to threaten the second orc with steel: But orc and the other Scout are now locked in a hand-to-hand battle, moving this way and that so that striking out with his blade might mean that Ceredir hits friend, not foe.
There is a howling cry of pain and the orc falls--and then so, too, does the Scout who was fighting him, slumped to the ground and bleeding heavily, though not dead yet.
Six remain.
A quick glance is given to the fallen Scout--there is nothing to be done if they are all not to die here Ceredir obeys the whistled command, rushing in to close the circle around the remaining orcs.
Blood flies from Margl's gut as the Ranger's blade meets flesh, but the wound is not deep, the orc's torso protected by dark armor. Perhaps sensing a trap, the uruk hai swings his blade threateningly, but only to ward off a blow from Hur and to give him time to escape. "Fly!! Leave now! To our master now!!" The rough cry echos through the woods, and orcs start to back up, retreat, and then run.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Hur falls for the feint, taking a backward step that puts Margl out of his reach as the uruk hai turns to flee. A long whisper leaves the Ranger's lips as he gives chase, running on the outer side of the creature...
Around, the healthy scouts farther away from the orcs redraw their longbows, stringing darts they release upon pre-determined targets, rather than as a volley the others recognize the pursuit command, swiftly racing after their foes, avoiding, like Hur, to be on the way of their friends' arrows.
By the floor, four scouts now lie, if dead or just too wounded, it is yet to be seen.
THWACK. THWACK. Arrows take down one orc trying to flee, and still another falls by the blade as the circle closes in around them. Four remain--the uruk hai, another orc now struggling to flee from two masked Scouts. And two smaller orcs, fleet of foot who have darted off through the underbrush. Rabbit-like, they fly!
"To our master!!! Bring word to our master of the army of tarks!! Such is Margl's command, given before the uruk hai himself also flies, weaving between trees so as to avoid the filthy arrows of the men.
No such cry comes from Ceredir's lips as the Master Scout makes to pursue at the Ranger's command, though anger burns in his eyes. He runs, sword and dagger both still in gauntleted hands, making headway in catching up with Hur.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Hur remains close on the uruk hai's heels, swinging his sword when he gets an opportunity, at the creature's knee-- the back of it, obviously.
Indeed no cry comes from the men of Ithilien, only sheer efficiency as arrow after arrow are fired and as the scouts run: one newly sworn scout makes the smaller orcs his business, recklessly going after them with sword risen.
Three now remain: Back at the scene of the original ambush, the orc fighting to flee from two Scouts falls in a puddle of gore and blood as a blade slides through him. Its cry of agony is as disgusting as the ooze from its body.
Margl weaves, dodging left and right, but the Ranger's blade slices at the back of his knee, hobbling him. The beast snarls, turning on Hur instead of trying to run, slashing its blade through the air at the Ranger.
One of the two smaller orcs now stumbles, rolling in a ball at the feet of the pursuing new Scout, who trips, crashing to the ground. It's a feint--in a flash, the orc thrusts a blade towards the Scout's leather-armored core, and there now is finally a sound from a man of Ithilien: a sudden scream of pain.
A whistle--loud, shrill. Ceredir points toward the one remaining orc that runs through bushes and brambles like a panicked rabbit, gaining distance on the pursuing Company of Ithilien. The Master Scout renews his pursuit, not waiting to see who of the Company follows. East they are heading--ever east.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Though a large gash is opened through the leather armor Hur wears, it does not douse his battle fury. With a grimace of pain, he thrusts his blade at Margl. A low hiss scapes his lips, taunting his foe. "Coward!"
Now, even the archers are running, as their targets begin to take their distance and disappear through trees. A swift chase they give, knocking and pulling strings as once again they catch sight... of Margl and the one Ceredir chases. Yet if the arrows will hit such nimble foes, it remains to be seen.
Hobbled, Margl holds his ground, hacking and slashing violently at Hur to give the remaining orc time to escape. "Let us see who is the coward here, tark," he growls in reply as he suddenly lunges forward to close the distance to the Ranger. "Come die with me." A grimace marks the ugly beast's face as he slashes sideways with his scimitar--and as suddenly, a dagger in his left hand thrusts forward to the Ranger's stomach.
Again and again, the orc that tripped the Scout thrusts a dagger into the helpless, screaming man--the orc laughing maniacally, as if it were a game. The sound is abruptly cut off as an arrow takes the orc in the throat. Whether the Scout lives remains to be seen.
One orc remains ahead, running as if Sauron himself is chasing it. North, and east, its path twists suddenly into a rock-filled gully, and the arrows bounce away uselessly.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The scimitar slash is parried with the green gauntlet, though a deep frown of pain twists the Ranger's face at the contact. And then a grunt, pained, surprised, somewhat muffled by the mask he wears, is emitted: through his armor, through his flesh, the dagger goes.
Eyes wherein belief is amiss lock upon the uruk-hai's as he attemps a punch at the dagger holding hand and forces his weight downwards, as if to open further the sword wound.
Birdcalls coordinate now the chase of the Company of Ithilien as the small swift orc gains his distance at every step. Still hurried arrows are shot, still men unwaveringly carry on.
Still the uruk-hai laughs, eyes glinting at the man he is locked in battle with, and his hand trying to twist that blade in the Ranger's gut despite the punch at the hand holding the dagger. But the sword cut is what does the trick, the wound opening further now so that suddenly blood is pouring out of the uruk's trunk and the strength in his grips is failing. He falls to a silent death. Does he take the Ranger with him?
But the chase of the remaining orc does not stop. The night grows darker, the hours are passing faster than the men might realize, and the orc seems limitless in its energy. Across rocks and dead stream beds, eastward they traverse, sometimes gaining on, sometimes falling behind the orc. And then one man, bow in hand, stops on a high rock and looses an arrow into the sky.
A short cry of pain is heard, orc-like.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Hur falls to his knees, though conscience has not yet abbandoned him. Bloodied lips now release a constant moan, full of air in it. With his remaining strength, the Ranger tries to free his sword from the orc, and sit, a hand again trying to brush off the hand holding the dagger... the small blade is to be left in place, to keep the already blood pouring wound from bleeding more.
The orc-like cry of pain seems to give further speed to the Gondorian legs as the scouts continue in their chase. Though some reminder of secrecy still pervades their minds as no shouts celebrate...
Down into a rock filled gully the men now clamber, swords drawn and ready. The orc is easy prey, with an arrow in its side. Though it slashes out with a dark blade, it is quickly overtaken by the scouts that surround it.
Then whistles again, bird calls traveling back across this barren land, a signal that the enemy has met its death, so that some of the company--those in the rear--now hurry toward Hur to try to stem the Ranger's bleeding.
Those in the gully, Ceredir among them, are slow to move out. They bend over, catching their breath after so long and hard a chase, pushed to the limits of their endurance. And a strange affliction of the heart seems to have overtaken them, so that it is hard to move their limbs. But move they do, one step after another, until they are back to where Hur has fallen.
"He lives still." The Master Scout says it more as a statement of fact than a question, his voice heavy with the oppression the land has suddenly put on them.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Though there is relief at the task fulfilled, indeed each step north, each step east, bring more shadow into the hearts of men. Hur, lying as he is, cannot but blink dimly at Ceredir, death written upon his face even as he forces speech out of his blood-stained face mask... the perfect shape of lips pressed in red against the brown leather.
"Is all done? Get the wounded... get the dead... we leave no Brother behind." he gasps for air, a hand reaching out at Ceredir's garment. A rasped whisper. The motto of the Company. "I will... keep faith in thee. Brother to Brother... through life... "
"Unto death."
Then nothing else.
"Sir..." Ceredir falls quickly to his knees, sinking next to Hur so as to hear the Ranger's words more readily. "I will, sir. None behind, sir. Sir...?" The Master Scout's own breathing is raspy and he leans closer still. "Brother to Brother...through life...sir...sir..? Hur."
Ceredir's head slumps forward on the Ranger's chest as Hur exhales his last breath, and the young Master Scout nods to the man's last's words, one arm going across Hur in a last embrace. He sobs, though it is silent, only his shoulders heaving with grief.
A moment more, silent, grief enfolding him, and then Ceredir slowly gets to his feet, his eyes betraying no tears, yet there is grief writ in them. "Find the wounded, find the dead. We leave none behind."
And though Ceredir himself is slim and not at all tall for a man of Gondor, he kneels down and picks up Hur's body, carrying the Ranger over his shoulder, though he staggers for a moment under the weight.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The sadness that befalls Ceredir touches the seven remaining unhurt Scouts and the oppressive atmosphere! the tiredness! Like walking dead they move about, heeding the Master Scout's words.
One reaches down at the several times stabbed scout, fiery eyes regarding the dead orc at whom he spits ferociously. Unfastening the man's cloak, he whistles at another scout to help him carry the ravaged body that might otherwise fall apart: each grabs an end of the cloak, carefully carrying the corpse.
Two other scouts find comrades gasping for air, with gashes on chest and legs, and embracing them, aid them in their walk back. Another scout throws a corpse's arms over his shoulders, carrying like a backpack the man for whom tears crawl over the blood stained face.
Two other injured scouts, well enough to be on their feet, wield bravely their longswords, still attempting at secrecy, for protection of his burdened comrades: two others carry corpse and fellow.
As for Hur? His limp form does not oppose Ceredir's touch.
Likely it is that the mask the Master Scout wears does much to hide his tears, for Ceredir does not try to stop them from flowing for a while. Yet with the mask, no tracks can be seen on his face. But duty must take precedence even over grief, and it is not long before he grimly controls his emotions so as not to collapse with grief. With the Ranger dead, Ceredir truly now leads this patrol, and he steps up to this duty, first moving the patrol south and west, so that the burden of shadow is eased somewhat, and then finding a place to rest and hide for a few hours before they move on again with their burdens.
The way back will be long and hard--more so than the pursuit out. Yet it is gained, step by grim step.
Players: Hur,Gurtir,Ceredir
