Elendor
Soldiers of Finlachel
The Black Company is once again active in Gondor, and its target is a caravan led by the Knight-Captain Bor.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Lossarnach
Game Date: December 26, 3045
IC Time: Early night
Description:
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Weather: Clear
Time: Early Night <22:32:33 >
Season: Winter
Date: Oranor - December 26, 3045
Real Time: Mon Jan 19 12:10:51 2009
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Lossarnach: South Road
The flowery vales of Lossarnach spread far about, from the foot of the Ered Nimrais in the north to the crossings of the Erui in the south. Green and green and green...lush leaves and fields of flowers and grasses and all good things, this is Lossarnach. The South Road winds down vale and over hill from Anorien, twining ever on toward the Erui Crossing, little over half a day in riding on a good horse.
The air from the mountains is fresh and sweet, and the road is crossed and sided by many small streamlets as they rush from the hills to join the larger Erui. Here and there along the way, shady dells and stone fire rings offer places to stop and rest, to abide for an hour or a night beside brooks of clear water. There are also paths into the hills, their stone markers naming them the ways to the homes of the vale-dwellers, and of their great Lord, Forlong the Fat.
By night, the trees which shade the traveller take on darker aspects. They seem to lean over the road like wardens against evil or unwary traveller. Even the stars are difficult to see where the trees stand.
"And what news from the Prince?"
They are thirteen in number, all upon horseback, clad in the blues and whites of Imrahil. In their midst is a horse-drawn carriage, so obviously laden to hamper its speed. They follow the road even in the approaching darkness, even though flanked at one side by a steep set of hills. It is slow progress.
"His mind bends ever to the south, to his son, to Harondor."
A line of black clad men lay prone in wait upon the high ground flanking either side of the road, unbeknownst to those who travel it. The ground of the road begins to get soggy underfoot furthest up ahead. One of the men in wait seems to be coordinating some signal among the rest, and ever is his attention shared between two places: the road between the hills, and something that remains unseen behind.
"So too does mine," says Bor, at head of the caravan.
The horses slosh through the mud at the whims of their handlers, moving slowly on all sides of the carriage. Their eyes are ever to the fore.
"I wish for this renovation to be completed as soon as possible," he adds.
Another is here, lying prone among the men in the high ground, though this man has gone to great pains to hide his identity. Clad in black and masked like the others, he also wears dark gloves on his hands, except for the second and third fingers of his right hand, which are left uncovered.
Another figure lies among a second rank just behind the first row of prone men. This one is a little smaller, a little softer looking, as if merely a youth. But all details are obscured by black clothing, cloak, and mask. The only thing that seems to buck this darkened trend is the smallest hint of silver steel in each hand.
As the convoy centers into view, the lead man among the ambushers slowly starts to rise by his shoulders, like a predator readying for the pounce. His hand comes up as if to countdown the signal. He looks to the two of his comrades nearby.
Then his hand comes down. On command, several yellow glowing orbs appear atop the apex of the hill-line before suddenly converging on a single spot of the road where few of the escort have yet stepped, and where those steps have been into a soggy earth pitch. The hard odor rapidly permeates as it ignites and creates a solid wall of flame.
There's a whistle. Then come the arrows, from both sides of the road, aiming first for the foremost and rearmost, and gradually working toward the center. Some seek out the horses drawing forth the carriage.
The wall of flame creates a stir amongst the van horses rearing back, riders attempting to regain control, and in this confusion, the arrows find their mark. Six men fall immediately to the ground, some writhing in pain, others not moving at all. One of the horses of the carriage cripples beneath an arrow, and thus does the carriage itself stop permanently.
The Knight-Captain grits his teeth through the pain for an arrow digs deep into his shoulder. Reeling back towards the carriage, his horn blasts.
"DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
"Grab the injured!" Bor yells. "The carriage is lost!"
Along the line of the hill, a long row of archers stands, loosing arrows. One of these figures, black-clad, is of a smaller stature than the rest. As the progress of the carriage is stopped, this shorter archer now revises his aim, loosing arrows toward Bor or the horse that the Knight-Captain rides.
When the first few volley's of arrows has been spent, the second tier of the ambush hurls itself into action. Swordsmen, all wearing the same black garments as the rest, charge into the field. Each one sets itself upon a member of the convoy, and the clash of steel mingles with the whizzing of arrows.
One in particular, a small, more lithe member, detaches himself from the group and darts through the mayhem towards Bor and his steed. Matched blades twirl in practiced grace into the slender hands, slicing with deadly aim towards the back legs of the proud animal... Intending to sever the ligaments and render it incapable of movement.
"DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO--"
And then the second horn-blast is cut short as arrow and blade bite into the Knight-Captain's steed. It crumbles to the ground, spilling its rider with it. Bor rolls off to the side, near to one of the hills and when he rises anew it is with longsword in hand. He rips the arrow from his shoulder and calls out:
"Ride! To the city!"
The leader stands now, scanning the battlefield and issuing adjustments as needed. Fewer arrows stream through the air now as only the most skilled of the archers now switch to selective fire. The others wheel around in an attempt to block the Knight-Captain's rearward retreat. They take up spears and swords and attempt to dismount other riders as they can.
Not much experienced with bow and arrow, the shorter archer has taken up a position in the rear, wielding a spear and thrusting it forward toward any attempting a retreat. Yet a dagger, blade blackened, is also held ready in the archer's belt, and behind his mask, his eyes travel ever to note Bor's position.
A feral grin spreads itself over the surpringly girlish lips of the young would-be-assassin as he twirls those silvered matched blades once more, closing in on the longsword-bearing Knight-Captain. The young man bears the stance of a talented knife-fighter: lithe, quick, and precise. The man begins in a feinting, swift-handed attack, attempting to draw Bor into combat. Better to distract the leader than let him continue to issue orders.
Meanwhile, the coach has been captured by other assailants, and is being driven out of the field, lest it be regained by the retreating knights.
The injured rise to fight as they can, but four already lie dead from the initial volley. Cordoned off by both fire and man, only one rider stays atop his mount and is able to navigate past the fire. He makes to head for Minas Tirith.
For the rest, it is a fight to the end. Surprise is replaced by death's determination and their swords glimmer as they descend upon their marks. What losses they have thus sustained are soon evened out, as four of the black-clad men fall beneath their blows. What attempt they make to join their Captain at the fore is hard won, and few of the remaining are able to break the line.
But here is a veteran of innumerable battles and he is not so easily lured away from his command. His sword stays in a defensive hold, never straying too far from the bulk of his frame and he no longer retreats to the rear.
Two of the Swan soon join his side, a trio wedged together by the assault. Quick words pass between them before they rejoin the fight, never too far from one another. Bor, for his part, comes upon the lithe-bodied youth with a heavy blow aimed at his chest. He winces even as the strikes descends.
The shorter archer's spear is thrown in a last-ditch attempt to injure the one rider that is getting away, but the black-clad attacker hardly waits to see if he hits horse or rider. Instead, he rushes toward the remaining fight, drawing his dagger. Staying low, he approaches the trio of defenders now, his own blade wielded expertly, though he moves cautiously against the swords.
The leader now wields his own blade and begins to descend the hill, joining combat as he passes through it. Ever is his trajectory, however, for the assailed Knight-Captain. Strangely enough he seems in little hurry, seemingly walking through the midst of battle though ever aware of his surround.
"Good evening, Hir Bor!" he calls aloud in a mirthful tone. "I hope you were not in a hurry. We planned on you staying awhile."
The youth seems to expect the blow from Bor, ducking beneath it and coming back up with a quick, back-handed swipe of his left-handed blade at Bor's head, turning it at the last second to deliver a stunning blow with the flat of the blade. The right hand takes its time, following the left in an attempt to stab into the man's already injured shoulder.
From behind, the selective fire of archers turns towards the trio now facing the knife-fighter. With an accuracy to rival the men of Ithilien, the arrows whiz towards the two knights alongside Bor.
Bor manages to dance aside the blow to his head, but the second knife slices into his shoulder. He gasps as his body sags to the side.
The arrows find their mark and two more of the defenders fall, those who shared council with Bor. Again, the Knight-Captain is alone.
The wall of flame fires upwards anew, and a few of the horses are startled. One runs away to the south, while the other trots off north.
Blackened dagger held ready, the shorter archer lunges forward to slash at one of Bor's men--but the arrows find their mark before his blade does and so he turns his attention to Bor instead. Again, this shorter, black-clad man is a second too late, as the other knife fighter's blade hits its mark. With Bor seeming to be cornered for the moment, the shorter archer now ventures a quick glance to the leader, who has greeted Bor.
But under his breath, he hisses to the other knife fighter, in a voice distorted and not like his usual.
"Finish him."
But the other knife-fighter seems to be better trained than the hissing one. And when the leader speaks, he holds his ground, keeping bor trapped between himself and the fire.
"I am at your leisure it seems," says Bor, breathing heavily. "Who is it that attacks the van of Imrahil with such brazenness?" His sword stays ready.
His eyes roam the scene, from the speaker to the knife-wielder and then, at last, to the trotting horse and yet the Knight-Captain does not move.
Two fingers come to the Leader's lips and a whistle emits. "Soldiers of Finlachel," he calls, "Restrain him! I don't want him dead..." Then grey eyes gleaming toward the shorter archer, he adds, "Yet."
The battle begins to whither and disperse. A group of the attackers on hand begin to surround the Knight-Captain. Some of them bear grapples and nets. Cautiously they close in.
This command causes the black-clad archer to turn sharply, his own eyes forming a question. Yet he also backs up a pace, giving the men with nets and grapples room to work. The knife is not yet put away it remains in his hand.
The youth that had lead the attack on Bor takes a step back. Then one more. The blades in his hands are held in a covering position, for knives can be thrown. He seems content to let the men coming to capture the Knight have their moment and space.
"I see," says Bor, his body firm despite injury. He raises his sword aside his head, in what must be the posture of one who knows his fate.
And then, from the north comes a Rider. Not a new man, this, but surely the one who managed to get past the wall of flame and the trap itself.
"Amroth!" he yells, his horse and sword crashing into one side of the rapidly enclosing trap. A seam is created, and the Knight-Captain lunges through it.
And there does Bor find a waiting steed...
"Don't let him escape!" cries the Leader. Arrows are quickly knocked, but are they loosed in time?
Bor mounts the nearby horse with ease and shouts to his rescuer.
"Away!"
And thus does the other man turn, his steed falling in behind the Knight-Captain for whom the arrows are so meant. He falls, his body peppered by no less than six shafts. But it is enough to allow for the Captain to spur his horse onwards and away, his figure rapidly disappearing from sight.
Finally, the young knife-fighter speaks: a low, heart-felt swear word that would make a sailor blush.
This newest arrival has sent the net men scattering out of the way of the horse, and with a fury in ice-cold grey eyes, the lead assassin looses a throwing knife from his belt: aimed in anger towards the back of the rescuer. It blade arches swift and true in its direction, sinking into the man's back just as six arrows complete his demise.
One final blade cuts through the air, a black blade knife thrown by the shorter archer, the weapon spinning end over end toward the fleeing horsemen. It is thrown with precision and also with luck, for the rescuer falls as the knife is in the air, so that it does not sink into that man's back with the arrows. Instead, it heads toward the fleeing Bor, though the blade may be too late to hit its mark.
Face hidden by his mask, the shorter archer's grey eyes hardly blink at the curse sounded next to him. He just stares at Bor's back.
The knife finds its mark, into the small of the Knight-Captain's back.
But the distance that has passed between the two at this point renders the entry too shallow to be grevious. And Bor is away, growing small upon the horizon.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Weather: Clear
Time: Early Night <22:32:33 >
Season: Winter
Date: Oranor - December 26, 3045
Real Time: Mon Jan 19 12:10:51 2009
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Lossarnach: South Road
The flowery vales of Lossarnach spread far about, from the foot of the Ered Nimrais in the north to the crossings of the Erui in the south. Green and green and green...lush leaves and fields of flowers and grasses and all good things, this is Lossarnach. The South Road winds down vale and over hill from Anorien, twining ever on toward the Erui Crossing, little over half a day in riding on a good horse.
The air from the mountains is fresh and sweet, and the road is crossed and sided by many small streamlets as they rush from the hills to join the larger Erui. Here and there along the way, shady dells and stone fire rings offer places to stop and rest, to abide for an hour or a night beside brooks of clear water. There are also paths into the hills, their stone markers naming them the ways to the homes of the vale-dwellers, and of their great Lord, Forlong the Fat.
By night, the trees which shade the traveller take on darker aspects. They seem to lean over the road like wardens against evil or unwary traveller. Even the stars are difficult to see where the trees stand.
"And what news from the Prince?"
They are thirteen in number, all upon horseback, clad in the blues and whites of Imrahil. In their midst is a horse-drawn carriage, so obviously laden to hamper its speed. They follow the road even in the approaching darkness, even though flanked at one side by a steep set of hills. It is slow progress.
"His mind bends ever to the south, to his son, to Harondor."
A line of black clad men lay prone in wait upon the high ground flanking either side of the road, unbeknownst to those who travel it. The ground of the road begins to get soggy underfoot furthest up ahead. One of the men in wait seems to be coordinating some signal among the rest, and ever is his attention shared between two places: the road between the hills, and something that remains unseen behind.
"So too does mine," says Bor, at head of the caravan.
The horses slosh through the mud at the whims of their handlers, moving slowly on all sides of the carriage. Their eyes are ever to the fore.
"I wish for this renovation to be completed as soon as possible," he adds.
Another is here, lying prone among the men in the high ground, though this man has gone to great pains to hide his identity. Clad in black and masked like the others, he also wears dark gloves on his hands, except for the second and third fingers of his right hand, which are left uncovered.
Another figure lies among a second rank just behind the first row of prone men. This one is a little smaller, a little softer looking, as if merely a youth. But all details are obscured by black clothing, cloak, and mask. The only thing that seems to buck this darkened trend is the smallest hint of silver steel in each hand.
As the convoy centers into view, the lead man among the ambushers slowly starts to rise by his shoulders, like a predator readying for the pounce. His hand comes up as if to countdown the signal. He looks to the two of his comrades nearby.
Then his hand comes down. On command, several yellow glowing orbs appear atop the apex of the hill-line before suddenly converging on a single spot of the road where few of the escort have yet stepped, and where those steps have been into a soggy earth pitch. The hard odor rapidly permeates as it ignites and creates a solid wall of flame.
There's a whistle. Then come the arrows, from both sides of the road, aiming first for the foremost and rearmost, and gradually working toward the center. Some seek out the horses drawing forth the carriage.
The wall of flame creates a stir amongst the van horses rearing back, riders attempting to regain control, and in this confusion, the arrows find their mark. Six men fall immediately to the ground, some writhing in pain, others not moving at all. One of the horses of the carriage cripples beneath an arrow, and thus does the carriage itself stop permanently.
The Knight-Captain grits his teeth through the pain for an arrow digs deep into his shoulder. Reeling back towards the carriage, his horn blasts.
"DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
"Grab the injured!" Bor yells. "The carriage is lost!"
Along the line of the hill, a long row of archers stands, loosing arrows. One of these figures, black-clad, is of a smaller stature than the rest. As the progress of the carriage is stopped, this shorter archer now revises his aim, loosing arrows toward Bor or the horse that the Knight-Captain rides.
When the first few volley's of arrows has been spent, the second tier of the ambush hurls itself into action. Swordsmen, all wearing the same black garments as the rest, charge into the field. Each one sets itself upon a member of the convoy, and the clash of steel mingles with the whizzing of arrows.
One in particular, a small, more lithe member, detaches himself from the group and darts through the mayhem towards Bor and his steed. Matched blades twirl in practiced grace into the slender hands, slicing with deadly aim towards the back legs of the proud animal... Intending to sever the ligaments and render it incapable of movement.
"DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO--"
And then the second horn-blast is cut short as arrow and blade bite into the Knight-Captain's steed. It crumbles to the ground, spilling its rider with it. Bor rolls off to the side, near to one of the hills and when he rises anew it is with longsword in hand. He rips the arrow from his shoulder and calls out:
"Ride! To the city!"
The leader stands now, scanning the battlefield and issuing adjustments as needed. Fewer arrows stream through the air now as only the most skilled of the archers now switch to selective fire. The others wheel around in an attempt to block the Knight-Captain's rearward retreat. They take up spears and swords and attempt to dismount other riders as they can.
Not much experienced with bow and arrow, the shorter archer has taken up a position in the rear, wielding a spear and thrusting it forward toward any attempting a retreat. Yet a dagger, blade blackened, is also held ready in the archer's belt, and behind his mask, his eyes travel ever to note Bor's position.
A feral grin spreads itself over the surpringly girlish lips of the young would-be-assassin as he twirls those silvered matched blades once more, closing in on the longsword-bearing Knight-Captain. The young man bears the stance of a talented knife-fighter: lithe, quick, and precise. The man begins in a feinting, swift-handed attack, attempting to draw Bor into combat. Better to distract the leader than let him continue to issue orders.
Meanwhile, the coach has been captured by other assailants, and is being driven out of the field, lest it be regained by the retreating knights.
The injured rise to fight as they can, but four already lie dead from the initial volley. Cordoned off by both fire and man, only one rider stays atop his mount and is able to navigate past the fire. He makes to head for Minas Tirith.
For the rest, it is a fight to the end. Surprise is replaced by death's determination and their swords glimmer as they descend upon their marks. What losses they have thus sustained are soon evened out, as four of the black-clad men fall beneath their blows. What attempt they make to join their Captain at the fore is hard won, and few of the remaining are able to break the line.
But here is a veteran of innumerable battles and he is not so easily lured away from his command. His sword stays in a defensive hold, never straying too far from the bulk of his frame and he no longer retreats to the rear.
Two of the Swan soon join his side, a trio wedged together by the assault. Quick words pass between them before they rejoin the fight, never too far from one another. Bor, for his part, comes upon the lithe-bodied youth with a heavy blow aimed at his chest. He winces even as the strikes descends.
The shorter archer's spear is thrown in a last-ditch attempt to injure the one rider that is getting away, but the black-clad attacker hardly waits to see if he hits horse or rider. Instead, he rushes toward the remaining fight, drawing his dagger. Staying low, he approaches the trio of defenders now, his own blade wielded expertly, though he moves cautiously against the swords.
The leader now wields his own blade and begins to descend the hill, joining combat as he passes through it. Ever is his trajectory, however, for the assailed Knight-Captain. Strangely enough he seems in little hurry, seemingly walking through the midst of battle though ever aware of his surround.
"Good evening, Hir Bor!" he calls aloud in a mirthful tone. "I hope you were not in a hurry. We planned on you staying awhile."
The youth seems to expect the blow from Bor, ducking beneath it and coming back up with a quick, back-handed swipe of his left-handed blade at Bor's head, turning it at the last second to deliver a stunning blow with the flat of the blade. The right hand takes its time, following the left in an attempt to stab into the man's already injured shoulder.
From behind, the selective fire of archers turns towards the trio now facing the knife-fighter. With an accuracy to rival the men of Ithilien, the arrows whiz towards the two knights alongside Bor.
Bor manages to dance aside the blow to his head, but the second knife slices into his shoulder. He gasps as his body sags to the side.
The arrows find their mark and two more of the defenders fall, those who shared council with Bor. Again, the Knight-Captain is alone.
The wall of flame fires upwards anew, and a few of the horses are startled. One runs away to the south, while the other trots off north.
Blackened dagger held ready, the shorter archer lunges forward to slash at one of Bor's men--but the arrows find their mark before his blade does and so he turns his attention to Bor instead. Again, this shorter, black-clad man is a second too late, as the other knife fighter's blade hits its mark. With Bor seeming to be cornered for the moment, the shorter archer now ventures a quick glance to the leader, who has greeted Bor.
But under his breath, he hisses to the other knife fighter, in a voice distorted and not like his usual.
"Finish him."
But the other knife-fighter seems to be better trained than the hissing one. And when the leader speaks, he holds his ground, keeping bor trapped between himself and the fire.
"I am at your leisure it seems," says Bor, breathing heavily. "Who is it that attacks the van of Imrahil with such brazenness?" His sword stays ready.
His eyes roam the scene, from the speaker to the knife-wielder and then, at last, to the trotting horse and yet the Knight-Captain does not move.
Two fingers come to the Leader's lips and a whistle emits. "Soldiers of Finlachel," he calls, "Restrain him! I don't want him dead..." Then grey eyes gleaming toward the shorter archer, he adds, "Yet."
The battle begins to whither and disperse. A group of the attackers on hand begin to surround the Knight-Captain. Some of them bear grapples and nets. Cautiously they close in.
This command causes the black-clad archer to turn sharply, his own eyes forming a question. Yet he also backs up a pace, giving the men with nets and grapples room to work. The knife is not yet put away it remains in his hand.
The youth that had lead the attack on Bor takes a step back. Then one more. The blades in his hands are held in a covering position, for knives can be thrown. He seems content to let the men coming to capture the Knight have their moment and space.
"I see," says Bor, his body firm despite injury. He raises his sword aside his head, in what must be the posture of one who knows his fate.
And then, from the north comes a Rider. Not a new man, this, but surely the one who managed to get past the wall of flame and the trap itself.
"Amroth!" he yells, his horse and sword crashing into one side of the rapidly enclosing trap. A seam is created, and the Knight-Captain lunges through it.
And there does Bor find a waiting steed...
"Don't let him escape!" cries the Leader. Arrows are quickly knocked, but are they loosed in time?
Bor mounts the nearby horse with ease and shouts to his rescuer.
"Away!"
And thus does the other man turn, his steed falling in behind the Knight-Captain for whom the arrows are so meant. He falls, his body peppered by no less than six shafts. But it is enough to allow for the Captain to spur his horse onwards and away, his figure rapidly disappearing from sight.
Finally, the young knife-fighter speaks: a low, heart-felt swear word that would make a sailor blush.
This newest arrival has sent the net men scattering out of the way of the horse, and with a fury in ice-cold grey eyes, the lead assassin looses a throwing knife from his belt: aimed in anger towards the back of the rescuer. It blade arches swift and true in its direction, sinking into the man's back just as six arrows complete his demise.
One final blade cuts through the air, a black blade knife thrown by the shorter archer, the weapon spinning end over end toward the fleeing horsemen. It is thrown with precision and also with luck, for the rescuer falls as the knife is in the air, so that it does not sink into that man's back with the arrows. Instead, it heads toward the fleeing Bor, though the blade may be too late to hit its mark.
Face hidden by his mask, the shorter archer's grey eyes hardly blink at the curse sounded next to him. He just stares at Bor's back.
The knife finds its mark, into the small of the Knight-Captain's back.
But the distance that has passed between the two at this point renders the entry too shallow to be grevious. And Bor is away, growing small upon the horizon.
Players: Bor,Duncan,Black Company
Located in: Gondorian
