Elendor
Words and Orcs
A whispered conversation between Ranger and Scout in Osgiliath is interrupted by attacking orcs
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Osgiliath
Game Date: October 17 3045
IC Time: Sunset
Description:
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Slowly the days go by. Slowly, each hour. Each minute. In tension, hunger, cold and exhaustion. Thus the day at hand is but another one: slowly the sun fades in the western horizon, slowly night takes over, slowly the autumn wind bites at the skins and souls of the last defenders between the enemy at Osgiliath and the good men at Pelennor and beyond.
They endure. Living the slow death of privations in a make-shift camp, that has as centre the bundles of supplies and the lying woundeds, they still post watches, they still patrol. It is at this spot that Gurtir Carmayar makes a meal of the little food his quota allows him to have.
Without fires to keep them warm, try as they might, the soldiers here cannot stay warm--not for long, at least. Slowly--or for the wounded, perhaps not so slowly--exposure is setting in on top of the exhaustion and hunger. Groups of men huddle together for warmth when they can, or stand and stamp their feet to keep warm, but the lack of food makes it difficult to keep up movement for long, the men needing to conserve what strength they can in order to fight.
Ceredir, who has not been fighting other than for the fishing trip, should have fared better than most. But the Scout has cut his rations on purpose, sparing food for those who can fight, and, pale-faced and shivering despite his thick cloak and a hood drawn over his head, he now walks over to Gurtir, small piece of biscuit in hand for his meal. "Sir."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Ceredir.", the Ranger replies, a tired shadow of a smile regarding the man, "You should start sharpening your sword. By my calculations, the Captain's ban is almost over."
This said, he pulls his cloak closer around himself, brings a piece of bread hard as rock to his mouth, chewing longly on it, "Are you with your lists in there?"
"Sir...One more month. I have been keeping careful track. November the 15th." The Scout shivers again, stamping his feet, then sighing and sinking onto a piece of rubble that serves as a seat for the moment, so that he is down at the Ranger's level now. "If we live. I cannot see how that will be anymore. We will hold...but live? No.."
Coming out of this reverie, he glances now to the Ranger. "Lists? I have the ledger of teh supplies if that is what you mean, but little good it will do us. I reckon we will run completely out of food in a day. Or two depending on how many more men die."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"A whole month?", Gurtir echoes Ceredir's words, scratching his head, "Well then, we haven't been here all that long...", a faint grin touches his lips. He nods slowly at the scout's next words, grim, "One of the Rangers caught a rabbit the other day. I have been thinking about getting the broken weapons and make some traps out of them to try our luck... I heard about the incident fishing."
"Aye, August through November, sir." Ceredir takes a small bite of the biscuit, rock hard by now, but it is food. "We'll need a fire to cook the rabbit, but I am afraid that is exactly what drew the orcs when we tried fishing. Hard to hide a fire. It's bound to smoke at some point. Sir..." Ceredir frowns, hesitant. "I wound up fighting, so to speak, on that fishing trip. Leastwise, I had to defend the fish and bandages."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir shrugs at the new information about fighting, his agreement thence exposed though not spoken. When he talks anew, it is about something else, "I believe we will have to dig. We can use the earth to block the wind a bit, at least from the wounded. And perhaps we could attempt a new fire. Farther from the camp, should it fail."
"Thank you."
With those two words, Ceredir seems to close the subject of the fight at the fishing trip. "I will work on digging something," he says, starting to stand, then changing his mind and sitting again. He leans forward to the Ranger, dropping his voice.
"Sir...if I do not make it out of here alive, there is something that you need to know."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir nods as Ceredir stands up, turning his face back to the tasteless piece of bread. Then, as the Scout sits down again, he raises his eyebrows, though regards the scout for a few moments in a respectful silence. Then he shakes his head, "Write it down then. If you live, we will burn it. If you don't and I am still alive, I will read it."
"I...suppose so." But the Scout frowns. "Though this was information that you previously had said that you wanted. About ** ********." Ceredir watches the Ranger closely for his reaction.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The Ranger simply holds his peace now, his offer of grandeur made, yet his curiousity nagging at him. Thus he leaves it up to the Scout, his silence his own response...
Ceredir then pauses, his eyes briefly on the Ranger, considering a response, if any, and then dropping to the ground.
"It is as I had thought."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"How?", Gurtir asks the Scout, his eyes following the man's downcast mien, "And why?"
"How...I have sworn an oath not to reveal. I am sorry, but I assure you that the source of the information is absolutely reliable, for that person also swore an oath to me and their word is unimpeachable. As for why..." Ceredir kicks at the ground. "That I will never know."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"And... who ** ***?" the Ranger asks, nodding at the negative, "That can you reveal?"
Glancing about again, Ceredir drops his voice even more. "I ***, sir, ***. **** ** ***** , yet I ****."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"I am sorry."
Gurtir falls silent then, wondering, frowning, "Has ****?", yet this is not the question on his mind, which he holds... "Was *** *******?"
The Scout still speaks in a barely audible voice. "Thank you for that, sir. I wish...well, wishing will not change matters. If and when I make it out of here alive, I will *** ****."
Ceredir pauses here to look at the Ranger.
"*** was ***."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The Ranger draws a deep breath and sighs, offering Ceredir something of a smile, "Yes... perhaps you do." and he is silent then. For several seconds. Then he speaks again.
"I don't suppose you know how they came together? ** and... ***?"
"No sir." Ceredir shakes his head. "I do not know, nor do I have any conceivable way of ever finding out. Considering the circumstances. Perhaps there are those who still know, and perhaps if I find those whom I seek, they will know. If they exist."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Forgive me if I do not ****.", Gurtir tells the scout, averting his eyes, "But I shan't before there is enough information.", he is silent again, though not in an hostile fashion. Then he motions to stand up.
"I don't suppose you have seen Tarachim lately? I have heard some... gossiping."
[Lorbag(#28583)]
The coming night has more to yield than secrets and lineage, for from the east come soft, cautious steps.
A dozen or so of the Mordain soldiers come skulking as quietly as they may hunch backed orcs led by a tall Uruk bearing a spiked sledge. Gurtir at least might remember that weapon, if not the bearer, for it has stung the pride of Carmayar before, and with a hiss the foul captain closes in upon the two men of Gondor.
But, stealthy as they may be, they reckon not with the senses of a Ranger of Ithilien...
"Nor do I expect you to, sir. I will look for proof myself and then see what..if anything to do from there."
A frown creases Ceredir's forehead now. "The March-Warden? There was some...discussion...with Sir Bor. That went poorly, I am afraid to say." The Scout follows Gurtir as the two walk to the fringes of the camp, Ceredir turning his head into the darkness now. "Sir..." his hand strays to the dagger at his belt.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The Ranger walks closely wrapped in his cloak, trying to ban the chill of the night. A single gauntleted hand however is exposed to reveal the spear with which he helped himself up previously and that now is held with a thigh grip as the shadows press around him and the scout by the edges of their camp.
Indeed, Ceredir's words fall on deaf ears, Gurtir's senses focused on the strange sounds, the shadowy figures he cannot count.
"Get the men.", he tells Ceredir, thrusting his spear blindly at where he guesses an attacker might be.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
But the orcs are not so easily caught by the spear tip, and with the light faded from the sky they chatter and cackle as they circle the two men. Perhaps some morsel of the 'tark' language has been taught to these savage brutes, for as Gurtir speaks to Ceredir suddenly the orc captain's eyes turn thither.
"Oh no yer don't," he hisses, and Lorbag is his name. Forward he charges, and his sledge sweeps out as quick as it can in search of Ceredir's footing.
"Sir." Ceredir is already turning to run back toward the camp as he answers the Ranger's order. His back to the orcs, the Scout does not see the sledge lash out, so that it tangles his right foot, sending him crashing to the ground.
"Attack!! We are under attack!" Ceredir manages to bellow. He kicks and struggles, trying to roll to his back before the orc is upon him. And there is a knife glinting in his right hand.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The sky uncovered by clouds offers a little light from its stars and its moon, yet not enough so that the orcish supremacy at this midnight hour be defeated. Thus steel from unseen blows slash past Gurtir, bite his armor, clang on his helm. The Ranger tries to use the advantage of his long weapon, sweeping the are in front of himself with it's gashing point.
Ceredir's cry, coming from such a close position, from such a low position, have him turn and attempt a thrust at the orc commander by the scout.
On the Gondorian camp, men fight the cold and the tiredness in order to stand and fight more: fight they who attack them. Steps already beat on the ground.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
Gurtir's weapon bites flesh indeed, but not the flesh he had hoped one of the vile throng leaps into view at the last moment in misplaced zeal. Thusly saved, Lorbag spins about to watch his crony die, and lips his yellow fangs with relish.
"So yer want to stick me in the back, is it?" he croons, mocking the Ranger. "I prefer to fight face to face. Let's take a look at that chin of yers!"
And with that the sledge swings upward, seeking Gurtir's jawline. Meanwhile, the other orcs are waylaid by the coming soldiers, and the sounds of steel upon iron begin to fill the night air.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
There is a parry, but by no means an intended one: as Lorbag speaks, Gurtir pulls his spear free from the target it had hit, and his gauntlets block the sledge, diminishing the strength of the blow they are obliged to still deliver at the Ranger's jaw.
Taking a twain of steps backwards to make use of distance, he tries another thrust at the orc.
Gurtir's blow, though it misses Lorbag, at least draws the uruk's attention from Ceredir, so that the Scout now manages to get to his feet. He staggers forward, trying to break through the ring of orcs that encircle the two men, trying to buy time until help arrives. Ceredir fights with a dagger, slashing and stabbing at the orcs.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
The knife does its work well, ably wielded, and two of the foul creatures tumble to earth to stir no more. A third and fourth take fright from this, springing backward to set a distance between them and Ceredir, and with wary swipes of their own blades they attempt to put an end to this threat.
Meanwhile, Gurtir too enjoys some success, for Lorbag is unable to stop the latest thrust of the Ranger's spear. Into the orc captain's side it tears, though not deeply, and with a wince and a rasp of pain Lorbag stumbles back a pace or two. A fire is in his eyes, but the strike appears to have given him pause, and he does not attack anew.
[Bor(#30834)]
Amongst this collection of starved and desolate, beaten and bruised, here numbers another, long confined to fevered sleep and haunted dreams. He wears a thick cloak of furs about him, and stumbles every few steps. Pale, cold-ridden eyes stare like beads out upon the ensuing battle as his sword cuts a line in the ground. Though he bears no coat of arms, it is unmistakable:
The Knight-Commander has returned to battle.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The succesful hit and the orc's pause allow the Ranger to regain the breath Lorbag's blow had temporarily stolen from him, even that through the Ranger's own gauntlets. And thus he can bluff, "You filth. Leave before our full force smashes you all!"
The tip of his spear describes small, ominous circles in the air, in preparation for a parry as for an attack. The arrival of the Knight-Commander punctuates his words.
As two orcs fall before him, Ceredir does not let up his attack, pressing forward now after the third and fourth, threatening with the dagger he wields. Briefly his eyes fall on the Knight Commander, and the Scout nods almost imperceptibly. Then he lunges forward, threatening with the knife. Not attacking, but trying to drive the two orcs backwards into the waiting arms of the defenders as they arrive.
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
The Knight-Commander is not alone.
Equally hard-bitten by the elements and deprivation, a collection of defenders follow in the Bragollach Knight's wake. Fire shines from their hollowed eyes and grim determination marks each and every man's countenance.
Foremost among them arrives the Squire Arashen and though he limps, he wears the same expression of determination as his comrades. His sword is drawn, his shield brought forward.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
At least one of Ceredir's foes is thrust back into the midst of the Gondorians hateful cries rending the air as it meets it's end upon the steel of the West. But the other is wily still, and slips aside the man, stealing to Lorbag's side and pointing desperately at the coming soldiers.
The orc captain's eyes blaze at the news, and no less as they turn back to Gurtir, but no challenge is made with arms to his adversary. Instead the warlord spits upon the ground at the Ranger, and hisses: "Your time is coming, worm. I'll cut your shrieks and hollers right out of you..."
And with that Lorbag turns tail and flees back the way he came. Of course, not all the orcs are as quick on the uptake, and many peer about wondering what is going on.
[Bor(#30834)]
"Fan out," commands the Knight-Commander, surveying the fray.
"Do not let any escape. We cannot afford to move camp again."
Limping and with his right leg bleeding, Ceredir stumbles forward. There are orcs remaining here, confused, but the other men of the camp are pursuing them, and so the Scout now turns to see if there are wounded to tend to.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
A grimace twists Gurtir's lips as he sees that at least his bluff had success, "I shiver!", he calls at the uruk's back. Then he prepares his spear, throwing it blindly at the the direction of the fleeing orcs. Afterwards, he pulls his longsword to handle those who tarry.
[Arashen(#24692)]
Silently, the men who responded to the alarm fan out as ordered and pursues the fleeing orcs. A few stop to engage with the few who were caught unawares by the retreat.
Arashen rushes one such, his sword raised high and brings it down toward one hapless orc's head.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
A strangled yelp in the dark indicates that the spear finds dark flesh. No sign as to whether or not Lorbag is the victim.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Slowly the days go by. Slowly, each hour. Each minute. In tension, hunger, cold and exhaustion. Thus the day at hand is but another one: slowly the sun fades in the western horizon, slowly night takes over, slowly the autumn wind bites at the skins and souls of the last defenders between the enemy at Osgiliath and the good men at Pelennor and beyond.
They endure. Living the slow death of privations in a make-shift camp, that has as centre the bundles of supplies and the lying woundeds, they still post watches, they still patrol. It is at this spot that Gurtir Carmayar makes a meal of the little food his quota allows him to have.
Without fires to keep them warm, try as they might, the soldiers here cannot stay warm--not for long, at least. Slowly--or for the wounded, perhaps not so slowly--exposure is setting in on top of the exhaustion and hunger. Groups of men huddle together for warmth when they can, or stand and stamp their feet to keep warm, but the lack of food makes it difficult to keep up movement for long, the men needing to conserve what strength they can in order to fight.
Ceredir, who has not been fighting other than for the fishing trip, should have fared better than most. But the Scout has cut his rations on purpose, sparing food for those who can fight, and, pale-faced and shivering despite his thick cloak and a hood drawn over his head, he now walks over to Gurtir, small piece of biscuit in hand for his meal. "Sir."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Ceredir.", the Ranger replies, a tired shadow of a smile regarding the man, "You should start sharpening your sword. By my calculations, the Captain's ban is almost over."
This said, he pulls his cloak closer around himself, brings a piece of bread hard as rock to his mouth, chewing longly on it, "Are you with your lists in there?"
"Sir...One more month. I have been keeping careful track. November the 15th." The Scout shivers again, stamping his feet, then sighing and sinking onto a piece of rubble that serves as a seat for the moment, so that he is down at the Ranger's level now. "If we live. I cannot see how that will be anymore. We will hold...but live? No.."
Coming out of this reverie, he glances now to the Ranger. "Lists? I have the ledger of teh supplies if that is what you mean, but little good it will do us. I reckon we will run completely out of food in a day. Or two depending on how many more men die."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"A whole month?", Gurtir echoes Ceredir's words, scratching his head, "Well then, we haven't been here all that long...", a faint grin touches his lips. He nods slowly at the scout's next words, grim, "One of the Rangers caught a rabbit the other day. I have been thinking about getting the broken weapons and make some traps out of them to try our luck... I heard about the incident fishing."
"Aye, August through November, sir." Ceredir takes a small bite of the biscuit, rock hard by now, but it is food. "We'll need a fire to cook the rabbit, but I am afraid that is exactly what drew the orcs when we tried fishing. Hard to hide a fire. It's bound to smoke at some point. Sir..." Ceredir frowns, hesitant. "I wound up fighting, so to speak, on that fishing trip. Leastwise, I had to defend the fish and bandages."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir shrugs at the new information about fighting, his agreement thence exposed though not spoken. When he talks anew, it is about something else, "I believe we will have to dig. We can use the earth to block the wind a bit, at least from the wounded. And perhaps we could attempt a new fire. Farther from the camp, should it fail."
"Thank you."
With those two words, Ceredir seems to close the subject of the fight at the fishing trip. "I will work on digging something," he says, starting to stand, then changing his mind and sitting again. He leans forward to the Ranger, dropping his voice.
"Sir...if I do not make it out of here alive, there is something that you need to know."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
Gurtir nods as Ceredir stands up, turning his face back to the tasteless piece of bread. Then, as the Scout sits down again, he raises his eyebrows, though regards the scout for a few moments in a respectful silence. Then he shakes his head, "Write it down then. If you live, we will burn it. If you don't and I am still alive, I will read it."
"I...suppose so." But the Scout frowns. "Though this was information that you previously had said that you wanted. About ** ********." Ceredir watches the Ranger closely for his reaction.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The Ranger simply holds his peace now, his offer of grandeur made, yet his curiousity nagging at him. Thus he leaves it up to the Scout, his silence his own response...
Ceredir then pauses, his eyes briefly on the Ranger, considering a response, if any, and then dropping to the ground.
"It is as I had thought."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"How?", Gurtir asks the Scout, his eyes following the man's downcast mien, "And why?"
"How...I have sworn an oath not to reveal. I am sorry, but I assure you that the source of the information is absolutely reliable, for that person also swore an oath to me and their word is unimpeachable. As for why..." Ceredir kicks at the ground. "That I will never know."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"And... who ** ***?" the Ranger asks, nodding at the negative, "That can you reveal?"
Glancing about again, Ceredir drops his voice even more. "I ***, sir, ***. **** ** ***** , yet I ****."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"I am sorry."
Gurtir falls silent then, wondering, frowning, "Has ****?", yet this is not the question on his mind, which he holds... "Was *** *******?"
The Scout still speaks in a barely audible voice. "Thank you for that, sir. I wish...well, wishing will not change matters. If and when I make it out of here alive, I will *** ****."
Ceredir pauses here to look at the Ranger.
"*** was ***."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The Ranger draws a deep breath and sighs, offering Ceredir something of a smile, "Yes... perhaps you do." and he is silent then. For several seconds. Then he speaks again.
"I don't suppose you know how they came together? ** and... ***?"
"No sir." Ceredir shakes his head. "I do not know, nor do I have any conceivable way of ever finding out. Considering the circumstances. Perhaps there are those who still know, and perhaps if I find those whom I seek, they will know. If they exist."
[Gurtir(#30678)]
"Forgive me if I do not ****.", Gurtir tells the scout, averting his eyes, "But I shan't before there is enough information.", he is silent again, though not in an hostile fashion. Then he motions to stand up.
"I don't suppose you have seen Tarachim lately? I have heard some... gossiping."
[Lorbag(#28583)]
The coming night has more to yield than secrets and lineage, for from the east come soft, cautious steps.
A dozen or so of the Mordain soldiers come skulking as quietly as they may hunch backed orcs led by a tall Uruk bearing a spiked sledge. Gurtir at least might remember that weapon, if not the bearer, for it has stung the pride of Carmayar before, and with a hiss the foul captain closes in upon the two men of Gondor.
But, stealthy as they may be, they reckon not with the senses of a Ranger of Ithilien...
"Nor do I expect you to, sir. I will look for proof myself and then see what..if anything to do from there."
A frown creases Ceredir's forehead now. "The March-Warden? There was some...discussion...with Sir Bor. That went poorly, I am afraid to say." The Scout follows Gurtir as the two walk to the fringes of the camp, Ceredir turning his head into the darkness now. "Sir..." his hand strays to the dagger at his belt.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The Ranger walks closely wrapped in his cloak, trying to ban the chill of the night. A single gauntleted hand however is exposed to reveal the spear with which he helped himself up previously and that now is held with a thigh grip as the shadows press around him and the scout by the edges of their camp.
Indeed, Ceredir's words fall on deaf ears, Gurtir's senses focused on the strange sounds, the shadowy figures he cannot count.
"Get the men.", he tells Ceredir, thrusting his spear blindly at where he guesses an attacker might be.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
But the orcs are not so easily caught by the spear tip, and with the light faded from the sky they chatter and cackle as they circle the two men. Perhaps some morsel of the 'tark' language has been taught to these savage brutes, for as Gurtir speaks to Ceredir suddenly the orc captain's eyes turn thither.
"Oh no yer don't," he hisses, and Lorbag is his name. Forward he charges, and his sledge sweeps out as quick as it can in search of Ceredir's footing.
"Sir." Ceredir is already turning to run back toward the camp as he answers the Ranger's order. His back to the orcs, the Scout does not see the sledge lash out, so that it tangles his right foot, sending him crashing to the ground.
"Attack!! We are under attack!" Ceredir manages to bellow. He kicks and struggles, trying to roll to his back before the orc is upon him. And there is a knife glinting in his right hand.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The sky uncovered by clouds offers a little light from its stars and its moon, yet not enough so that the orcish supremacy at this midnight hour be defeated. Thus steel from unseen blows slash past Gurtir, bite his armor, clang on his helm. The Ranger tries to use the advantage of his long weapon, sweeping the are in front of himself with it's gashing point.
Ceredir's cry, coming from such a close position, from such a low position, have him turn and attempt a thrust at the orc commander by the scout.
On the Gondorian camp, men fight the cold and the tiredness in order to stand and fight more: fight they who attack them. Steps already beat on the ground.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
Gurtir's weapon bites flesh indeed, but not the flesh he had hoped one of the vile throng leaps into view at the last moment in misplaced zeal. Thusly saved, Lorbag spins about to watch his crony die, and lips his yellow fangs with relish.
"So yer want to stick me in the back, is it?" he croons, mocking the Ranger. "I prefer to fight face to face. Let's take a look at that chin of yers!"
And with that the sledge swings upward, seeking Gurtir's jawline. Meanwhile, the other orcs are waylaid by the coming soldiers, and the sounds of steel upon iron begin to fill the night air.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
There is a parry, but by no means an intended one: as Lorbag speaks, Gurtir pulls his spear free from the target it had hit, and his gauntlets block the sledge, diminishing the strength of the blow they are obliged to still deliver at the Ranger's jaw.
Taking a twain of steps backwards to make use of distance, he tries another thrust at the orc.
Gurtir's blow, though it misses Lorbag, at least draws the uruk's attention from Ceredir, so that the Scout now manages to get to his feet. He staggers forward, trying to break through the ring of orcs that encircle the two men, trying to buy time until help arrives. Ceredir fights with a dagger, slashing and stabbing at the orcs.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
The knife does its work well, ably wielded, and two of the foul creatures tumble to earth to stir no more. A third and fourth take fright from this, springing backward to set a distance between them and Ceredir, and with wary swipes of their own blades they attempt to put an end to this threat.
Meanwhile, Gurtir too enjoys some success, for Lorbag is unable to stop the latest thrust of the Ranger's spear. Into the orc captain's side it tears, though not deeply, and with a wince and a rasp of pain Lorbag stumbles back a pace or two. A fire is in his eyes, but the strike appears to have given him pause, and he does not attack anew.
[Bor(#30834)]
Amongst this collection of starved and desolate, beaten and bruised, here numbers another, long confined to fevered sleep and haunted dreams. He wears a thick cloak of furs about him, and stumbles every few steps. Pale, cold-ridden eyes stare like beads out upon the ensuing battle as his sword cuts a line in the ground. Though he bears no coat of arms, it is unmistakable:
The Knight-Commander has returned to battle.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
The succesful hit and the orc's pause allow the Ranger to regain the breath Lorbag's blow had temporarily stolen from him, even that through the Ranger's own gauntlets. And thus he can bluff, "You filth. Leave before our full force smashes you all!"
The tip of his spear describes small, ominous circles in the air, in preparation for a parry as for an attack. The arrival of the Knight-Commander punctuates his words.
As two orcs fall before him, Ceredir does not let up his attack, pressing forward now after the third and fourth, threatening with the dagger he wields. Briefly his eyes fall on the Knight Commander, and the Scout nods almost imperceptibly. Then he lunges forward, threatening with the knife. Not attacking, but trying to drive the two orcs backwards into the waiting arms of the defenders as they arrive.
[Laeraelin(#24692)]
The Knight-Commander is not alone.
Equally hard-bitten by the elements and deprivation, a collection of defenders follow in the Bragollach Knight's wake. Fire shines from their hollowed eyes and grim determination marks each and every man's countenance.
Foremost among them arrives the Squire Arashen and though he limps, he wears the same expression of determination as his comrades. His sword is drawn, his shield brought forward.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
At least one of Ceredir's foes is thrust back into the midst of the Gondorians hateful cries rending the air as it meets it's end upon the steel of the West. But the other is wily still, and slips aside the man, stealing to Lorbag's side and pointing desperately at the coming soldiers.
The orc captain's eyes blaze at the news, and no less as they turn back to Gurtir, but no challenge is made with arms to his adversary. Instead the warlord spits upon the ground at the Ranger, and hisses: "Your time is coming, worm. I'll cut your shrieks and hollers right out of you..."
And with that Lorbag turns tail and flees back the way he came. Of course, not all the orcs are as quick on the uptake, and many peer about wondering what is going on.
[Bor(#30834)]
"Fan out," commands the Knight-Commander, surveying the fray.
"Do not let any escape. We cannot afford to move camp again."
Limping and with his right leg bleeding, Ceredir stumbles forward. There are orcs remaining here, confused, but the other men of the camp are pursuing them, and so the Scout now turns to see if there are wounded to tend to.
[Gurtir(#30678)]
A grimace twists Gurtir's lips as he sees that at least his bluff had success, "I shiver!", he calls at the uruk's back. Then he prepares his spear, throwing it blindly at the the direction of the fleeing orcs. Afterwards, he pulls his longsword to handle those who tarry.
[Arashen(#24692)]
Silently, the men who responded to the alarm fan out as ordered and pursues the fleeing orcs. A few stop to engage with the few who were caught unawares by the retreat.
Arashen rushes one such, his sword raised high and brings it down toward one hapless orc's head.
[Lorbag(#28583)]
A strangled yelp in the dark indicates that the spear finds dark flesh. No sign as to whether or not Lorbag is the victim.
Players: Gurtir,Ceredir,Arashen,Bor,Lorbag
