An old man in the woods
Amon Sul
The short, windswept grass tenaciously clings to the top of Amon Sul here, poking up around the ruins of what appears to have once been a great tower. All that is left of it now is a wide ring of eroded foundation stones and a fair number of loose stones scattered about the hilltop. The top of Amon Sul appears peaceful and serene. In all directions below spreads Eriador, this hill offering a spectacular and wide reaching view of the land.
Contents:
Kellan
Dwarven Camp
Skull Cruncher
Longbow
Monty
Rhifaroth
Giliath
Gandalf
Nauthcel
Henleg
Obvious exits:
South leads to Weathertop - Southern Base.
North leads to Weathertop - Northern Base.
[Rhifaroth(#27282)]
Is it the morning after? Or a few days later? For some, it is difficult to tell - but the sun, beloved Anor, has risen at last. The carnage of Amon Sul has been left behind, a nightmare in the darkness.
Here, there are trees. Shade from the heat of the high summer. The Chetwood? There is a small camp hastily made, a watch set forth by those still able bodied enough to do so, be they remenants of the Dwarven camp or the Rangers.
In the camp itself lay the wounded who are unable to get up and around, or the resting. Someone has risked a small fire to cook with, probably Annaiel.
Amid this assorted haphazzardness a man lays dressed in a grey ranger's cloak, bloody though roughly tended in the field. His scarred and tattooed face is turned aside, his eyes closed in the dappled light. Blood has soaked the left breast of his ruined studded leather and his left thigh is much bandaged and bloody. Rhifaroth does not stir, though a few others do at this morning hour.
[Giliath(#9838)] A high clear melody rises towards the light, soft and sweet. Perched on a low branch above the camp, back comfortable against the rough trunk, Giliath is playing a silver flute. The music winds through the branches to dance with the wind and sun far above.
[Frarin] Not far from the tattooed man lies another grievously wounded combatant from the night before, though this one is significantly shorter. Propped up against a small slope between two trees, the dwarf Frarin seems to rest in a fevered sleep. Beside him lies a blue war hammer still black with blood, and a damaged chain mail hauberk and coif. Makeshift bandages adorn many parts of the unconscious figure: the right side of his head, his left arm and leg, and especially his stomach. And for all that the bandages conceal, they do nothing to hide the dried stains that darken the dwarf's otherwise naturally red tunic.
Heavy breathing and a flutter of the closed eyelids are all that suggest the wounded dwarf is alive.
[Gandalf(#31993)]
A stooped figure swathed in a grey cloak comes striding toward the hastily made camp with purposeful steps that bely his seeming old age. He looks out from underneath the broad brim of his blue hat, his sharp eyed gaze seeming to take in everything at a glance. A gnarled wooden staff is held clinched in one knobby hand. Wounded man seem to abound in this place, as he casts a quick gaze around he mumbles something about the absurdity of war under his breath.
[Henleg(#20696)] Next to the old man comes another, in grey also. A long cloak covers him, and only a pair of leather gloves and supple boots can be seen, and his face is covered by a grey cowl. Tall this one is, even for a Man, and a long sword he carries, naked in his hand, a shield is held by his other hand. This is one Ranger, as many in Bree and the lands surrounding that town can attest, and his Sea-grey eyes watch the carnage avbout him with horror and worry. As he sees the wounded dwarf and man, pity fills his eyes, and sheathing his sword and lowering his shield, he runs towards them.
[Giliath(#9838)] The music descends, curling soothingly about the camp then breaks off abruptly but somehow even in its suddenness, it seems to have come to a complete ending. The elf leaps lightly from the tree. "Mithrandir," he says, and bows a little. "It is well to see you here." His dark eyes light on the ranger briefly, then return.
[Gandalf(#31993)]
A grim look greets the elf in reply and a simple question, "What has happened here?" The wizard asks in his deep voice that always commands respect. "Many here are injured let me see if there is anything that I can do help. Take me to the ones that need help the most."
[Rhifaroth(#27282)]
There is music? Or was music? Maybe not, but Rhifaroth turns his head, his own grey eyes flickering open for a moment and then closed again. His breathing uneven, his long sword and bow both missing, he shifts his left hand vaguely - the gold ring there gleaming dully and stained with blood.
As much as his own blood soils him, the Dunadan is also blackened with much orcish blood. Faintly, there is a muttering but the words are too garbled to make any sense.
Strider is no where to be seen, nor Fletcher, Elladan or others of their party - likely enough they are out and keeping a wary eye on the Host's most recent movements.
[Henleg(#20696)] Henleg moves towards the Southron first, and beckons for gandalf to come. "Here is one badly injured", he calls to the Grey Wanderer, "but I think he gave more than he got", he adds, as his grey eyes examine Rhifaroth attentively.
[Giliath(#9838)] "A battle," Giliath replies simply, though such is surely obvious. "Many yrch march this way, and these fought on Amon Sul." He turns towards Rhifaroth, where Henleg beckons. "This man, and the Naugrim, yonder." His silvery words are in elvish, and he points to Frarin a little ways farther on then adds somewhat diffidently, "I am no healer, but is there ought I can do to help? Or shall I play again to soothe the injured?"
[Frarin] Speckled light. Are those the stars? Or more fire? The flash of blades? Frarin's dark eyes flicker open, focusing and unfocusing as they look towards the light-filled sky above. His head does not turn to either side, though the fingers of his right hand, having been resting on his stomach, gently prod the poor bandage there. A ragged breath expels from the dwarf's mouth, perhaps he is hazily aware of talking near him. Was that the notes of a flute that linger in Frarin's minds eye? Does such a sweet sound exist in the world anymore.
Only the dwarf's weary eyes move. The branches of the Chetwood above seem to captivate his fevered mind.
[Nauthcel(#19666)]
Ascending the hill of Amon Sul, another cloaked figure moves in the morning light. Its steps are assertive as they carry the enshrouded one towards the camp of the injured and weary. Upon finally reaching the group, a hand appears from within the folds of the cloak and draw back the hood to reveal the visage of Nauthcel. His ashen eyes pass over the scene before he too makes for Rhifaroth, being one of the injured whom he knows well. As he makes to meet Henleg and the wizard, he hears the words of the ellon. "Your melodies would do well to help them, to cast away the darkness of these times," say the Constant to the inquiry.
Gandalf quickily follows both Henleg's and Gilaith's urgings and makes his way quickly over to Rhifaroth's side. He sets his staff down gently beside the wounded man. He reaches back for a bag that he carries around his shoulder. This too he deposits next to his staff. He looks the man over taking in the wounds to the chest and leg. "This man is covered in foul orc blood!" exclaims the wizard, "Bring water and cleanse him immediately. None of that foul substance must be allowed to remain on him any longer." He begins treating the leg wound first, and then he moves onto the chest wound. He treats it with some herbs as well as something else that might only a wizard could provide. A quick word spoken under his breath in some language known to none of the others around him. No visable effect comes from the word, but there is a feeling a peace that follows it.
[Combat Function Library(#15)] Gandalf tends to the injuries on Rhifaroth.
[Henleg(#20696)] Henleg springs forth and goes to fetch water to the small camp at a run. Soon he coms back with his water skin full, and also with an extra one bulging with the clear liquid. Extending his own to gandalf, he steps back to let the Wizard work.
[<#27282>]
The man being treated turns his head and mutters again, the dappled light upon his scarred and strangely marked face. Someone has tried to field dress his wounds but it was hastily done.
As the old wizard works, peeling back bloodied cloth or ruined leather, Rhifaroth tries to open his eyes but isn't focusing. His baritone voice is barely audiable, "
There might be something more, but his words are garbled.
[Frarin] Perhaps the slowly wakening mind of the dwarf clears away a fraction of the fuzziness in his movements, for Frarin's head rolls ever so slightly to the right. The gathered figures in the near distance are given only a passing, unfocused glance. His eyes roll back to the trees again, as if searching for the sound of music again, a grimace buried beneath his beard. Eye lids flicker again, as if the dwarf is slowly fading back into his troubled sleep.
[Giliath(#9838)] Water is brought by another, though GIliath turns as if to go himself. Settling back, he draws out his flute once more and begins to play. A quiet song, soft and gentle, and one that, to the dreaming mind perhaps, brings visions of a peaceful land where no trouble comes and war is not known. Peace, it seems to say. Calm. Rest. The elf's eyes are shut and his face is remote - and shimmering in the sunlit air is the faintest image of a white city in a green valley. A mirage, surely. A fever dream.
[Nauthcel(#19666)]
Moving to stand next to his kinsman as he returns from fetching the water, Nauthcel, upon hearing the words of the foreigner, says to Henleg, "He appears to be haunted by trolls. Too many has he been attacked by since he arrival in Eriador." The Ranger then goes silent, his grey eyes following the movements of Mithrandir as he works.
[Henleg(#20696)] The dwarf catches Henelg's eye now, and he walks towards his prone figure. "Be still, master dwarf", he says, as he kneels next to him, and uncorking the water skin. "I shall get all the orc-blood from you, so that you can be treated by the healers", he adds in a soothing tone. As he starts to pour water to get the stains of orc-blood from the dwarf and his garments, he regards nauthcel with a grim face, and nods. "Too many dark things have come West... no wonder Strider has grown worried, and also our Grey friend", he adds, his eyes darting to gandalf before returning to his kinsman.
Gandalf takes the offered water skin from Henleg's hand and looks down at the man he has just treated. Newly applied bandages adorn his leg and chest. He puts one gnarled finger upon the man's brow, he raises one eyebrow as he takes in the man's extensive tattooing, then utters another soft word that again bathes his immediate area in a feeling of peace. "Sleep now and let your dreams be untroubled." Quickly the grey wizard retrieves his bad and staff and makes his way toward the dwarf. He stops by Henleg's shoulder and lets his hand rest upon the tall man's shoulder, "How is our dwarf friend Henleg?"
[Frarin] Again that sweet, peaceful music fills the quiet wood and Frarin's closing eyes flutter open. Lips part and move slightly, though no words issue forth. The dwarf stares still at the canopy of trees above, perhaps even this short figure can see the apparation that the elven music conjures. His eyes focus for a brief moment on the man who looms suddenly over him and begins to gently wash the bloodied garments. Again the dwarf's lips part and a hoarse whisper is uttered, barely audible to those near. "Ranger," croaks Frarin, the single word a statement rather than a question, but it seems to bring him peace.
He makes no effort to resist the man's patient work. The appearance of a old, cloaked man brings another focused glance from the dwarf. This glance remains focused for a second longer than those previous, and causes his lips to moves silently again. But then the focus is lost and again Frarin stares to the sky.
[Giliath(#9838)] The shimmering vision wavers in the warm air and dissolves as the melody changes. There is a sound now, a muted rushing as of the sea, or small waves on a lake shore - the wind rustling the leaves overhead, no doubt. It soothes and calms, adding to the wizard's peace-speaking. The elf's face is intent now, lost in memory and concentration, and a child splashes joyfully in the water, tips its head back to gaze at a limitless sky.
[Rhifaroth(#27282)]
Between the kindly old wizard's words, and the lilting flute's conjouring of images of a white city and green growth, Rhifaroth's breathing indeed eases and he seems to quiet. He might be vaguely aware of those around himself, or not, but likely enough though Giliath probably thinks of some elvin city in his music, it would no doubt be a southern city rising at the foot of a mountain that the Southern Dunadan would see in his own mind, and a sea south of the Anduin, perhaps.
Whatever the case, music and Gandalf's work ease the troubled man. He grows quiet and rests, easing perhaps into sleep.
The sky is brilliant blue, dazzling and bright, warm and sunny. The battle, aside from the bloody wounded, seems almost far away and unreal by day light.
[Henleg(#20696)] "This one is badly hurt, Gandalf", the Ranger replies to the Wizard, "and indeed he has many wounds. But no orc-blood is left on him now", he adds, as he finishes remove the stains of black blood, "and I'm sure he needs a healer... his wounds are many and deep".
Angroch reaches the top of the hill from the south side.
Angroch has arrived.
Halbarad reaches the top of the hill from the south side.
Halbarad has arrived.
Elladan reaches the top of the hill from the south side.
Elladan has arrived.
[Gandalf(#31993)]
"Indeed he does Henleg. The shadow is extending its reach." He says this quietly so only Henleg and Nauthcel might hear it. He then slowly stoops down and begins treating the badly injured Dwarf. He slowly peels off hastily applied bandages and treats each injury before reapplying new dressings. Then as before a soft unintelligible word is uttered and peace is felt all around the old wizard. He looks up to Henleg and says, "We must delay our other mission and see to what is happening here first my friend."
[Combat Function Library(#15)] Gandalf tends to the injuries on Frarin.
HEALING: Gandalf attempts to treat your wounds...
[Angroch(#17487)] From the east, and through the trees comes a tall Ranger known by most of those present as the Iron Horse of the West, though his arrival is announced only by his physical presense and one slight whisper of his cloak on rogue pine needles. He stops, eyes taking in the scene. He lifts the cloak's hood from his head and shakes his head, looking at the wounded.
Angroch comes closer into the camp, meeting eyes with those he knows, consern on his countenance. At last he comes to Talbinor, who rests, his injuries apparent. The Iron Horse puts one hand on his kinsman's shoulder gently, so as not to rouse him from much-needed sleep. He glances up and sees Gandalf, to whom he offers a nod of recognition.
[Frarin] The dwarf's silent muttering slows and stops altogether after a few moments as the old man works diligently. Only a single word forms upon Frarin's lips and, though it is not spoken, the mouth curved as if to speak a 'k' or a 'g'. But then the old man speaks a language unknown to the dwarf, and unheard for the most part as well, and Frarin's face slacks. The weary eyes remain open but untroubled, and all seems lost to the dwarf, who has eyes only for the warmth of the wood and ears only for the lilting music of the flute.
[Rhifaroth(#27282)]
There is a peacefulness that begins to spread through the day's camp. Elvish flute music soothingly rises even as the thin curl of the cooking fire rises to spread fingers softly into the tree leaves above.
The movements and the attentions of the new arrivals is not unappriciated, even if there are few or no words of thanks spoken aloud by those so afflicted. But there are some who keep watch.
[Henleg(#20696)] Henleg offers a nod to Angroch in token of greeting, and he then turns again to regard the old Wizard, who works now on the dwarf's injuries. "The battle was grim indeed, for many lie with wounds", he comments, "yet they seem to have stemmed the tide of orcs... let us hope that they do not come again, for we would be hard pressed to hold them again, if they come in numbers", he adds.
Gandalf returns Angroch's nod, he too recognizes an old drinking companion. "Indeed we would be pressed, but hold must and hold we will." Gandalf stands to his feet stiffly as if more then his own weight rests upon his stooped shoulders, yet his voice is strong and filled with hope and confidence. He lets his gaze travel around the gathered men, elves, and dwarves both wounded and sound of body and says, "Yes hold we shall." A statement of fact not opinion, "Now who can someone tell me of the events that have transpired here?"
[Angroch(#17487)] Standing and making his way to the cooking fire, Angroch carefully pulls from a pouch what appears to be a link of sausage. He glances around for a moment before selecting a twig from the ground. Kneeling beside the fire, the Iron Horse spears the meat and puts it into the flames of the fire, the smoke swirling about in the daylight.
At the old man's words, Angroch looks up from his cooking and nods, eyes flicking to those present, "Aye, pray what news finds this outfit in such ill repair?"
[Henleg(#20696)] "Indeed, that would be welcome", henleg says, as he stands, "for such a battle I have not seen for many a year".
