Elendor
Smoke in the water
A Dale-lands night patrol comes across a Mordain shaman doing ... what, exactly? Read and decide!
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Rolling Dales`
Game Date: March 3058
IC Time: Night
Weather: Clear
Description: Rolling Dales
Vegetation grows lush and wild, fed by the River Celduin which flows through the valley. Here, the river flows from northwest to southeast. A small but still well-defined road appears to follow its entire course while a larger, more heavily traveled road heads north, cutting past the great curve of the river. Many tracks, made by wagons, horses, and humans, suggest that this road probably serves as a major trading route through Rhovanion. Though sparsely populated, this valley is punctuated here and there by the odd farm or homestead, and in the distance can be seen the dark eaves of Mirkwood to the northwest, and the tiny town of Finney which stands to the southeast.
Obvious exits:
North leads to Rolling Dales.
SouthEast leads to In the Dale-lands, passing by Finney.
NorthWest leads to Iach Celduin.
----
Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service
Real Time: Tue Feb 12 14:44:17 2013 MST
Dale-Lands Time:
Sunday, midnight on a clear spring's night, March 4 of 3058
----
[Sahgigoth(#27594)] In the wee hours of this cold spring night, in this feral valley of the Dale, all things natural rest or prey, following the will of Yavanna Kementari, Queen of the Earth, as was ruled by her for Ages untold. But the shadows of the thick, lush forest hide within them a more sinister kind of Shadow: one of the servants of the Enemy, a diminutive Uruk lies crawling on all fours next to an off-beaten part of the shore of the River Celduin, its curbed figure jerking at odd intervals as it seems to be utterly engrossed in the gentle tides and swirls of the River. Hissing and grunting, its long arms make their way through tattered robes to produce something small. A snicker of malicious delight ensues, as the tiny Uruk yaps and sniffs at whatever odd trinket it produced. Clasping it firmly within its scarred, filth-smudged hands, it cradles it almost lovingly, a series of gnashing words in an odd, unnatural language making the smooth gesture seem horribly out of place when performed by the vile Uruk.
[Wray(#15159)] The whinny of a horse breaks the silence of the night, accompanied by the soft yet distinct sound of hoof beats. Half a dozen brave Dale men ride through the darkness, their armor giving neither gleam nor glimmer - and yet, in the faint light of covered torches... could it be that one of them is a woman? "The river," the one leading the company murmurs and with a shift of his foot urges his mount in that direction. "Let the horses drink."
One of the horsemen, second from hindmost, is out of line with the rest. Unlike some of his comrades he carries no covered torch rather in his right hand is a long hunting spear. It is awkwardly balanced, occasionally knocking against his steed's side. Perhaps that is why rider and mount are not in accord.
When the murmured order is passed back the spear-user tugs on the reins with his free hand. The horse, which night-sight would pick out as a chestnut gelding, snorts once and angles off in a different direction from the others. A muttered curse does nothing to change the beast's mind.
[Sahgigoth(#27594)] Half-gnawed ears flick sharply at the sound of the grand animal whinning nearby. The hoof beats sounding quite close, the dark-clad figure mouths a silent curse and quickly drops whatever it was carrying in the cold waters of the Celduin. Barely a moment later, a pungent, acrid stink permeaths the air around the shore and a murky, angry blotch of muck appears within the waters, mercifully swept away a few moments later. A single dead fish surfaces and lodges itself against the reeds of the river's shore, a thick, frothing black film covering its scaly body.
Its single eye darting from the dead fish's limp form to the darkness nearby, the Uruk smirks in satisfaction and breaks into an abrupt, agile sprint towards the heavily wooded area next to the river, its form almost using all four extremities to put distance between itself and the Dalesmen' patrol.
[Wray(#15159)] The wind picks up a little and suddenly the horses become restless then someone utters a guttural curse. "What's that stink?" One of the soldiers holds the torch aloft - "Something goes there!" she exclaims - and the higher pitch of her voice confirms that it is indeed a woman. Luckily /some/ of the horsemen are competent - immediately Wray urges her mount in the direction of the rustling, two of her fellow falling in line and flanking her without hesitation.
The less-than-obedient horse (or is it less-than-skilled rider?) continues on its course until a sudden splash causes the beast to shy. Its rider maintains his seat - barely - until the point at which something unseen darts past toward the forest marge. That is when the steed rears up and the rider finds himself on the ground, fall broken by the spear-shaft (which fortunately has not snapped) and a clump of ferns. Not first in the pursuit, then.
Without a word, or even a groan, the fellow rolls over and reclaims his spear, falling into an alert stance in case the maker-of-stenches should be forced back in his direction or should have companions in mischief.
[Hrodwyn(#12320)] One of the two horsemen following the woman rider is Harold. Despite a dazed, half-asleep face, this rider still manages to pull his mount around to the left of Wray, leaning forward as he gazes into a night that is only partially dispelled by his torch. Still, he looks and rides, expression becoming somewhat more alert by the moment, even as his nose crinkles and confusion replaces sleep in his expression. "It isn't natural. This stench."
[Sahgigoth(#27594)] "Ash of Ered Litui blind you, the Desolation of Dagorlad claim you, fell winds of Gorgoroth choke your smooth, fair-skinned throats!", the trembling Uruk hisses, seemingly to no-one in particular as it pauses to catch its breath for a moment, its back against a massive tree trunk, its whole body rocking tensely as thick, almost physically tangible hatred oozes out of its every pore. "Men of the West, Nine blights on ye ken!", it keeps mumbling in its oddly droning, sapping voice, rasping harshly.
Perching itself against the tree's trunk, it keeps watching from a fair distance the workings of the Dalesmen, straining to hear as its filthy nails bite deep in the tree's bark and glancing occasionally towards the darker, deeper recesses of the forest straight ahead.
[Wray(#15159)] Wray exclaims in disgust, pulling on the reins of her horse to slow down. "'tis no use," she mutters, "whatever it was it got away. And what /is/ that foul stench? Care to wager a guess?" She stares hard at the dark woods that lie before them and shakes her head.
Meanwhile, the unhorsed rider (who would be identified by his comrades as 'Brev' or just 'that bloody sawbones') is currently trying to answer that question, jaw clenched against the stench and breathing as shallowly as he may. On foot his movements are swift and silent, even if he must rely on touch more than sight. He follows his nose toward the river's edge and begins methodically stabbing his spear into each clump of rushes until his eye catches the small black object bobbing up and down on the river current, apparent source of the overwhelming stink. Gingerly he uses the spear-blade to poke at it. "A fish?"
[Hrodwyn(#12320)] "The river as a privy?" answers Harold, pulling his horse to Wray's side. "With orcs about, I'd think it's true. But then again it be worse than any scent I've found anywhere else." The hapless, but now fully awake, soldier looks about into the darkness, staring without blinking until his eyes glaze. "Should report this, whatever it might be."
[Sahgigoth(#27594)] Still squinting heavily in the darkness, the skeletal Uruk produces something from the expansive swathes of its oversized robes, exhaling sharply: partially visible under Varda's gift, it is the gruesome, half-rotten carcass of a brown rat, its eyes gouged and the soft skin around them painted in bright red paint and a crude arrow, with a barbed, rusty tip. Almost mechanically, the Uruk pierces the carcass' head with the arrow and lodges the arrow forcefully on the nearest tree bark, the mangled corpse dangling ruefully as a sudden blast of wind roars across the valley and into the glum forest. Taking a step back to observe its bloody handiwork, the dark clad Uruk mumbles a crude prayer to the Eye, lets out a sharp, feral cry abruptly at the top of its lungs and breaks again into its irregular sprint, this time not looking back even once.
[Wray(#15159)] Wray snorts and her mouth twists into a wry grin. "Least the current should carry any-" Whatever she was about to say is lost for a sharp, feral cry ringing out makes her cap the words off with a curse when the horse starts. "Easy, you bloody beast, easy..." She pats the nervous animal soothingly and without looking up adds to the other soldier: "I'll ride back and report this at once if the rest of you want to stay and investigate."
By this point Brev has succeeded in spearing the fish. He eyes it in disgusted silence, the sleeve of his leather jerkin held across his mouth, then shakes it loose and kicks earth over it before wiping his spear fastidiously clean, again and again, on some handy rushes.
When he's asked for his report, he'll state with a shrug, "Just some stinking fish. Looked like it'd been dead for weeks. Current brought it up to the bank, likely." Of tumbling from his steed, of course, nothing is said at all. Naturally he dismounted on purpose to investigate the sourse of the foul smell!
[Hrodwyn(#12320)] At the terrifying cry, Harold almost loses control of his horse, which seeks to flee from the scene in fright. But, with much grip and some grief, he manages to avoid catastrophe. Still, he appears shaken, now awake as any person might ever be. Looking about, he shivers. "I...think...I believe you will need someone to come with you," he states to Wray, looking at her with obvious intent to follow regardles of response. "There could be...other dangers. Right."
[Wray(#15159)] There's something derisive to the curl of Wray's lip and the way her brown eyes narrow for a moment as she looks at the other soldier. "Right," the woman agrees flatly after a moment and wheels her horse around. "Come on then, Master Harold. We ride."
Vegetation grows lush and wild, fed by the River Celduin which flows through the valley. Here, the river flows from northwest to southeast. A small but still well-defined road appears to follow its entire course while a larger, more heavily traveled road heads north, cutting past the great curve of the river. Many tracks, made by wagons, horses, and humans, suggest that this road probably serves as a major trading route through Rhovanion. Though sparsely populated, this valley is punctuated here and there by the odd farm or homestead, and in the distance can be seen the dark eaves of Mirkwood to the northwest, and the tiny town of Finney which stands to the southeast.
Obvious exits:
North leads to Rolling Dales.
SouthEast leads to In the Dale-lands, passing by Finney.
NorthWest leads to Iach Celduin.
----
Dale-Lands Time and Weather Service
Real Time: Tue Feb 12 14:44:17 2013 MST
Dale-Lands Time:
Sunday, midnight on a clear spring's night, March 4 of 3058
----
[Sahgigoth(#27594)] In the wee hours of this cold spring night, in this feral valley of the Dale, all things natural rest or prey, following the will of Yavanna Kementari, Queen of the Earth, as was ruled by her for Ages untold. But the shadows of the thick, lush forest hide within them a more sinister kind of Shadow: one of the servants of the Enemy, a diminutive Uruk lies crawling on all fours next to an off-beaten part of the shore of the River Celduin, its curbed figure jerking at odd intervals as it seems to be utterly engrossed in the gentle tides and swirls of the River. Hissing and grunting, its long arms make their way through tattered robes to produce something small. A snicker of malicious delight ensues, as the tiny Uruk yaps and sniffs at whatever odd trinket it produced. Clasping it firmly within its scarred, filth-smudged hands, it cradles it almost lovingly, a series of gnashing words in an odd, unnatural language making the smooth gesture seem horribly out of place when performed by the vile Uruk.
[Wray(#15159)] The whinny of a horse breaks the silence of the night, accompanied by the soft yet distinct sound of hoof beats. Half a dozen brave Dale men ride through the darkness, their armor giving neither gleam nor glimmer - and yet, in the faint light of covered torches... could it be that one of them is a woman? "The river," the one leading the company murmurs and with a shift of his foot urges his mount in that direction. "Let the horses drink."
One of the horsemen, second from hindmost, is out of line with the rest. Unlike some of his comrades he carries no covered torch rather in his right hand is a long hunting spear. It is awkwardly balanced, occasionally knocking against his steed's side. Perhaps that is why rider and mount are not in accord.
When the murmured order is passed back the spear-user tugs on the reins with his free hand. The horse, which night-sight would pick out as a chestnut gelding, snorts once and angles off in a different direction from the others. A muttered curse does nothing to change the beast's mind.
[Sahgigoth(#27594)] Half-gnawed ears flick sharply at the sound of the grand animal whinning nearby. The hoof beats sounding quite close, the dark-clad figure mouths a silent curse and quickly drops whatever it was carrying in the cold waters of the Celduin. Barely a moment later, a pungent, acrid stink permeaths the air around the shore and a murky, angry blotch of muck appears within the waters, mercifully swept away a few moments later. A single dead fish surfaces and lodges itself against the reeds of the river's shore, a thick, frothing black film covering its scaly body.
Its single eye darting from the dead fish's limp form to the darkness nearby, the Uruk smirks in satisfaction and breaks into an abrupt, agile sprint towards the heavily wooded area next to the river, its form almost using all four extremities to put distance between itself and the Dalesmen' patrol.
[Wray(#15159)] The wind picks up a little and suddenly the horses become restless then someone utters a guttural curse. "What's that stink?" One of the soldiers holds the torch aloft - "Something goes there!" she exclaims - and the higher pitch of her voice confirms that it is indeed a woman. Luckily /some/ of the horsemen are competent - immediately Wray urges her mount in the direction of the rustling, two of her fellow falling in line and flanking her without hesitation.
The less-than-obedient horse (or is it less-than-skilled rider?) continues on its course until a sudden splash causes the beast to shy. Its rider maintains his seat - barely - until the point at which something unseen darts past toward the forest marge. That is when the steed rears up and the rider finds himself on the ground, fall broken by the spear-shaft (which fortunately has not snapped) and a clump of ferns. Not first in the pursuit, then.
Without a word, or even a groan, the fellow rolls over and reclaims his spear, falling into an alert stance in case the maker-of-stenches should be forced back in his direction or should have companions in mischief.
[Hrodwyn(#12320)] One of the two horsemen following the woman rider is Harold. Despite a dazed, half-asleep face, this rider still manages to pull his mount around to the left of Wray, leaning forward as he gazes into a night that is only partially dispelled by his torch. Still, he looks and rides, expression becoming somewhat more alert by the moment, even as his nose crinkles and confusion replaces sleep in his expression. "It isn't natural. This stench."
[Sahgigoth(#27594)] "Ash of Ered Litui blind you, the Desolation of Dagorlad claim you, fell winds of Gorgoroth choke your smooth, fair-skinned throats!", the trembling Uruk hisses, seemingly to no-one in particular as it pauses to catch its breath for a moment, its back against a massive tree trunk, its whole body rocking tensely as thick, almost physically tangible hatred oozes out of its every pore. "Men of the West, Nine blights on ye ken!", it keeps mumbling in its oddly droning, sapping voice, rasping harshly.
Perching itself against the tree's trunk, it keeps watching from a fair distance the workings of the Dalesmen, straining to hear as its filthy nails bite deep in the tree's bark and glancing occasionally towards the darker, deeper recesses of the forest straight ahead.
[Wray(#15159)] Wray exclaims in disgust, pulling on the reins of her horse to slow down. "'tis no use," she mutters, "whatever it was it got away. And what /is/ that foul stench? Care to wager a guess?" She stares hard at the dark woods that lie before them and shakes her head.
Meanwhile, the unhorsed rider (who would be identified by his comrades as 'Brev' or just 'that bloody sawbones') is currently trying to answer that question, jaw clenched against the stench and breathing as shallowly as he may. On foot his movements are swift and silent, even if he must rely on touch more than sight. He follows his nose toward the river's edge and begins methodically stabbing his spear into each clump of rushes until his eye catches the small black object bobbing up and down on the river current, apparent source of the overwhelming stink. Gingerly he uses the spear-blade to poke at it. "A fish?"
[Hrodwyn(#12320)] "The river as a privy?" answers Harold, pulling his horse to Wray's side. "With orcs about, I'd think it's true. But then again it be worse than any scent I've found anywhere else." The hapless, but now fully awake, soldier looks about into the darkness, staring without blinking until his eyes glaze. "Should report this, whatever it might be."
[Sahgigoth(#27594)] Still squinting heavily in the darkness, the skeletal Uruk produces something from the expansive swathes of its oversized robes, exhaling sharply: partially visible under Varda's gift, it is the gruesome, half-rotten carcass of a brown rat, its eyes gouged and the soft skin around them painted in bright red paint and a crude arrow, with a barbed, rusty tip. Almost mechanically, the Uruk pierces the carcass' head with the arrow and lodges the arrow forcefully on the nearest tree bark, the mangled corpse dangling ruefully as a sudden blast of wind roars across the valley and into the glum forest. Taking a step back to observe its bloody handiwork, the dark clad Uruk mumbles a crude prayer to the Eye, lets out a sharp, feral cry abruptly at the top of its lungs and breaks again into its irregular sprint, this time not looking back even once.
[Wray(#15159)] Wray snorts and her mouth twists into a wry grin. "Least the current should carry any-" Whatever she was about to say is lost for a sharp, feral cry ringing out makes her cap the words off with a curse when the horse starts. "Easy, you bloody beast, easy..." She pats the nervous animal soothingly and without looking up adds to the other soldier: "I'll ride back and report this at once if the rest of you want to stay and investigate."
By this point Brev has succeeded in spearing the fish. He eyes it in disgusted silence, the sleeve of his leather jerkin held across his mouth, then shakes it loose and kicks earth over it before wiping his spear fastidiously clean, again and again, on some handy rushes.
When he's asked for his report, he'll state with a shrug, "Just some stinking fish. Looked like it'd been dead for weeks. Current brought it up to the bank, likely." Of tumbling from his steed, of course, nothing is said at all. Naturally he dismounted on purpose to investigate the sourse of the foul smell!
[Hrodwyn(#12320)] At the terrifying cry, Harold almost loses control of his horse, which seeks to flee from the scene in fright. But, with much grip and some grief, he manages to avoid catastrophe. Still, he appears shaken, now awake as any person might ever be. Looking about, he shivers. "I...think...I believe you will need someone to come with you," he states to Wray, looking at her with obvious intent to follow regardles of response. "There could be...other dangers. Right."
[Wray(#15159)] There's something derisive to the curl of Wray's lip and the way her brown eyes narrow for a moment as she looks at the other soldier. "Right," the woman agrees flatly after a moment and wheels her horse around. "Come on then, Master Harold. We ride."
Players: Sahgigoth, Wray, Brev, Harold
Located in: Dale-Lands | Mordain
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