Caravan Chaos
Old Forest Road, Grassy Knoll
The Old Forest Road ascends and descends a tall knoll at this point in its longitudinal traverse of the great forest. The summer forest is thick with growth around you, though the trees thin out around the bald knob of the hill. The midnight air is warm. Below you the earth is damp and soft and marked with old foot, horse, and wagon tracks.
Stars are cleary visible overhead through the thin path the road cuts through the trees.
Contents:
Barzhaat
Formin
Warven
Grishnahk
Thranduil
Erebor Caravan
Overgrown Tomb
Obvious exits:
SouthWest, NorthWest, East, and West
[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Midnight on Mersday, Day 5 of July.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 14:12:26 MDT on Sun Jul 25 2010.
[Formin(#26827)] The caravan of dwarves is quiet now, especially so with its surroundings so foreboding and oppresive about it. The forest seems to press in upon the untidy huddle of wagons that clings to the edges of the road. All around are the sounds of the night and, more than that, the sounds of Mirkwood - rustling that seems unnatural, croaks, growls, bumps, thumps and all manner of other things to draw out the imaginations of the dwarves. Many sleep, but many do not. A guard is set about the encampment and shuttered lanterns lend small light, but even so, not a few lay awake, wary of the dark forest.
One is Formin, though he seems unusually at ease, or perhaps is simply better at masking his tension. He sits next to his small wagon, but with his back propped up against the overgrown tomb beside which the caravan has camped this night. A shuttered lantern set upon the tomb provides a few slivers of light by which he works, for he holds what appears to be a small silver goblet and runs a polishing cloth over it. And all the while he hums a gentle rhthym, as if complete at ease.
[Warven(#26511)]
Moving through the Dwarven encampment is the Master Stonewright Warven, he has his War Hammer upon his shoulder and a small stone about the size of his fist in his hand. As he moves through the encampment shadows pass over him and the moments he is in the light a look of uneasiness upon his face can be seen.
Seeing his cousin sitting up against the wagon he makes his way towards him nearing him he lowers his War Hammer and says "How fare you this gloomy night cousin?" Plopping down beside Formin, Warven sets his War Hammer beside him and pulls out a small chisel and looks down at the stone in his hands.
[Barglog(#16260)] Beyond the reach of the feeble lantern-glow there are other lights that owe nothing to it. Eyes, eyes in the dark. And among them the red-hued eyes of the goblin Barglog, alight with anticipation. Beside him another more scrawny creature, presumably a tracker, sniffs this way and that, but Barglog simply stares. "Go to sleep, little Short-Legs," he murmurs, cackling low in his throat, then raises his hand in what looks to be some sort of holding signal. Behind him others of uruk-kind seethe impatiently ... Perhaps a dozen or so night-hid forms, half with bows and the rest with whichever forms of blade they've managed to lay hand on.
[Formin(#26827)] At the sound of Warven's approach, Formin eyes go up perhaps a tad too quickly, as if briefly startled, but he relaxes and nods at the stonewright when Warven speaks. "Mm?" says Formin, ceasing his humming. "Ah, as well as might be expected, cousin. Midnight, Mirkwood, and a new moon? Why, I'm perfectly at ease." He does grin and wink, but there is a serious undertone to his words and unspoken is his admission that he cannot sleep. So he goes on relentlessly polishing his goblet. "And you, Master Warven? Not long without the urge to set your fingers to shaping stone, I see." Of the approach of any others, Formin knows nothing. They are just more shadows, more noises in the night, for now.
[Vogar(#24847)]
Rustling, gnashing, and whispering. Strange are the noises of the wind through the leaves and undergrowth of Mirkwood this night.
Crouching a foot or two behind the form of Barglog is a haggard looking creature, covered almost from head to toe in a tattered brown robe that is muddied and patched. Clearly one of the more impatient ones, the orc inches forward a little more to hiss into the other's ear. The words are low, and do not carry far but he gestures repeatedly to himself, the robes, and then toward the group of caravans. A crooked grin forms itself across his mouth.
[Warven(#26511)]
With a nod of his head Warven says "I can not sleep, not in this evil place.." Sticking his tongue out of the side of his mouth as he looks at the stone in his hands saying "Aye, I felt the need to work some stone, be it something simple as a small figure Not sure exactly what I want to work out of this small stone."
Looking to his cousin he says "There are few who will find rest here" Slowly the stonewright begins to start chiseling at the stone.
[Barglog(#16260)] Beyond the borders of the - regrettably not entirely sleeping - Dwarven camp, a dozen or so goblins lurk and observe, no more as yet.
When the brown-robed orc hisses in Barglog's ear, the squat goblin's initial response is a fist lifted lazily, as though to strike the creature for its insolence. However, that fist pauses, hovers ... and then, with a sweeping gesture, he tries to grasp the shoulder of that brown-robed figure and hurl it bodily forward, toward the Dwarven camp. He is chuckling so hard that caution is set aside, and a tree-bough creaks as his heavy body brushes it. Perhaps the keen-eared might hear something?
[Formin(#26827)] "Ah now," says Formin with a quiet chuckle, not looking up from his polishing, though he holds up a finger as if to make a point. "My father would have said something along the lines of 'Some places must be evil, else we would have no places of good' or some other such nonsense. Very wise, was my father," he says in mock seriousness, grinning again. "But aye, when ill at ease, I suppose tis to our crafts that we turn, eh?"
Near the edge of the camp, two of the dwarves on guard begin muttering uneasily and one of them points into the forest. Formin's eyes lift at the hushed disturbance and he watches the two guards, but he says nothing.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
There are other rustlings, far more subtle, that blend smoothly with the forest night, that gather slowly to a point not far from the Dwarven encampment.
[Vogar(#24847)]
Quite obviously, the suggestion was accepted. The brown-robed orc bites off a squeak of surprise and irritation, and promptly tumbles forward after the shoving. Vogar stands completely still for a moment, hurriedly fumbling with his dirty claws to jam the hole-filled hood over his head so that it hides the majority of his features. Then, stuffing his hands into the folds of the cloth, he begins to limp onward, stooped over toward the ground.
A traveler in the night? An unseen tongue licks shadowed lips and a laugh is stiffled. It is in the direction of the dwarf camp that the disguised figure heads.
[Warven(#26511)]
With a smile Warven says "Wise words cousin, and It would seem that those of us that can do turn to our craft" Continuing to chisel at the small stone he looks up slightly to the guards and then back to his work, his tongue once again sticking out of the side of his mouth. Looking back to Formin for a moment he says nothing and continues his work, paying no heed to the guards. Working for a moment he once looks up to the edge of the encampment and shakes his head slightly.
[Barglog(#16260)] As several heads in the Dwarven camp turn his way, Barglog recovers himself, stuffing one meaty fist in his mouth to silence the guffaws. When he withdraws it he is still grinning, but at least now it is silent. He watches Vogar's progress for a moment then lifts his right hand and points, gesturing in the shape of a circle. Carefully for the most part, the ragged little band creeps through the forest so that they can come on the camp from a different angle.
[Formin(#26827)] For a few more seconds do the pair of guards continue muttering, one of them pointing insistently, the other glaring at his comrade. Finally one of them lightly punches the other's arm, as if annoyed at his fellow's nervousness, and the two fall silent. Formin frowns and seems to shrug to himself, then returns his attention to his work.
"Aye well, hopefully you'll have better work to do once we're rid of this place, eh? Have you read the inscription just there?" he says, thumping his fist against the side of the tomb behind him. "Son of Groin, eh? A brother of our Lord Gloin, I'll wager. Now how'd you like to set your chisel to the tomb of such a one. Not too bad, says I."
[Grishnákh(#22300)] A black clad orc, cloaked and hooded so that his face is bathed in darkness, begins to move through the assembled orcs. He steps from teh back of the line, broader and a bit taller then most of his cousins. He pushes one and that one grumbles, but keeps the silence. A look at his eyes has another backing away. He creeps towards the leader of this motley crew.
[Vogar(#24847)]
Giving one last tug at his hood to ensure it is pulled down considerably far, Vogar pauses as his path nears the wagons. Now that he is within sight of the guards' should their eyes peer through the dark well enough, he speaks. The voice is rough and hollow. "Hail travelers!" Another snicker is bitten back, and he contniues in the same unpleasant rasping. "Would you help a poor old wanderer in need?" The orc doesn't dare come closer rather, he seems to be trying to avoid the direct line of the lantern lights.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The silent emergence of the King of the Forest, to the fore of the treeline matches the approach of the larger of the orcs though those with him need not be shoved, and their footsteps make no sound. He too is cloaked and shrouded, though in the greens and browns of the wood, so that only an expert eye might spot the glint of shimmering mail beneath.
[Warven(#26511)]
Continuing his work and not looking up Warven says "Son of Groin, It is a shame that the stone has been let to fade and overgrown with weeds." Holding up the small stone in his hands the features of a dwarf can start to be seen coming out of the stone. Once again returning to his work he says "It is a shame he was laid to rest in such a dismal and gloomy place." With a heavy sigh "I can not wait to leave this place.."
Hearing the words of the -needy traveler- Warven drops his work and his hands go to his War Hammer quickly and his eyes shooting in the direction of the voice."
[Barglog(#16260)] The heavy-set Barglog is not a natural at moving silently. The squat goblin is keeping almost all of his focus on the path ahead, and if he notes that his fellows behind have fallent unnaturally silent, he probably regards it as his due. His broad skin-clothed back is toward the black-clad newcomer, of whom he remains blissfully unaware.
Then the echoes of Vogog's speech reach his ears. Without looking behind him, he hisses, "That's it, boys, this is our chance."
[Formin(#26827)] "Aye," says Formin, nodding. "Tis even greater a shame that he had to fall in it." He falls silent again, looking tired despite his inability to sleep. Yet with the abrupt greeting of the "traveller", the silversmith's eyes snap up and he is all alertness. So also do the pair of guards come awake again, and it is now the turn of the one who shortly ago had been doing the pointing to punch his comrade as if to say I-told-you-so.
Formin is already hauling himself to his feet, silver goblet discarded behind him. Hand upon the red hilt of a short broadsword, he squints in the direction of the vague hooded figure. "A poor old traveller at midnight on the Old Forest Road in the middle of Mirkwood? Oh aye, my lad, come here to the light and we'll see you helped." He sounds almost light-hearted, but his face is serious.
[Grishnákh(#22300)] "That's it, boys" the voice is oozing with mockery and the words are whispered, "this is our chance." It comes from the hooded orc, now just behind Barglog. His eyes dart back and forth from under the hood as he scans the area, then come to a rest on the leader, "Yer gonna get killed. You didn't bring enough." He head nods towards the woods opposite, "We ain't the only ones watching. Never in here."
[Vogar(#24847)]
The brown-cloaked form fidgets nervously with his clawed fingers, though he is careful to keep them well out of sight. A faint gleam of yellow can be spotted as his beady eyes flicker around at Formin's words but then the gleam is gone once more beneath the hood. "Kind of you," the tone is slightly edged with mockery. "But I'm afraid I've had a long and weary journey...my legs aren't what they used ter be, you see. Why make an old traveller limp further? I would ask for food, and be on my way..." Vogar stands still as stone. Clearly, he is not moving any closer.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
Ears prick. Eyes turn. Keen are the senses of hidden watchers and long are their memories. There is another faint glint from within the trees, the tip of an arrow, now fitted to the string of a great bow.
[Warven(#26511)]
Jumping to his feet with Formin, Warven swings his War Hammer up onto his shoulder, his face looks irritated and tense, finally speaking in a irritated almost angry voice "Come into the light traveler, for if your legs are at tired as you say, then join us in the safety of our camp and rest." Looking to Formin he says nothing his appearance obviously conveying his mistrust of the traveler.
[Formin(#26827)] Formin squints, peering hard even as he holds up the one hand not gripping the hilt of his sword. "Ah now, that's a shame, my lad," he says in mock sympathy, a helpless frown accompanying a shrug. "See now, I figure them poor legs of yorn have come a might good way already, what's a few more paces? Nay, I'll wager you're too ugly for even an elf, and too weak to be a Beorning. Must be a creepy crawly of this here wood, says I. What say you to moving on, all nice like, eh?"
[Vogar(#24847)]
Fists clench and a soft hiss emerges from nasty, concealed fangs. "I see manners are lacking," comes the forced reply, tinted with irritation. "A pity. You won't offer aid, and insult me as well. A pair of steps nearer, I will take, but none more. Is a piece of meal too great to ask?" The brown robed orc shuffles one, twice forward, and pauses as before. Finally, one claw slips into view as it drifts sideward for the hilt that lies beneath the tattered fabric.
[Barglog(#16260)] Barglog has been watching the Dwarves, no doubt waiting for the perfect opportunity. When the mocking voice comes from behind him, he turns his leering face only fractionally from his 'prey'. "Says who? An' I suppose you brought on an army, right?" He doesn't wait for an answer before growling, "I've had enough of this! Usual drill - knock out the guards, hack a few limbs, all the rest. Oh, and one of you maggots put out that darn light!" He raises a meaty paw to point at Formin's lantern.
Then, with no more ado, he is off, running low toward the nearest Dwarven guard. His scimitar slides easily into his hand and he is panting with anticipation of the frey.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The woods themselves inhale, holding their breath, to the north, at the charge of the lone orc. All sounds cease from the northern wood, but no darts fly.
[Warven(#26511)]
Hearing the words of the traveler Warven scoffs and says nothing, then hearing what sounds like something rushing through the woods his War Hammer moves into both hands and he shouts loudly enough for the whole camp to hear "Leave now or you will find your resting place here among the woods." with that his eyes search the darkness for a glimpse of what is moving among the trees.
[Formin(#26827)] "Aha," says Formin, brows lifting as the tattered wanderer shuffles further into view. "Lovely nails, you have there." He glances at Warven as if mildly repulsed by the sight of the claw, but he has not time to remark further upon the quality of the traveller's nails, for then the sound of a beast crashing through the undergrowth becomes unmistakeable in the sudden silence that descends from the forest.
"Dwarves awake!" one of the guards cries out abruptly, and he is the unfortunate fellow for whom Barglog now charges. Barks and shouts of alarm break out amidst the snoozing camp as dwarves struggle to come to their senses and discover the cause for the raised alarm.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
Grishnakh shakes his head and throws back the hood from his head. A clawed hand is held up and the Mordain orcs obey their vorazg without question, not a one moving forward. He pulls the highest ranking forward and hisses, "Come east a bit more. I've got more boys comin' from there. We'll lead, but not til they get closer."
His hand points and the orcs move as fast as they can in the thick forest, around to get at the back of the fracas that the decoy and his decoy are about to cause.
[Barglog(#16260)] Alas for impatience! Barglog snarls, but he cannot halt his headlong charge. He crashes into the yelling Dwarven guard with scimitar held high, and sweeps it from right in a stroke aimed to cleave head and beard from shoulders in a single heavy motion.
[Formin(#26827)] And cleave it does, leaving the guard's headless body standing helpless for a moment, even as his head tumbles away, shocked expression now frozen upon it forever. Then the body follows, collapsing rigidly to the side in a fountain of blood. But if Barglog's first attack was successful, the odds of his second being so are rapidly thinning. The camp is coming to life now, shuttered lanterns hastily thrown open, lending greater light to the camp but also blinding its occupants to the darkness around them.
[Warven(#26511)]
Seeing the Orc rushing the shouting guard Warven moves into action. Rushing forward with surprising speed, bringing his War Hammer above his head as the guard is decapitated, and shouting at the top of his lungs "You will die where you stand" and with that the Stonewright brings his War Hammer down, aimed at the Orcs head.
[Vogar(#24847)]
A sneering grin plasters itself onto Vogar's twisted lips, but he says nothing about the nail comment. At the noises from the forest, and the cry of the dwarves, the cloaked goblin throws a glance over his shoulder. His haggard nailed hand jerks back upward, a long jagged dagger clenched therein. The veiled pinpoints of yellow return as Vogar peers toward Formin and Warven. "At least I offer aid, despite your insults. Shall we see how well an old traveller will fare against this foe?" He jerks his head at his fellow creatures.
The hooded orc gives a wince as he watches the Stonewright's attack, and he squints in the sudden light from the lanterns. Another claw tugs more at the cowl to ward off the revealing illumination.
[Barglog(#16260)] Delight is writ broad across Barglog's piggish face. He leans forward, leering, to claim his bearded prize.
But Warven's hammer is in the way. Barglog's head halts said hammer in a motion that is as fatal as it is simple. He must indeed have a hard skull, for it does not split rather the hammer-spike plunges in up to the hilt and lodges there. And there he hangs, a lifeless hindrance to warven and a reminder that brawn without brain does not lead to long life in an orc.
[Formin(#26827)] "Oh ho now," says Formin, clearly surprized despite the almost laziness of the statement. His head whips around, spotting the decapitated guard even as head and body tumble to the ground. Back to the traveller do the silversmith's eyes go and he barks a rueful laugh. "He says as he pulls his hood closer," says Formin mockingly. "If you be friend, then you bring the foe in your wake. Off you go now, this road is no place to make friends of strangers!" And perhaps convinced of the original plan of the orcs - to send a decoy and attack from the opposite direction - Formin turns instead away from the cloaked traveller and after Warven, anticipating the real attack there. The short broadsword is drawn and a shield swept up from the ground from where he had been sitting.
[Warven(#26511)]
As the orc falls dead with his War Hammer embedded in his skull, the Stonewright plants his boot upon his face and tugs a few times until his War Hammer is free. Then quickly he looks about, eyes searching for movement, then looking to Formin "Be ready cousin I think that adventure we spoke about has found us"
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
The Grishnakh led orcs keep moving towards the rear of this smiting. Down the road, under cover of trees, more towards the brown robed traveller, away from the bloody Mordian mess. finally the commander halts his newfound crew. he points further east, down the road aways, "I got 40 more, they're still 1/2 mile away. We'll hit from here." He turns back to the drama, hoping to see more excitement over the smiting then the not-seen-by-many traveller
[Vogar(#24847)]
The charade is dispelled at last as Formin turns away, a malicious light gleams once more beneath the dip of that hood.
With surprising quickness for his supposed 'old age', Vogar bounds in pursuit, all signs of limping gone. The cowl is thrown back to show the twisted face of, indeed, orc-kind. "I'm not here to make friends, gazat fool," the goblin laughs, and his hand sweeps out with the knife for Formin's back. It is a glancing cut, should the dwarf not be fast enough to evade it.
[Grishnákh(#22300)] "NOW!"
Grishnakh's yell is extremely loud compared to the relative softness of voices here. All the orcs pounce from the woods near the rear of the first decoy, the traveller. The ground pounds with their feet, and the lights gleam from their steel. Formin is about to be smooshed!
[Warven(#26511)]
Seeing the traveler rush his cousin Warven shouts "Behind you cousin"
Then hearing and seeing the Orcs rush into the camp the Stonewright moves into action rushing forward to meet the group swinging his blood covered War Hammer once again over his head in preparation to attack shouting a loud war cry and moving as fast as he can to assist his cousin.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
Even as the orcs charge, there is a sharp whistle from the north, and a hail of wood flies, as though the trees themselves spit splinters at the onrushing orcs though they are forced to arc high, over the Dwarven encampment, to fall amongst the charging foes, limiting their effect.
A lone archer does not let his arrow fly, the first to step clear of the wood, his arrow knocked but not yet drawn.
[Formin(#26827)] "Mm," Formin nods in agreement to Warven, blissfully unaware of the traveller's rapid transformation behind him. And indeed, he remains unaware of it until the orc's disguise until Vogar's voice and knife behind him alert him to his mistake. The blade is indeed glancing and it severs through the cloth of Formin's tunic and surcoat before turning aside at a coat of mail beneath. "Oh Maker," Formin berates himself, as if a child. He whips around, his shield pulling up to defend his left side and his sword swinging wide in an attempt to at least knock Vogar away.
And then a rather load yell breaks from the wood and the rather louder sound of a large group quickly charging the camp. "I do believe you're right, Master Warven!" Formin shouts suddenly, finally falling into an appropriate defensive position. He cocks his head slightly to the right to give his one good eye the advantage. "Ah, come on now, then! I'll wager you're just as pretty as the last time I saw you!"
[Vogar(#24847)]
Formin's motion succeeds in knocking the brown-robed creature off to the side, and the uruk rewards this with a grating snarl. "I still want my meal, you know," the mockering is no longer withheld, and Vogar slips to the left, trying to shove his knife under the shield to get at Formin's lower legs.
The air rings with the shrill cries of Mordain as the sudden flurry of elven darts strike home amongst the rabble.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
Grishnakh and the orcs go charging past Vogar the sneaky and his dwarven prey, filtering out to cause chaos, while maintining a loose line formation, never straying too far from a comrade. To an orc they raise shields to fend off the arrows, quickly trying to get too close to be shot at. A single orc takes a fatal dart through the neck.
Grishnakh's mithril helmet bounces the firelight back with a wicked gleam. He roars as launches a booted foot, scattering the logs and cinders in a blast of flame and sparks, some attempting to take up housing on nearby tents.
[Warven(#26511)]
Seeing the once -old traveler- attacking Formin, Warven changes direction heading that direction War Hammer at the ready, as he gets within striking distance he swings his War Hammer aimed at the arm of the Orc shouting a loud war cry.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
That is the sight that held the last archer's arrow. Even as a second, and a third volley comes from the wood, the greatest of the bows is raised, drawn, aimed and loosed in a single, swift, unerring motion as the arrow flies, glimmering mail revealed beneath his own forest cloak.
Thranduil launches an arrow...
Thranduil's bowshot hits Grishnakh, lightly wounding him.
[Formin(#26827)] And come the orcs of Mirkwood do, though Formin challenges none of them as Vogar proves a more annoying opponent than perhaps initially anticipated. When the uruk's knife darts under the protection afforded by his shield, Formin jerks it down, but a fraction of a second too late. The weakness of a blind eye becomes apparent. "Ooh!" Formin sucks in a sharp breath as the blade scores a gash at the side of his knee. "Now that's not nice!" he says dryly. His sword lashes out, arcing down from above as if to cut into the base of Vogar's neck.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
The giant orc kicking over fires and yelling loudly at the beautiful chaos surely looks the part of a wicked monster. The sounds of melee combat fill the air as the dwarves recover from their surprises. The screams and grunts. The lovely clanging of steel. But before the vorazg can find an opponent, an arrow finds his arm!
It slides down his forearm leaving a devilish acratch that fills immediately witrh black blood, before it skitters away. With a roar of defiance, Grishnakh ducks behind his shield and turns towards the nearest enemy, Warven. Malice glinting in the crimson eyes, the monster raises his terrible blade.
[Vogar(#24847)]
"An insult equal perhaps to yours, eh?" the 'old traveler' chortles darkly to himself as his attack connects. But that grin swiftly contorts into a new scowl as the length of a sword and the head of a war hammer come barrelling in his direction.
Vogar attempts to duck and twist away -- the jerking movement sees the sword scoring a fair gash upon the shoulder, but the blow of the hammer isn't avoided. It strikes true, slamming the orc's weapon-holding claw so that it emits an awful crushing noise. The knife falls to the dirt, and with a hideous yelp, the goblin tries to scamper backward. His right arm hangs limply by his side.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The Elf King's target is well marked now he takes a purposeful stride forward, making no attempt to hide his identity, he draws another arrow from the quiver that hangs loosely over his shoulder, and it is knocked and drawn in a breath, though he stands firm, holding it for a second, tracking the Orc Captain, before loosing another shot.
Thranduil launches an arrow...
Thranduil's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.
[Warven(#26511)]
Seeing his blow land true Warven looks to his cousin and says "He is yours cousin" Turning about to see the Giant Orc looking his direction, once again the Stonewright gets into a fighting position and shouts with a grin "Come now big fella, let me crush your bones.." Seeing the arrow miss its target the Stonewrights eyes look to the Elf and then back to his enemy with an even bigger smile.
[Combat(#13388)] Warven wields War Hammer.
[Formin(#26827)] "No indeed," Formin growls with a grin when Vogar scampers backwards. "For I am far prettier than you and have right to remark upon your ugliness!" This he says as he charges the wounded uruk and his savage short blade dashes out again, flying now for Vogar's left elbow. Warven recieves only a grunt in reply.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
SWOOSH! The arrow whistles just over Grishnakh's head. The only reason being that the orc stumbled at just the right moment. Or at least it seems he stumbles. He comes out of it firmly planted on his feet, his shield moving to ward the dwarf's hammer even as the scimitar slices down in a vicious arc.Grishnakh attacks Warven with his Scimitar and badly wounds him!
[Vogar(#24847)]
"Uglinessss," snarls Vogar through gritted teeth in a voice of ice amid pain. "Better than stupidity..who fell for the disquise trick? Believe that was you, no?"
Whatever more the creature was about to say is cut short. The sword neatly slices the left arm off at the elbow, and black blood adorns the forest ground. Enraged at this point and blinded by pain, the brown cloaked uruk wriggles around to get upright. In a desperate attempt, he leaps forward, aiming to set his teeth into anything he can reach -- be it Formin's arm, hand, or raiment.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The shield occupied, and the orc's movement as he swings more predictable, a third shaft flies from Thranduil's bow, aimed squarely between Grishnakh's shoulders.
Thranduil launches an arrow...
Thranduil's bowshot hits Grishnakh, moderately wounding him.
[Warven(#26511)]
Not expecting such a ferocious attack from the Orc Captain Warven goes to block the shield, only to feel the sting of the scimitar strike him, cutting deeply into his left shouder and running down a good foot. His face goes somewhat white as blood begins to poor from his body. Letting go of his War Hammer with his now useless left arm, the Stonewright swings his War Hammer in an upward motion with all his strength in one arm aimed at the Orc Captains head.
Warven attacks Grishnakh with his War Hammer, but he misses by a mile.
[Formin(#26827)] "Ah what can I say, your nails had me mesmorized!" Formin says, almost chuckling at his blade shears away Vogar's arm at the elbow. Then, "Ow! Hey, let go!" The silversmith takes a step back, face contorted as the desperate uruk hangs from the wrist of sword arm. Formin, however, is not one to grunt against the pain, for he begins angrily complaining loudly. "Let! Go! Bloody! Hell!" he yells, shaking his wrist with each word. He shoves his shield at Vogar, attempting to ram the edge of the metal implement against his attacker multiple time.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
As the wicked fangs protrude from the mouth in a nasty grin, Thranduil's arrow strikes home. The grin vanishes in a flash as the dart buries itself deep in the orc's left shoulder. He howls with pain as he leaps backwards. Warven's blow strikes naught but air as he recedes.
He screams loudly, "You stinkin dirty tree kissing albai maggot! Did you lose yer legs from that cocktail we gave you? Did it take your COURAGE?" A single swipe from his blade cleaves the arrow shaft near his skin. The bolt remains buried and it shows in the slow movements of his shield arm. The shield is held between him and the elves as he turns to face Warven again.
[Vogar(#24847)]
The shouting and the violent shaking motion only causes Vogar to bite down harder. The shield bashing, however, does the job, and the fangs' grip loosens as the goblin's mouth opens to emit a strangled noise. At the third stike of the shield, the robed creature tumbles groundward to land roughly at his 'prey's' feet.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
From the east, the sounds of more monsters can be heard. A larger crew on a dead run down the old forest road. They are not far off, but the orcs here are in dire need. Their numbers not many to begin with. A single horn brays in a solid deep note.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The King's legs appear in fine shape, as he stands, still as a statue amidst the chaos, drawing back a fourth arrow in his great bow.
"The simple wiles of your folk may work against these," he says, his voice even, calm, though it effortlessly fills the space, a music on a higher plane than the clatter and crash of the melee, "But your dark arts shall not cause the King of Greenwood the Great to bend!"
And to punctuate his last word, the arrow flies from his bow, sailing true towards the screaming orc Captain.
Thranduil launches an arrow...
Thranduil's bowshot hits Grishnakh, lightly wounding him.
[Warven(#26511)]
The Stonewrights face is almost pale white, blood still pouring from the rather large wound upon his left shoulder, Seeing the large Orc Captain turn to face him again he looks down at his would and then to the Orc Captain once more. Mustering up his strength in his one good arm he once again strikes out with his War Hammer aimed at the Orcs now injured shoulder, it is apparent during the attack he is weak upon his feet.
Warven attacks Grishnakh with his War Hammer, but he misses by a mile.
[Formin(#26827)] Formin frees his besieged wrist from Vogar's fangs and steps backwards in disgust, rubbing his bleeding arm on his trousers. But there is little time for his light-hearted antics now, for the sounding of a horn not far in the distance causes a grave look to descend over the silversmith's face. He gives the dying uruk at his feet a last look and snorts, then drives the point of his short sword at Vogar's neck.
The "old traveller" no longer a threat, Formin turns to find Warven battling against an uruk-hai nearly twice his height, and badly wounded as a result. "Hoi there!" says the old silversmith, charging to his fellow's side with a slight limp from Vogar's earlier attack. Without even so much as a mocking insult, Formin swings his blade low at Grishnakh's knee.
Formin attacks Grishnakh with his Short Broadsword, but he misses by a mile.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
Grishnakh is wheezing and finding the air in his lungs to cause him a significant amount of pain. Yet another arrow flies as though shot from a cannon. Luckily for Grishnakh his dodge of Warven's attack causes this one to find a resting place in his chest, though it does not penetrate the armor. Still the blunt force is enough to cause him to suck in his breath. Not enough to deter his attack though.
Leaping forward just in time to avoid formin's attack at his rear, Grishnakh tries to jump past his opponent. As he turns he thrusts his weapon at Warven's throat, while trying to get both dwarves to his front. His head bobs back and forth as he tries to back away and put anything between him and the archers.
Grishnakh attacks Warven with his Scimitar and badly wounds him!
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
And the sounds of orc feet stomp ever closer.
[Vogar(#24847)]
"Give aid, give food -- liars, pah!" The brown-garbed orc spits hatefully, raising his yellow eyes to glare one final time.
The point of the short blade does likewise short work, puncturing the throat with a lovely spout of blood. The pitiful creature lets out a shrill shriek, topples to the side, and lays motionless in the dirt. The needy traveler is no more.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The Elven King has had enough, casting aside bow, quiver and cloak with a shrug, he breaks out into a sprint, his legs carrying him swiftly into the fray, gleaming silver blade drawn in hand as he approaches the pair of Dwarfs at the Orcish Captain, "Save your folk, fool!" he thunders to Formin, "There shall be no saving his foe!"
[Combat(#13388)] Thranduil smoothly draws the ancient blade Endumegil from its scabbard.
[Warven(#26511)]
Seeing the Orc Captain dodge not only his own attack but the attack of his cousin Warven starts to move, and just in time as the Orc Captains blade misses his throat and stikes him in the already injured shoulder, causing a loud shriek of pain to come from the Stonewright, blood continuing to flow, now at an even faster pace. Backing away slowly on wobbly legs the Stonewrights face is ashen white and the rest of his body is red from the blood pouring from his wound.
As he backs away, his War Hammer slips from his hands and he falls to his knees.
[Formin(#26827)] "Oh because there are -so- many bloody places to run to in this accursed place!" Formin yells back sarcastically, disregarding completely the evident royalty about the Elven King's person. He does leave off attacking Grishnakh, however, to reach to catch Warven under his uninjured shoulder. As if speaking to Warven, though truly he is not, the silversmith continues. "Run away! he says. Aye, cousin, shall we run away into the darkness of the road under a new moon at midnight? Aye, let's! Truly we need no light to see by, nor food to eat. Let us flee with only our lives, shall we? Aye! Here now, cousin, up you come, gather your strength now." This last truly is addressed to Warven.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
Grishnakh has no choice but to face the king of the Nandor. Though he does it was a scowl and a wad of phlegm. "Sorry to see you alive. Best fix that!" He uses all his might to swing at the elf. A kill blow. A blow to slice off the head.
Grishnakh attacks Thranduil with his Scimitar, but Thranduil parries the attack with his Longsword!
[Warven(#26511)]
Feeling his cousin catch him the Stonewright says through clenched teeth "Thank you Master Formin.." grunting as he gets to his feet he lets his cousin lead him away. Glancing over his shoulder he sees the Elf King fighting the Orc Captain. Stumbling as he walks, he takes his free arm and tries to apply pressure to the large wound.
Vuglax has arrived.
Grishnákh drops Vuglax.
[+LIGHT] Formin's torch flickers and goes out.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
Even as his sword is drawn, it is held diagonally across his body, and he whips it forward in a swift motion, knocking aside the orc's attack, and then continuing in a single, continuous arc downwards and back across from right to left, dropping to a single knee, to guide his blade towards the ankles of the Orcish Captain.
Thranduil attacks Grishnakh with his Longsword, but he misses by a handspan.
[Vuglax(#28392)] From the east, the noise of pounding feet gets louder, and then they are there - a large band of orcs in a tight-held group. Swords, spears, knives, an axe or two - what light there is glitters off of the weapons.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
And in the forest night, these reinforcements are met with a hail of arrows, slicing across the road, from high above in the trees now angling downwards in a rain of steel tipped shafts.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
The orc jumps back and the glowing sword connects with nothing. The orc hisses at Thranduil, as he hears the sounds of the orcs finally approaching, "Your doom comes, scum!" He juts hjis sword hand east. It simply serves to cock back the blow though. The wickedly edged scimitar slices the ari on it's way up above the elf's cut, at his midsection
Grishnakh attacks Thranduil with his Scimitar, but Thranduil parries the attack with his Longsword!
[Vuglax(#28392)] There is a chorus of yells at the rain of arrows - some of pain, some of fury. A couple taunting. "Come on down, elfers! Cowards! Light-lovers!"
[Formin(#26827)] The dwarves meet the first of the uruk reinforcements, but the camp remains in disarray, some kneeling beside wounded comrades, some calming screaming ponies, others putting out the flames of Grishnakh's scattered fire, and others still attempting to pack their goods up hastily and take the Elf King's order under advisement. But as yet there seems no organised retreat from the dwarves.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The Elfking raises his blade up again, swiftly, to meet the heavier scimitar head on, his steel holding against the orc's, a second hand going to the hilt of the blade to hold it true, before he twists, pushing himself upward onto two feet once again, as he strikes a heavy downward blow towards Grishnakh's nack.
Thranduil attacks Grishnakh with his Longsword, but Grishnakh parries the attack with his Scimitar!
[Formin(#26827)] Formin hauls at Warven's arm, not gently, and steers him in the direction of his own wagon. "Here now, hurry up, easy does!" he mutters as he attempts to hurry the stonewright along. He stabs the point of his blade into the ground and then uses his free hand to unlatch the backdoor of his small wagon. "Can you get up?" he asks of the stonewright hastily, though he is already trying to push Warven up the stairs. "Seems we are to take the elf's advice and run blindly into the night. Good fun, eh? Up you go!"
[Vuglax(#28392)] Yelling, the orcs scatter - some of them racing for the dwarves that are still here, though a ways off. Some of them coming for Grishnakh and the elven king. Others attack the trees, or shake their spears from underneath round shields. Some die choking on arrows.
[Warven(#26511)]
As Formin helps the Stonewright into the wagon roughly he attempts to walk up the stairs, Falling into the wagon landing upon his back with a loud grunt of pain saying "Thank you cousin, I owe you my life.." clutching his gaping wound with his good arm he tries to apply pressure and lays in the back of the wagon.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
CLANG! Grishankh sweeps his blade up just in time to reflect Thranduil's aside.The orc's nack is spared a severing as Grishnakh twists his blade to match the swordwork of the elf. And it truly is a dazzling display of skill and strength. The fluid movements and perfect timing of the king. The deft twists and slices by the bigger orc. The best of their kinds, battling in the chaos of the encampment.
The vorazg attempts to reverse the momentum, twisting his weapon wrist to direct the sharp steel back at thranduil's ribcage, just as he parries.
Grishnakh attacks Thranduil with his Scimitar and mildly wounds him!
[Formin(#26827)] "In fact, you owe me your not dying in a rather bloody heap," Formin corrects, his tone oddly jesting. "Your life, alas, I believe it owed to the cranky elf over yonder. So whether you shall thank me later remains to be seen."
This he says as he helps Warven into the back of the wagon and then shoves the stonewright's hammer in after him. Then the stairs are unlatched and thrown into the wagon as well. Formin fetches his sword and then limps hastily around to the front of the wagon, even as a smallish goblin charges the silversmith. Taken somewhat by surprize, Formin has time only to deflect the goblin's scimitar with his own blade, but he growls as he swings back at his attacker, "Be polite now, I'm trying to hitch up a pony here, you lazy brute!"
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The Elf springs backwards, even as the blade of the scimitar scrapes across the gleaming mithril chain. His sword is drawn back to his left shoulder, and whips out defensively, another long, smooth stroke, the tip of the blade aimed at the Orc's ear.
Thranduil attacks Grishnakh with his Longsword, but he misses by a handspan.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
The orc presses his attack. He drops his head as he crouches and the blow whistles harmlessly overhead. His a roar, he dives within the arc of the longsword. His blade is held close to his body, muscles twitching. Then the explosion of force as he rams the wepon forward and up. Using forward momentum the blade comes froma strange angle, almost straight up at the bottom of his chin.
Grishnakh attacks Thranduil with his Scimitar, but he misses by a mile.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
The elf's feet have been fully regained, and though the striking point of the scimitar was aimed at his chin it is his feet that guide Thranduil away from the blow.
He sidesteps to his right, the same direction his blade carries his arm, which quickly reaches its full extension above his right shoulder, the blade which extends his reach high snaps around as he twists his wrist, from backhand to fore-, he brings its steel downward once again, his blow falling with a single word, "Enough!"
Thranduil attacks Grishnakh with his Longsword, but he misses by a handspan.
[Grishnákh(#22300)]
As members of an elite squadron approach, grishnakh snickers. He leaps backwards and the sword once again misses it's mark. He doesn't leap back in an attack this time though. He is perspiring horribly and his air is drawn in ragged little breaths. As several members of his black guard take his place before thranduil, Grishnakh sneers
"Enough for now. For me. You have much to do. The little ones need a teat to suckle and you are looking more female every moment!" With a nasty laugh cut short by a grimace of pain, the pincushion orc seeks to flee the scene and let the reinforcements to what damage they can.
As he backs away surrounded by his bodyguards Grishnkakh howls, "Sack teh camp! Chase em into the woods! Bring the loot and the bodies back to the volcano!"
[Thranduil(#5440)]
Arrows continue to rain downward from amongst the trees, and more and more of the Elven folk join, spears brought to bear on those who would attack the trees, near as many Elves now, as orcs, and their skill is the greater of the two.
[Thranduil(#5440)]
"Fly! Fly indeed!" Bellows the Elfking, to the onrushing orcs, "Fly as your Captain does, or all shall fall here today!" He rushes towards the oncoming orcs, a flash of gleaming truesilver and steel.
"This camp is under the flag of the King of this Wood, and all who come to it shall fall!"
[Vuglax(#28392)] Sacking and looting is all very well when you're not being shot at... some of the orcs grab what they can before running the rest just run.
[Formin(#26827)] The smallish orc is dispatched and Formin soon has his ponies hitched to his wagon. Others in the camp have done the same now, though several wagons and tents lie abandoned either to flames or for the absence of a fled pony. Some wagons have begun shuffling along, but others hesitate now, their drivers watching as the orcs begin to flee. Formin, however, has set about berating his fellows.
"Oh stop -gawping-! Aye, they're running, celebration and good cheer and all that. And they shan't return now they know where we are, oh no, never. Go on, go on, move it along or else you might actually have to thank the elves for our rescue, hah!" He clambers up onto the seat of his wagon and slides open a door window there that opens into the cabin of his wagon. "Master Warven! Still alive back there?"
[Warven(#26511)]
Grumbling in pain the Stonewright half mumbles "Alive as I can be.." continuing to apply pressure to the gaping wound he says "I thank you cousin, and I am sorry but it would seem the floor of your wagon is going to be stained red.."
[Formin(#26827)] "Well, it needed some fresh paint, in any case," Formin chuckles back, again displaying an odd ability to jest even as the cries of dying orcs and wounded dwarves surround him. "There's bandages and the like in the cupboard next to the bed. Help yourself." Then the silversmith glances around the edge of his wagon. "Go on, go on," he continues to grumble at other dwarves who are taking too long to get moving. And then, "Good Master Elves, where we go I cannot say, but no doubt you shall find us!"
