High Pass: The Lonely Wagon

Mountain Pass Ascent

The footing on this cold and muddy slope continues to be treacherous. The mists that give these mountains their name are humid and clammy in the murky night.

A descnight needs to be added. This area is under construction. Contact Maz with problems.

Rain pours down from the black night sky, forming numerous small creeks, trailing across the path. The nighttime spring air is humid and clammy. The moon is above the horizon and in its first quarter phase.

Obvious exits:

 Narrow Trail leads to Sheltered Canyon.

 West leads to Mountain Pass Ascent.

 Southwest leads to Ascent to the Pass.

 East leads to High Pass, Twisting Trail.

Real time is: Thu Mar 11 14:41:30 2010

Game time is: Nighttime <23:04:30> on Highday, Day 26 of May (Spring) 3049

The night air of the Misties whips along the mountainside, whistling and snapping its way between rock, stone and mud. Rain pours down from the deep black sky, turning whatever road and pass there was left into a deep pool of mud. The well-worn tracks of caravans past have been nearly erased by the consisten downpour of rain these past few days. And still among the Misties, the mist itself is thick as ever.

Along the moutain pass, not bothering with the narrow trails higher up, a contingent of Morians travel in column. Armor and weapons clatter as they move through the wind-swept darkness down the muddy pass. The mud sucks and grabs at the boots and feet as they march along the path, not a word spoke between the group.

Erghash, Dush-Krimpat, moves at their lead, his cold eyes searching the pass ahead - knowing they will soon near their recent foes again.

Mud - the bane of all travellers. The Ered-Luin caravan has moved on - indeed, when the elements themselves are so unwelcoming, who would choose to linger? But the mountains are not minded to let them go so easily. There, on the twisting downhill trail, is the hunched form of a single wagon, and beside it a bedraggled and unhappy-looking group of Dwarves. One, huddled in his cloak, tugs on the rope of an equally miserable looking pony, two more set their shoulders to the back of the wagon and heave, whilst another - Broddur - is hunched over, alternately using his miner's pick to scrape away mud and fill the ruts with scrawny brush and sparse grasses. A bandage is wrapped round his left thigh, witness to the skirmish of the day before, and there is a slight dent decorating his metal helm. A final Dwarf stands lookout, squinting into the rain.

Erghash moves as deftly as one can through the squeezing grip of the muddy pass, his feet sloshing free at every step. The Morians in tow behind him continue to struggle mightily in the mud, though they seem equally intent on moving through quickly. It is not long before Erghash halts the patrol with a wave, and a few of the Morians begin clambering their way to a higher point on the mountainside.

Erghash peers through the darkness and rain, his eyes catching sight of movement down the trail ahead. Quickly, the Dush-Krimpat wheels about, directing in hushed tones where the other Morians are to scatter and plod. Several stay directly behind Erghash as he begin to move back down the path, though those with Bow and Arrow appear to have moved to higher ground. Then, the drums begin...

Boom! Doom! Boom! Doom!

They echo from behind Erghash and his small troop of foot soldiers. CLASH! Erghash adds to the cacophany of sound with his own smash of axe to shield, eyes glaring out from his deep set skull. The small troop of Morians move steadily down the mountain pass, almost in lockstep, shields already at the ready - though even to them, in this night, rain filled sky, the situation of their enemy is not yet clear.

The shear sides of the mountain slopes take up the echoes and cast them back, oddly distorted, so that the war-signal of the Morians is magnified. Doubtless further down the path the main body of Dwarves are arming for battle, waiting to meet the foe with a gleam in their eyes and a fierceness in their hearts.

The guardians of that lone wagon glance round warily, and weapons are loosened in their sheaths though they have not sighted the foe. The poor pony whinnies and snorts, and heaves at the traces - but to no avail as yet. "Try one more time," the Dwarf holding the pony commands. "Broddur, hurry up, will you?"

The miner grunts. "Doing my," squelch, scrape, "best. Need some light."

One of the pair who'd been heaving at the wagon crouches down with flint and tinder, whilst the other moves to join his companion as lookout.

The damning sound of the Morian War Drums continues to pound against the sides of the Misty Mountains, the rain only adding to the sound. The Morians continue their own move down the pass, slogging in the mud but moving more quickly now. Erghash, his eyes ever searching, seems locked on target now. "There!" The Dush-Krimpat shouts, pointing through the downpour towards the emergine outline of a lone wagon.

It seems that is all it takes for this small contingent of Morians to loose themselves down the pass. Without a word of acknowledgement, the small Morian patrol launches themselves at full steam down the path - a collective war cry issuing forth with their charge.

And from on high, the arrows begin to zip in the night sky. The normally more accurate, the arros of the Morians seem driven off by the pounding rain and wind whipping through the pass this night. Nevertheless, the fire and fire and whatever it is they aim.

Erghash, now behind his main party, begins his own trot and charge down the muddy mountain pass - though he seems more inclined to pick and choose his poison prior to launching himself in head first.

Arrows fly, and one strikes true. The sudden blooming of light in the rain-dark night is followed by a sharp, grunting cry and the Dwarf with the flint and tinder falls back, clutching at his shoulder. The lantern he'd been holding drops to the ground and rolls until it fetches up against a rock - amazingly, it does not gutter out, but rather leaves a small trail of burning fuel behind it, brightening the light further. So much for secrecy.

It is all too much for the poor pony. With a ringing neigh, it bucks and twists this way and that. Suddenly, with a jerk, the wagon heaves free and the terrified beast is off down the trail as though pursued by whips of flame. The Dwarf who'd been holding its rope is dragged along willy-nilly.

Broddur topples backward, landing rather heavily on his rump. As the miner struggles to his feet he lets out a ringing yell. "Come back, you son of a furry-foot! Come back, you damned lump of meat - ach." Shutting his mouth as an arrow whizzes past his ear, he brandishes his pick in silence at whatever may come his way. His companions are already moving to engage the Morians.

 The clash of steel against steel begins to echo in teh night as the Morians come to engage these Dwarven tresspassers. Erghash moves between and amongst this chaotic din, axe at the ready for his own fight.

ZIP! Doom! Zip!

Arrows flash by in the night, accented by the occassional rumble of war drums against the mountainside. Erghash pauses, eyes scanning. "Again!" Erghash grumbles, moving forward to the lone Dwarf unencumbered witha burdernsome Morian. "I though I sent you down my Mountain!" Erghash grumbles in his accented Westron, moving quickly to close the distance on this Miner Dwarf, swinging his axe again from on high in a diagonal motion intended to cut across the breadth of this Dwarf.

Broddur squints through the falling rain as words of Westron come his way. "Huh?" If they were meant to distract, they have served their purpose. Too slow is he to dodge, and the axe-blade glances off his left shoulder, parting the leather and biting into the gnarled flesh beneath, if not deeply. The miner lets out a wordless growl. "Think I'd let some pointy-eared goblin scum tell me what to do? I'll downsize /you/ - permanently." As the threat ends, he pivots onto his right foot and swings the pick round and then sideways, aiming to drive the sharp tip into Erghash' knee. A perceptive opponent will likely notice that he's favouring his left side - less weight rests on that leg, and his left hand on the pick has a lesser grip.

Occasional shouts in the darkness - threats, war-cries and once a filthy curse - act as reminder that his kindred are fighting battles of their own.

Erghash his quick, and seemingly light on his feet in this mud, as he is able to slide his legs from the path of the pick. The Morian quickly resets himself, and brings his axe back across horizontally towards the Dwarf, drops of blood beginning to mingle with the steady rain.

Still the drum beats, as if the heart of battle, and still the arrows fly down from the Mountains - though they come close to, and occassionally cut into their own Morian brethren.

There is a fraction of a heartbeat's pause after Broddur's pick meets empty air before he regains his balance. Scarcely has he done so than a feathered shaft speeds past him, to land quivering in the small pool of spilled fuel that still continues to burn, though the rain hisses and steams against it. It will likely not last long. The wood of the arrow-shaft flares into sudden flame - a brief flowering of light as it is consumed. Broddur's head jerks as he catches the motion out of the corner of his eye, and alters the angle of his retreat from Erghash' blow.

Too late! The axe-blade finds purchase in his right side, scoring across his ribcage before he jerks free. The Dwarf's eyes are wide, and the cry he lets out is hoarse and without words, but not without pain. Still, his kind are hardy. Setting his teeth, he jerks the pick up in attempt to gouge a hole in that ugly arm wielding the axe.

Erghash's arm pass by the War Hammer with onyl a breeze to feel. The Morian appears bemused, a smirk across his ugly face as his eyes remain locked on his prey. With a quick two-step the Morian Dush-Krimpat closes the distance on his Dwarven foe and strikes in again with his axe, but not with the blade. No, this time it is the flat, blunt end of the axe that is swinging in at Dwarven bone - aiming to crush and break rather than slice.

Elsewhere, a Morian falls, arrow in his shoulder, and the Dwarf engaging him is quick to capitalize - sending his own hammer down to smash the skull of the unfortunate uruk. SQUISH! The Morian's head collapses in on itself, a dark black ichor pooling forth from its forming casing.

Broddur growls angrily as once again the agile goblin escapes his vengeful pick. Limpingly he sidesteps - and thus it is that the axe does not break bone in two, though as it thuds against his shoulder it certainly crushes flesh. The miner's left hand falls limply from his pick and he must make his next move with only his right. The heavy-set miner plants his feet as firmly as he can manage before swinging the pick forward, its head held low. He's aiming to take a foot off if he's lucky, or at least make his opponent jump back, giving him breathing space. "You filthy tunnel-grubbers never do have the decency to die, do you?"

Two of his companions are faring well, and are still on their feet. The Dwarf who had lit the now-guttering lantern, however, still lies on the sodden ground and does not get up. Not one, but three feathered shafts protrude from him, and one is in the throat.

From somewhere downvalley, a steady rhythm sounds. More drums? But no, rather this has the cadence of marching feet.

The Morian Dush-Krimpat does have to back away, just a bit, to avoid the swing of the hammer. Erghash pauses, cooly assessing his situation. Still the other Morians fight, and figh. And now out of arrows, several archers have jumped down into the fray - swinging as they may with their bow for a weapon.

Erghash grins, "Never die." His voice is cold, breath unhurried. "Fire and Shadow won't allow it." The Morian grins, pressing in to close the gap and attack again - even as the sounds of others marching to the fray begins to carry up the Mountain.

It seems that words have achieved what Broddur's pick could not - space to breathe, to straighten up his bent form, to grit his teeth against the pain and prepare for another swing. "You so sure of that?" he challenges, breathing hard. "Seen the insides of plenty of goblin skulls, I have. In fact-" The words, spoken to cover the fact that he's gearing up for another swing, falter suddenly as the wan light of the spilled fuel starts to gutter ominously.

"-yours is barely worth the effort. I'll save you for my clan-kin."

As the tramp of booted feet draws closer, and the flickering light of torches can be seen off downslope, the miner makes his move. Not attack, but retreat: a ducking-back into the darkness before the light he depends on for this combat fail him entirely.

Erghash grins cooly, his smirk slithering along his face. But none-too-soon the Morian is off, quick on his toes to pass the wounded, and fleeing Dwarf. "Not so quick.." Erghash's face goes cold, his axe being brought down in another blow, though with the cutting edge leading the way. Quickly the blade falls from on high to tear and rend and the back of the Dwarf, and hopefully end his day here.

The other Morians, it appears, are more concerned with the oncoming Dwarf reinforcements than their current fights - as they seem to be fighting a retreating battle away from the wagon and Dwarven party. Still though, the war drums of Moria continue their beat - somehow quieter now than before.

Erghash's blow is successful, if cast slightly off-centre by the Dwarf's weaving motion - the axe-blade bites deep into the flesh of Broddur's shoulder and there is the grating jerk of bone beneath. With a deep cry, the Dwarf pitches forward, and actually tumbles some feet downhill. And the light goes out the spilled fuel is spent.

For a moment there is stillness then Broddur heaves himself up to all fours. And then, unsteadily to two feet. Teeth clenched, the Dwarf staggers half-blindly toward the nearest source of light. Which, Mahal be praised, is shed by Dwarven torches! The reinforcements are here, and shouts of "Baruk Khazad!" echo triumphantly in the night.

The Morian raiding party has, at this point, collapsed back up the Mountain pass with the arrival of Dwarven reinforcments. Erghash lingers a moment, his cold eyes lingering on the prey slipping from his fingers. Yet quickly, the Morian bounds back to the fallen Dwarven miner - felled by a trio of arrows.

Just as quickly as Erghash is above the now corpse of the Dwarf, his axe comes crashing down at its neck with a sickening crunch! Splish! Blood pours from the wound as head seperates from body in one terrble blow. Then, in one fluid motion Erghash is off up the pass, Dwarven head dangling by the beard from his weapon hand as he bounds away from the newly arrived Dwarven foes.

The drums....Silence.