High Pass: Trouble at the Pass

Mountain Pass Ascent

The footing on this wind-dried and cold slope continues to be treacherous. The mists that give these mountains their name are bitter and freezing in the murky night.

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

A sudden whirlwind falls down onto the mountains, the darkened sky broiling and steaming above you. The early night spring air is biting and breezy. The moon is above the horizon and in its waxing crescent 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: Wed Mar 10 14:32:42 2010

Game time is: Early Night <22:38:06> on Trewsday, Day 23 of May (Spring) 3049

Spring may have arrived, but here on the hostile slopes of the Misty Mountains one would be hard-pressed to know it. The wind channeled through ravine and crevasse is sharp as a knife, and with every gust it brings a swirl of freezing fog, mazing the eye and chilling the bones.

Strung out along the twisting path where it broadens near the mouth of a canyon is a chain of wagons pulled by ponies, lit here and there by the wan flicker of a lantern, and around and about them swarm a number of short, squat shapes - Dwarves. They would appear to have been heading westward. These particular Dwarves do not look best pleased to be here many of them glance worriedly up at the broiling skies above above, fingering their weapons, and some grumble openly. They are aware of the risks of this path but ponies cannot trudge on forever, especially in the dark, and the worsening weather has forced a halt. The keenest-eyed have been posted as lookouts, whilst those with bows take up vantage points where they can best defend their kinsmen.

Broddur, in neither group, finds himself near the head of the wagons. Currently the surly miner is running his left hand lovingly up and down the haft of the pick clutched in his right, and muttering. "Can't get the better of me, you stubborn rock! I'll gnaw your bones yet." He shakes his fist at the offending boulder that blocks the path, forcing him to detour into the dark.

Night. At last night.

The Mountain pass through the Misties always tends to present its new challenges to those who deem it necessary to pass through and over its treacherous cliffs. Not to mention, of course, those denizens of the deep darkness that once was Khazad-Dum. The mountainside is riddle with numerous small walking trails along the higher reaches, seemingly only used by foot-borne travelers from time to time. It is amongst these high trails that several figures move.

Erghash moves quickly in the night, the brisk bitter wind of the Mountains merely adding force to his flox along the small trails. The Dush-Krimpat's eyes flicker and flash from trail to the main pass down below searching. A flicker of light! Erhghash raises his left hand, halting those Morians brought forth from the Mines behind him. "Dwarves...." Erghash grumbles, sniffing the air and snorting forth his words.

Just as quick, the patrol is on the move again, though with a more decided purpose.

The Dwarves, of course, are hampered in vision by the eddying mists that swirl this way and that like stews in a cauldron. Broddur carefully picks his way round that bothersome boulder and returns to the path a little way ahead, only to find himself faced by a drawn arrow. "By Mahal's beard!" he exclaims, the low words little short of a growl. "Have you no eyes in your head, my lad, that you target one of your own? Or is it that you've not enough to do with your time? Why, I-"

The Dwarven archer, looking sheepish, mutters something along the lines of, "Hard to see /anything/ in this light. If your eyes are so good, why don't you go off and see what's out there?"

For an instant the moon breaks through the cloud. What it reveals is not encouraging - billow upon billow of curling cloud, roiling back and forth. There might well be movement up there ... or it could just be the shifting of the mist. Then the gleam of moonlight is smothered.

Erghash continues along the footpaths of the mountainside, more Morians in tow. They move along quickly, quietly setting to work on the bloody task ahead. Reaching an area above the Dwarven camp, Erghash halts, allowing his patrol to continue by and form a line along the Mountainside facing downwards.

Spread out, Erghash glares down at the flickering lights of the camp in the Mountain pass. "Hrmmpf...Drummer." Erghash grunts, waving his hand towards an orc brought along in tow - a large war drum hoisted on his back. "Place yourself there," Erhghash states, pointing to a boulder, "behind that rock, and sound the War that it to be brought upon these trespassers."

The orc moves off, the remainder of the patrol settling in their line and preparing themselves. Bows are drawn, and arrows emplaced at the ready. Erghash himself readies his axe and shield, eyes coldly settled on the Dwarven camp below...

BOOM!! DOOOM!! BOOOM!! DOOM!!

The echoes wake instant response. All along the line of wagons and drivers shields are raised, horn bows drawn back or weapons pulled from the sheath. Others hurry to the rear of some of the wagons, busy with who knows what? Several start forward along the line toward the place from whence the drums had come, but a sudden shout with the ring of authority to it halts them. "Ware. It may be but a decoy, with the real attack to come from elsewhere. Hold firm, my lads! Archers, loose at will if your eyes spy a target."

Broddur, his pick already in his hand, shakes his head, his earlier grudge forgotten. "I mislike this," he mutters. "Still remember that last time, and the snow-slide. What if those cursed goblin scum are trying to bring the mountain on us? Tell you one thing, that drummer needs silenced." And with that he's off into the dark, short legs striving their way up the slope.

The archer who had been beside Broddur does not follow. Rather he sends a single arrow arcing high in the direction from which he /thinks/ the noise comes. Is it correct? As angled walls of rock reflect the drum's echoes, it is hard to tell.

BOOM! DOOM! DOOM! BOOM!

The drum echoes through the chill night air, bouncing back and forth from the mountainsides. Erghash eyes the movement below. "KILL THEM!!" One of the uruks shouts, leaping down the Mountainside with spear at the ready. The Dush-Krimpat Erghash smirks, cold eyes judging to quickly changing landscape.

Arrows begin to fly from the mountainside aimed at the camp, even as small boulders are pushed down, tumbling with the advancing party of foot soldiers of Moria.

Erghash grins, and begins his own descent down the mountain, axe held at the ready and shield up just in case. The Morian's cold eyes catch hold of a lone advancing Dwarf, and his path changes immediately - straight for the little creature ambling its way up the Mountain to the sounds of the drum.

Arrows are answered by arrows, as the Dwarves loose feathered shafts of their own. The work of the goblin barbs is evidenced as here and there along the line of wagons a figure falls, or stumbles, or checks in the act of drawing a bow, choking a cry. The boulders are less easily met with like: a warning shout goes up, and those who catch sight of the tumbling rocks rush out of their path. Wagons, of course, are less able: there is the sound of splintering wood and then one of them tumbles onto its side, disgorging its contents.

A series of shouts go back and forth along the Dwarven lines, and then some of the Dwarven warriors step forward to meet their Orcish counterparts. Spear and scimitar are met by axe and hammer, and the clash of metal on metal or thud of weapon on flesh joins the thrum of the bowstrings as the Dwarves' archers maintain their deadly barrage.

Broddur's head-first charge up-slope is halted by the appearance of an axe-wielding figure in the swirling mist. Almost he hesitates - but this one's limbs are oddly stretched and shaped in comparison to the stocky outline of his own kin. "Hammers of the Dwarves!" he yells a war-cry, and then, "Luin!" His pick is swung with economy toward Erghash's leg as he turns at an angle.

The Morians have entered into their pictched battle in full now. Arrows still fly from on high, and the drum still pounds its hideous beat from behind a boulder. Now, with Dwarf and Uruk engaged in deadly combat, the blood begins to spill in earnest.

BOOOOOOOOOM! DOOOOOOMM!! The rumbling echo of the drum carries over the din of battle

Erghash is quick to side step the onrushing attack of his Dwarven counterpart. And quicker still to return his own slash. The Morian's axe blade cuts down from right to left, aiming to cut across the body of the Dwarf and spill whatever it may. Erghash grunts with the effort of his swing, following the blade's path home.

Still the drum goes on and the Dwarves have failed to silence its player. The combat shifts this way and that. "Light," someone mutters. "Need more-"

And then comes a shout - warning perhaps - from the lee of a boulder a little distance from the wagons themselves and a streak of fire shoots upward into the blackness of the night. A moment later it has burst in a brilliant flare of light. Another joins it ... The fireworks had lain forgotten in the back of one of the wagons. Designed no doubt to amuse some hobbit-party, they have now found another purpose. The archers, many of whom had begun to count their remaining arrows, waste no time in finding targets: the young Dwarf-archer who had spoken earlier with Broddur gives a grim smile, and his feathered shaft is let fly with the rest. Fighters grappling with half-seen forms suddenly behold their foes more clearly and redouble their efforts.

Broddur is less concerned with fireworks and whether the victory celebration they hint at be premature than keeping his balance. Erghash' axe has found a mark on the miner's slow-moving limbs, cutting through the leather at his left hip. The Dwarf reels for an instant, grunts as he regains his footing and in the afterglow of a flash of light hacks again at a goblin leg - this time the right as the creature's body turns with the force of the axe-blow.

An orc tumbles down the mountainside, body breaking against the rocks as it falls - an arrow protruding from its chest. Yet still, the Uruks press their attack home, seeking to cause whatever damage they may to the Dwarven party.

Erghash continues his turn, using the momentum of his axe strike to push his body around again and comes across with a horizontal blow. The axe blade slices neatly through the air at neck height (For a dwarf), seeking to remove helm from torso. Erghash's cold eyes lock onto his prey even as he tries to drive his blow home once again.

Broddur is very protective of his neck. As that axe comes swinging forward he starts to duck instinctively - and Erghash's blade meets empty air. Not from any great skill in dodging on the miner's part, but because he has overbalanced and been pitched forward down the mountain slope, to the accompaniment of rattling pebbles. Smears of blood from the wound at his hip bear witness to the direction of his continuing tumble.

His hall-kin and clan-kin fight on, determinedly. Again a flash of light banishes the night, and again ... and then smaller streaks, as the Dwarves finally think to use fire against their attackers.

=== Broddur's DESC ===========================================================

Standing of average height for his kind, this dwarf is broad of shoulder and girth and stout of limb, putting one in mind of a sturdy oak. On closer inspection one would conclude that the oak has been lightening-blasted, for the left side of his face is puckered by red scars, and flame has also singed away one side of his once-proud beard. The other, remaining plait is ragged but has been tucked carefully into his belt. The hair of his head is also plaited, the braids hanging down his back. Coal-dark eyes peer out from swarthy, begrimed features - even on the unscarred side his skin is seamed and grained like weathered rock.

He is clad simply, in a tunic of dark red and dusty black trousers tucked into strong and well-made leather boots. At his side hangs a heavy yet sharp-honed mattock.

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=== Erghash's DESC ===========================================================

A powerful figure this one is.

Barrel chest. Solid arms. And piston-like legs.

This orc is nothing if not the embodiment of raw power.

His ashen skin glistens with a perpetual sweat driven by the heat of the mines, not the least of which careens down from atop his shaved head. Glowing yellow eyes sit sunken and hollow in his face. His right arms bears a number of deep, burned in scars - brands it seems. One name below the next, a cascading list of Moria's hegemonic control. A suit of leather armour, covered in metal studs rests upon the orcs body. A belt of leather wraps round his waist from which an axe hangs - one notched and chipped from the wear of battle.

Painted on the chest of the orc's armour is a fist, ringed in flames. And were that armour to be removed one would note two runes of an ancient tongue carved deep into his skin.

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