'Pleasant' Reunion

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Early Night on Hevensday, Day 25 of July.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 14:13:54 MDT on Mon Nov 30 2009.

West side of the Bridge

You are standing near the west bank of the river Celduin. You can see the menacing forest of Mirkwood just a few miles distant. To the east is the river and past it the lands of the famous vintners of Dorwinion Wine. A road seems to run south along the river, and by its side stands a large signpost.

Contents:
Frarin
Broddur
Haldir
Thari
Imladech
Dale-lands Forest
Obvious exits:
Small House, West, South, and East over the Bridge

[Frarin(#26827)] The humid summer night air is almost oppressive here on the fringe of Mirkwood. It weighs down on the party of dwarves upon the road almost as heavily as the looming bulk of the forest just a few miles to the west. Back to the east lie the remnants of what was once Iach Celduin, now abandoned by man and orc alike as little more than a charred patch of ground. There now is encamped the army of dwarves and men led by King Dain of the dwarves and Captain Braxa for Dale. Their's is an uneasy rest this night.

Yet here, nearer the Greenwood of old, a smaller party of dwarves is encamped, this one with no fire or flame to make itself obvious. These dwarves seem to be an advance guard of sorts, or at the least an advance warning should the evils of Mirkwood approach Iach Celduin upon the road. They are perhaps a dozen in number, camped several hundred feet from the road.

Some sleep, but amongst those on wary look-out is Frarin. The silversmith stands with his hands clasped behind him, slowly pacing some way from his slumbering comrades. Other sentries stand at odd intervals between the camp and the road, alert and cautious.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Alert and cautious indeed, and there drifts then a faint smell upon the air to suggest that the dwarven vigil is not in vain. A whiff of something foul is carried over the night breeze from the direction of the nearby forest's eaves. A dim trampling might be heard by ears keen enough to catch its rumor. Too heavy are the footfalls to be that of Mirkwood's Fair Folk. Whatever the approaching presence is, it has not come within sight yet for now the sounds remain as rumors in the deepening gloom and are muffled slightly by the oppressive canopy.

[Frarin(#26827)] Frarin continues his restless pacing, tugging briefly at his collar to relieve some of the oppressive night heat. One hand rests on the head of a blue war hammer that hangs at the silversmith's side, but the other is held rigidly behind him, ill at ease.

And rightly so, it would seem. Slowly, Frarin's heavy boots cease their trampling of the rough grass and he comes to a halt. If he does not hear the footfalls in the distance, he may at least begin to smell that foul pollution of the air. His eyes narrow and a frown descends over his visage as he looks from the road to Mirkwood and back again, listening.

[Broddur(#16974)] One more Dwarf arises from the ranks of the slumbering, and turns to face the starless black that is forest. A scowl forms on Broddur's seamed features, and one hand rises to tug at his lopsided mess of a beard. The other remains securely on the haft of his miner's pick.

As Frarin slows, he moves up to stand beside the other. "Couldn't sleep," he mutters sourly. Then, as quietly as he can - which is not very, in the grand scheme of things, "Anything?" He, too, listens.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Unaware of the watchfulness of the camp close at hand, nor of its presence, a collection of dark and brutish forms melts from the shadows of the trees the exact number is difficult to discern in the veil of night, but one could hazard a guess that there walks a band of around eight to ten Orcs. The victory over the old trading town over the bridge yonder appears to have increased their confidence and pride: the troop of goblins plod onward toward the edge of Mirkwood, heedless of the noise they are creating. Afterall, they drove all of the gazat fools away, right?

One among their number pauses then, and the red garbed figure of Bagaglok stoops suddenly, a black claw swiping at something on the side of the Old Forest Road. When the Shaman rises again, the hand shifts quickly to stuff a twisted poisonous looking plant into a pocket on his robe. Orcish ears perk a little then, perhaps having heard an inkling of something that dwells nearby. A harsh word is uttered in a fell tongue, though the rasp in his voice causes it to come out louder than intended. The small band halts then, and a few of the smaller goblins bend to the earth, noses sniffing warily--those of the tracking breed no doubt. Yellow eyes peer through the darkness of the forest.

[Frarin(#26827)] Frarin starts a bit at the not-so-quiet approach of Broddur, but only a dwarf can make noise like that and Frarin soon relaxes. "I don't know," he grumbles, looking back at Mirkwood. "A stink, can you smell it? I'm not sure if it's just the cursed wood or something else." Another pause and now Frarin seems to be leaning towards the wood, as if wishing for a better gift of sight or hearing. "I don't know," he repeats. "Bori is nearer the road, let's check on him." The silversmith draws his war hammer and begins carefully picking his way through the darkness in the direction of the road.

[Broddur(#16974)] Broddur dutifully sniffs - and promptly sneezes. Loudly. Once he's wiped streaming eyes and mumbled something that /could/ be 'sorry' but has rather more the cadence of a curse to it, he pulls his pick from his belt. "Don't like this waiting, not knowing what's out there," he grumbles quietly. "Finding the cursed goblins would be a relief."

Then, speech ceasing, he begins plodding after Frarin.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
A relief maybe, but not to those who wish to live...

The busy noses wrinkle as if in disgust, and then ears twitch at the rather resounding hint of a - sneeze? A low growling comes forth from several of the Orcs lurking in the last shades of the tree boughs. The camp has been spotted by eyes adapted to the gloom of night. Haggard hands are brought to the cold hilts of scimitars and other wicked devices, though the weapons are not drawn for fear of the flash of metal betraying their position. There comes an irritated hiss then, "Have you mud for brains?" Bagaglok says, casting a sharp glare at some of the others who still dither in the rear. "Or can you lot not act without having a captain breathing down your necks? Incompentence," another growl sounds, but it is carefully refrained from making too great a noise. "I am no sergeant, but since you lads seem incapable of common sense in their absence: fan out, I say, but keep to the line of the forest. Let us see what the gazat fools do, and whether or not they are as observant as they would think themselves to be..."

Here and there the goblins begin to spread out as they are bidden, and those possessing bows quickly string them.

[Frarin(#26827)] Frarin picks his way through the rolling grasses of this last foothold of the dales the Dalelands are named for. "No argument here," says the silversmith. "I can't say I've ever had a desire to enter Mirkwood, but waiting on the edge of it for something to happen is by far worse." The blue war hammer is hefted into both hands as Frarin walks, cutting semi-diagonally towards the road while also heading roughly towards Mirkwood.

[Broddur(#16974)] Broddur's eyes are night-adapted, but he does not share the keen senses of the goblins. He treads warily, his vision fixed on the line of starless black that is Mirkwood itself. "Cursed place," he mutters to Frarin, who is up ahead. "Can't see a damn thing over there." Then he frowns. "You're not thinking of going in /now/, are you?" His booted foot slips off a tussock of grass and into a pool, announcing his presence with a soft splash.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Luck is not unkind, for lo! Even as the remainder of the uruks scamper to their spots, the forms of the dwarves who wander a little closer to the road are met with evil gazes. Black feathered arrows are fitted purposefully onto the awaiting bow strings, and the ominous creak of wood accompanies the claws that pull the darts backward. "A leg, I wants one of 'em's," mutters one of the Orcs happily, sticking out a vile black tongue to lick at his fangs. None bother to hush him, however, not even the dark shape of the Shaman who has begun to pace behind the line of archers one thing is on the goblins' minds now, and they share in their comrade's excitement.

"So they return now, and set a camp smack in the way to our own camp," says Bagaglok, frowning. "Then we shall show them what happens to those who cross paths with the boys of Mordor. Fire at will."

With a dreadful chorus of twangs orcish bows are freed of their projectiles, letting them soar in an arch toward the awaiting camp beyond.

[Frarin(#26827)] "No no," Frarin snorts quietly."Durin, I'm not daft." He glances back at Broddur with a wry grin, eyes flicking down as Broddur steps into a pool. Not that Frarin is much quieter, for his chain mail jingles softly as he moves and his boots make a dull thump against the ground. "No, I just want to check the roa--" Odd how a single, distinct noise, even when heard at a distance, can trigger a near instant reaction in the mind. And there is something immensely distinct about the sound of half a dozen bowstrings twanging in the humid air.

"Bo--" Frarin starts to say instinctively, suddenly looking at the night sky. "Bows! Wake up! Foes!" Frarin is falling to his knees even as he shouts for the other dwarves standing guard, instinctively lifting a hand above his head in preparation for the arrows that must soon fall.

[Broddur(#16974)] That slip of the foot nearly costs Broddur, as one of the black-fletched shafts flies past him close enough to nick the leather protecting his upper arm, before sinking quivering into the soft ground behind. The miner gives a guttural grunt, hefting his pick in both hands. "Cowards!" he calls angrily into the darkness. "Come out and show your filthy faces." Then he's following Frarin's example, ducking for the nearest bush and the meagre illusion of cover from arrow-fire it gives.

Within the camp, Frarin's cry is answered by sounds of movement as slumbering dwarves rouse to join their fellows already on guard. A bitten-off cry suggests that not all may have been as lucky as Broddur.

[Haldir(#25231)] 
An orc with a seemingly permanent leer yips in triumph and readies another bolt, crouching low beneath the leaves of his bush-cover. "They fat legs?" he asks the nearest fellow bush-orc, as his claws release the black-fletched shaft.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
The panicked dwarves are not even spared the time to recover from the first volley, before a second flurry of black darts streak through the air, aiming for those unfortunate enough to be signaled out by Orc-eyes. Unlike the raid on Iach Celduin, there is no fire to tip the arrows--rather a more malevolent plan has been set, revealed quickly to be that of poison-covered arrow heads as the black shafts fall amongst the camp. "Indeed they be ample and juicy!" replies one Orc to his curious companion.

A fresh noise is borne upon the night breeze then, and the voice of Broddur makes Bagaglok hiss once again. "Coward you say?" he calls out roughly, tone harboring annoyance and mixed with a cold edge of mockery. "Then what shall we make of you, who so boldly divesfor cover?" The Shaman turns to the other uruks, and a snarl heralds the new command, "Blades now, for those who have them. Bowmen remain beside the forest. Go, now! Strike them and slash them! Cut them down and take all the legs you desire!"

With vicious howls of glee the majority of the goblins burst from the undergrowth, heading straight for the dwarven camp scimitars are no longer withheld, and the light of the stars overhead glints off their cruel surface. The order given, Bagaglok drops the substitution of a sergeant, and shifts now amid the mass of charging forms to prowl for the time being. Yellow eyes flash here and there as the Shaman searches for a target of his own.

[Haldir(#25231)] 
"LEGS!" screeches the leery orc ecstatically, scrambling from his bush in a flurry of twigs and thorns and bruised leaves. He pauses for a moment to wipe a thin line of drool, then hastily exchanges bow for chipped scimitar. In he goes.

[Frarin(#26827)] "Hah, at last!" Frarin growls under his breath with a tone of grim satisfaction. "Coming back to celebrate their victory once more. I think not this time!" All of this is muttered more or less for Broddur's benefit, even as more arrows thunk into the ground about the dwarves. "Come on then!" This last is shouted as Frarin pushes up from the ground again and begins running towards the road, apparently intent upon aiding Bori in defending it.

The silversmith jingles as he runs and as he turns his eyes towards the wood, black shapes begin to materialise in the pale light of the crescent moon. "Aha, come at last," he mutters. The anticipation after months of waiting for a fight is evidence in Frarin's voice and face. "Khazad ai-menu! Come, you cowards!"

[Broddur(#16974)] The bush behind which Broddur was sheltering quivers, but there is no cry, nothing to indicate that the second shaft has found flesh. When Frarin's barked order comes, the Dwarven miner rises to his feet, seemingly looking for a target of his own, though his movements are slow and he blinks several times, raising his left arm to wipe at his eyes.

Then comes the leering orc's screech, and he need look no longer. "Legs is what you won't have when I'm done with you, filth," he growls, turning his stolid steps that way. The pick is raised high, ready to cleave a goblin skull or whichever other body part first presents itself.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
The Orcs are not picky in their choices, and they certainly waste no time in plowing head first over the gap separating them from their prey. Swiftly they reach the camp's outer fringes, threatening to trample guard or sentry who would block their way. "We come, we come!" some of the uruks chant in answer to Frarin's challenge. "Little dwarves run! For Mordor comes!" The gruesome beasts swarm around the encampment, and a few attempt to pick their way inside. If any dwarves still sleep, then they are wont to find themselves flung into a horrid nightmare when they awaken.

As the spikes of steel slice toward their foes, the hunched silhouette of the Shaman continues its skulking way through the chaos of flying arms and claws. Finally the malicious gaze seems to come to a deicision, and Bagaglok leaps forward suddenly. Nothing more than a snarl does he give, as his scimitar is raised to point at the figure of Frarin some steps ahead. "Then turn and face me, if you are not a coward" the Orc says, almost calmly awaiting the gazat to listen to his demand. The weapon is not yet swung.

[Haldir(#25231)] 
"I want legs!" the bush orc spits at the pick-swinging miner, narrowly dodging the blow, which knocks his plate-like helmet askew. "But," he grins maniacally at the miner Broddur, hoping to gain an advantage from the effects of the arrow, "I'll settle fer guts, too." He thrusts his scimitar forward, uncaring for any solid defenses the dwarf may possess -- for minds ruled by stomachs do not consider such things.

[Frarin(#26827)] And awake they do. The small camp of dwarves is in full action by now, the shouts of their comrades having roused most of them, though some still grapple to locate weapons and helmets. One lies already with a poisoned shaft protruding from his lower leg. Others have managed to form a loose line as the orcs crash upon them and the skirmish begins.

Frarin's eyes may be a poor match to an orc's in the darkness, but the hunched figure and snarl of Bagaglok quite suddenly at close quarters is obvious even for the silversmith. "I shall," Frarin returns through clenched teeth, blinking rapidly in the murky light at his new-found opponent. "Go back to your wretched forest and your black masters, fools," he growls, then lunges forward, the mallet of his hammer swinging towards the Shaman's macabre helmet.

Frarin attacks you with his War Hammer!...
...and he misses!

[Broddur(#16974)] Broddur grunts in satisfaction as his blow strikes home - but he staggers, too, stumbling awkwardly aside. As the scimitar comes lunging toward him it is all he can do to dodge it, and it catches him a glancing blow at the midriff. It is the metal of his belt, rather than any skill on his part, that turns it. The Dwarf growls angrily then, shaking his head, he hacks wildly with the pick at the leering goblin's scimitar-arm. "Got plenty enough guts to finish you off, scum," he growls, his features contorting in a grimace that seems more than anger. Are the effects of the poison being felt?

[Thári(#31038)]
Back among the dwarves, a light flares, sudden bright in the darkness and growing lighter.

Thari can be seen beneath the lifted torch.

[+LIGHT:#31038] Thari lights torch.

[Haldir(#25231)] 
Snap! The formerly leering orc -- we shall call him Leglez for now -- eyes his mangled arm in fright, and drops the scimitar. Finding no words for a retort, he drops low to the ground and attempts to scuttle away from the pick-swinging adversary.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
A hasty duck of Bagaglok's head sees that the blow of the hammer misses its mark. The creature twists sideways then, red robes slithering after him as he goes. "Ha!" he cackles, shooting a sneer toward the dwarf as he glances him over as if seeking a weak spot. "Only the masters themselves can command me. What do I care of the threats your ilk can devise?" The dark blade surfaces again, ere it is lashed outward like a serpent's tongue.

You attack Frarin with your Scimitar...
Your attack against Frarin moderately wounds him!

[Broddur(#16974)] "Hah!" exclaims Broddur, loudly, managing to keep his ground this time, although he's swaying slightly. "Legs next, then we'll see about those guts." He lifts the pick high, as though readying it for another swing, then stops to shake his head again.

But the swing, when it comes, does not bite orc-flesh. Rather the pick slices a large chunk from a nearby scrub, while its owner blinks dazedly. It seems that Broddur is having difficulty telling friend from foe and foe from bush. A wordless growl escapes his lips for the deception - but by this time, what remains of the leering goblin is long gone.

[Thári(#31038)]
Thari, the smaller dwarf to the rear, is lit all around by the fire, an island of light, inviting arrows. The healer crouches and shoves the torch into a pile of bracken and sticks. The light blooms around her, reveals other short shapes, turns darkness to long lines of shadows and reds and oranges.

Thari's axe is pulled forth and quietly the shorter dwarf begins to move toward Frarin and Bagalok.

[Frarin(#26827)] The Shaman's blade slices deep into Frarin's uplifted left elbow, right to the bone it was would, if the blade's abrupt halt is any sign. Frarin gives a muffled cry and falls back a step, shifting his hammer in his hands so as to carry less weight on his weakened left arm. "Because -my- ilk devise threats that we carry through, orc," he growls, recovering himself. The blue hammer is raised once more and Frarin swings the mallet this time towards Bagaglok's left hip.

Frarin attacks you with his War Hammer!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

[Haldir(#25231)] 
The leer wiped clean off his nasty face by an unhappy expression of pain, Leglez ventures from the shrubbery (as it is no longer safe, it seems) to chance a dive at his dropped scimitar.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
A howl of pain would indicate that this time the gazat's hammer strikes true, and Bagaglok stumbles for a moment as the hard thing connects. One black claw flicking down to clutch at the bruised leg, he fights to stay upright. Still, it seems the Orc is not completely deterred, and he growls then, "Then, I will reassure you, maggot, that we /do/ indeed carry out our threats." The blade is brought out at an angle, searching for Frarin's side.

In the distance, the other goblins conitune their vicious assault.

You attack Frarin with your Scimitar...
Frarin dodges your attack.

[Broddur(#16974)] Broddur turns, perhaps catching Leglez' motion out of the corner of his eye, but then has to grab at the hacked away shrub for support. "Damn clouds," he mutters, and then, "Can't think straight." Plenty of time for the goblin to snatch up the dropped scimitar. He aims a swing toward a shadow crawling across the ground, backlit by the distant flicker of flames from the Dwarven camp, but the motion is slow and would be easily evaded.

[Frarin(#26827)] Back Frarin skips a step and the wicked curved blade slices within an inch of his side, adding another rip to his already well-patched surcoat but failing to find flesh. "Is that so? I have yet to see it then!" the silversmith taunts, though indeed he has seen it. The deep slice at his elbow has already blotted the fabric of his tunic a dark red and the wound has for now ruled out any quick movements of the heavy war hammer the dwarf wields. Instead he twists it in his hands to point the cruel spiked end forward. With a renewed cry, Frarin swings the hammer around, driving the spike towards Bagaglok's left knee.

Frarin attacks you with his War Hammer!...
...and you block his attack with your shield!

[Thári(#31038)]
Thari, a dwarf, does not engage. The healer moves to one side of Frarin and Bagalok, axe at the ready, but does not move in, despite the red blood blotting Frarin's arm. Thari's eyes are wary.

[Haldir(#25231)] 
With a yelp does Leglez dodge the sluggishly-swung pick, scampering deeper into the battle from the miner Broddur. The orc glances about with wide yellow eyes, quite upset with the situation -- but dinner is an important cause, one worth dying for.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
With an awkward scuttle-like dance Bagaglok paces a fews steps backward: a comical sight for certain if the situation wasn't so serious. The tarnished shield is raised to block the renewed attack of the war hammer, and the Orc's left arm recoils in the power of the impact. A hiss escapes his dark lips, but he does not offer a retort to his foe. For a moment, the Shaman's eyes dart to the side as he notices the healer's presence for the first time. But the dwarf attacking warrants the most attention, and he flicks the spike of the blade forward toward Frarin's mallet-wielding arm.

From the gloom of the nearby treeline, more black arrows fly forth, striking both dwarf and any of the goblins who happen to be in the way.

You attack Frarin with your Scimitar...
Frarin dodges your attack.

[Imladech(#30819)]
Among the battling Dwarves a human stands out somewhat. Even if there are other men on the field, this one is taller. Imladech carries himself with a grace confident in battle, but something causes uncertainty in his eyes as he enters each combat. He is dressed in sombre cloths, a war hammer in one hand, a shield buckled to the other arm. His war hammer is bloodied already and he is not unscathed himself, but the human seems to have had luck on his side thus far.

Imladech's grey eyes rove the battlefield, taking in the skirmish and searching for a new opponent.

[Broddur(#16974)] Broddur, for his part, continues to lay about him with the pick, pausing betweentimes to rub at his eyes and take short, shallow breaths. It is pure luck that his unsteady weaving path takes him back in the direction of the Dwarven camp. By the time he's reached it, another orcish scimitar has marked him, opening up a wide gash along one arm, and his helm is dented. He no longer taunts the enemy but instead mumbles, incoherently. Such are the effects of one single caress from a black-feathered arrow.

[Frarin(#26827)] Again Frarin skips back a step to avoid the slice of Bagaglok's scimitar, though this time his eyes flick for a fraction of a second to the side. Broddur is spotted. Wobbling Broddur, grabbing for shrubbery to steady himself. "Broddur!" the silversmith yells, briefly alarmed at the miner's uncharacterstic behaviour. Yet, like the Shaman before him, those in the peripheral fall an easy second behind those wielding blades direct before one. And Broddur has stumbled away from the fray before too long in any case. Frarin is distracted for only a moment, for then he rushes at Bagaglok again, growling as the hammer's spike swings out once more, driving this time for Bagaglok's stomach.

Frarin attacks you with his War Hammer!...
...and he misses!

[Thári(#31038)]
THUNK! There's a meaty sound near Frarin and Bagaglok. A black arrow is has pierced Thari's forearm, the tip sprouting on the other side.

Thari's face goes blank. The axe is dropped. The healer stands quite still for a moment, eyes glazed over.

Thári puts down a Axe.

[Haldir(#25231)] 
Leglez throws himself flat as the whine of arrows sounds overhead, then races towards the edge of the fray on dirty elbows. Waiting there seems to be something armored and tasty and ... tall?

The orc peers at Imladech cautiously, tempted by the thought of longer legs. A little line of drool escapes from lips dry with fear.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
Distractions stand high in the midst of such a confusing battle, not helped at all by the fact that the poisoned arrows rain down at random intervals. The loud /thunk/ close at hand makes the uruk's gaze shift for a fraction of a second to see one of those darts hit Thari.

But the eyes are quickly reverted toward the more pressing matter of his opponent, and he is able to hop away from the swing of the hammer. An unpleasant sneer is given. "See, if you stand still, fool, then perhaps the same shall befall you then you'd be safe from the bite of my blade!" He steps forward, lashing his own weapon toward the dwarf's left leg.

You attack Frarin with your Scimitar...
Your attack against Frarin mildly wounds him!

[Imladech(#30819)]
Imladech catches the gaze of Leglez, holding the orc's black eyes with his own. There is a moment where he does not move, but regards the orc carefully. Then, as the arrow sinks into Thari's shoulder, the human stranger glides into action.

Stepping past the falling dwarf, Imladech brings his war hammer down in a wide reaching arc, gathering momentum as it swings towards Leglez.

[Frarin(#26827)] The ssthunk that strikes Thari draws a far greater portion of Frarin's attention this time as he catches the movement of the healer's arm as it jerks back with the force of the arrow. He turns to look at Thari fully, eyes widening briefly. Only that same sense of the peripheral saves Frarin from losing a leg, for he steps back again instinctively when the Shaman's blade sweeps low. It slices into Frarin's leg just beneath the kneecap, though by no means as deeply as the wood to his elbow moments before.

"And yet your masters seem to consign you to the same fate!" Frarin growls suddenly, tearing his attention away from Thari with a noticeably new edge to his manner, a renewed bloodlust. "Let me help them!" He barrels forward, the spike of his hammer swinging at Bagaglok's thigh.

Frarin attacks you with his War Hammer!...
...and he hits! Ouch!

[Thári(#31038)]
Thari looks at Frarin, then away. The healer drops down to grip the axe with her shield-hand, her right dangling senseless. She makes her way toward the camp bonfire, passing Imladech.

[Haldir(#25231)] 
The leg-obsessed orc attempts to put up a brave display, assuming a wide stance and hissing at the Man. But at the last moment his nerve gives way, and he recoils off to the side. The hammer smashes one of his shins, and he yells in pain, lashing out with the scimitar.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
"The price of victory is death and bloodshed, though I should not need to remind you of that," says Bagaglok, frowning and at the same instant showing a mouth of sharp teeth. "Sacrifice is not new for servants of the Great One, and His most loyal subjects would as soon as skewer themselves on His orders. Their deaths are not in vain for through them they are able to further their Lord's designs--"

The apparent shamanic lecture is cut off, however, as Frarin's hit strikes true once more, the new pain adding to the one already delt to that same leg. A string of curses uttered in a foul tongue flow in response as Bagaglok topples to the ground. He attempts to stand, though he trips in the process. Instead, he contents himself to attack from the lower position, and the scimitar is brought arcing through the night like a gleam of lightening--purposing to smite the dwarf's feet.

You attack Frarin with your Scimitar...
Your attack against Frarin mildly wounds him!

 [Imladech(#30819)]
"Stay out of the battle!" Imladech calls to Thari as the dwarf retreats. Then he turns his attention to the fight before him. As Leglez' wild scimitar strikes out he lowers his shield to block, deflecting the blow away. The human then strikes out again, his hammer carving a tigher arc now as he aims for the hapless uruk's remaining shin.

[Frarin(#26827)] Smite it does, though the thick leather of a sturdy dwarven boot saves Frarin the loss of his toes this time, rather than his leg. "Oh sacrifice you shall," Frarin says as he grunts, a thin rivulet of red soaking into the ground beneath his torn boot. And with Bagaglok upon the ground, Frarin it seems takes his own opportunity to trade words instead of blows for a moment. "And skewer and death and all the rest. The dwarves shall hunt your ilk in the forest as we once did in the mountains and your black towers will crumble to dust. Tell me what you think of your masters then!" The blue war hammer is raised once more, though this time Frarin holds it only in his right hand. He has begun to clutch his soddon left elbow to his stomach to stem the flow of blood. The mallet of the hammer swings down towards Bagaglok's chest.

Frarin attacks you with his War Hammer!...
...and he misses!

[Haldir(#25231)] 
But Leglez is intent on preserving at least part of his mobility, and with two limbs already made into bloody messes, the orc rolls away from the heavy blow. Mumbling under his breath to maintain concentration, he scissors out at Imladech's ankles.

[Thári(#31038)]
Thari nods as Imladech shouts, head bobbling. The healer is nearly to the camp now, firelight bright all around her. A glance over the shoulder. "Frarin!" Thari shouts, voice deep and loud. "Frarin!"

[Imladech(#30819)]
Imladech stumbles as his hammer strikes the earth, taking half a second to regain his stance. He is too slow to avoid the scimitar strike, earning a gash in his leg. With a grunt the human hefts his hammer from the ground, pursuing the injured orc before him. The hammer raises high again and falls towards Leglez's chest as though it were an anvil.

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
The call of the human twitches the Shaman's ears, and he catches view of the speaker. For a passing instant, a strange look crosses his twisted features, but then we forces his head to peer upward at the enemy looming over him. Just in time, it would appear, for with a roll and flurry of scarlet garb he escapes from the hammer's spike. "Liesss," Bagaglok growls upward, yellow eyes narrowing angrily. "Lies and delusions! Hope and ale have clouded the ken of your filth, I take it then? The Eye's power is far greater than you dare admit...frightened to speak the truth? For in the end, the Shadow will claim all, and burn all those who opposed Him!"

The rough hands are flashed out, and with a tedious and agonizing heave, the Orc rights himself at last. Standing again on his clawed feet, Bagaglok raises his blade to strike. But the blow never falls, for something appears to make him pause. Framed behind the tents beyond the form of Frarin, the sight of the battle's tide reaches the uruk. Many of the orcs lie slain here and there, and the dwarves seem to yet hold strong.

You forego your chance to attack.

[Haldir(#25231)] 
And the war-hammer crashes down with a sound like a falling star, for it punches through the flimsy plates Leglez wears and through it to the ground. The orc twitches briefly, a hiss escaping through gore-covered lips: "Many legs there are. Fat dwarf-legs, then mens-legs, and elf-legs sweetest of them all. These legs for the Eye ..." Trembling claws reach for Imladech's shins.

And are still.

[Frarin(#26827)] "See it done if you are so sure, orc!" Frarin mocks, despite having to pull his embedded spike from the ground after Bagaglok's escape. The dwarf briefly waves his injured arm about him. "You do not seem so fortunate now, nor shall you be ever. I am Frarin Forlisson and we are nothing to what awaits you still. Only doom for you and your Shadow. Be gone!" Despite the toll exacted by the treacherous poisoned barbs from above, the dwarves do seem to have recovered themselves enough to regain the advantage of the fight.

Frarin does not renew his attack on Bagaglok as he continues to hug his bleeding elbow to his stomach, but he holds his hammer aloft as other dwarves surge forward to drive their attackers back.

[Imladech(#30819)] 
Imladech kneels, drawing near to the closing eyes of Leglez, 'What do you see?' He hisses sharply, his usually dead gaze sharpening in strength and light till his grey eyes flash. Then he shakes his head and rises, catching the puzzled expression on Bagaglok's face.

With a sudden speed he closes the gap between himself and the shaman, passing Frarin as the dwarf ceases his attack. He pushes right up to the uruk, whispering in his ear, "......"

Then, with fury writ on his face, Imladech thrusts Bagaglok back with a yell, 'Fly, filth, there is no victory for you here!'

[Bagaglok(#24847)]
"It is not my place to see it done, maggot," answers the Shaman, though the tone of his voice is noticably less certain. "Why would I want to spare you of such a wonderful end, by His hands? It is a fate exceedingly worthy for your kind..." Still, he refrains from attacking, holding the scimitar aloft as if in doubt. The gaze turns to regard the scene as a whole, and the discovery that some of the Mordor-band are already beginning to take a frantic flight do not improve things. A muffled hiss issues from between Bagaglok's clenched fangs--a chilling noise like that of a trapped snake longing to lunge.

Then, he twists his weapon to the side abruptly as Imladech fills the gap between himself and Frarin but the scimitar is just as swiftly lowered again as the man whispers his message. The Shaman's expression remains blank during the short exchange, and naught can be discerned of what has passed by those who look on. A growl though, the goblin yields as the human pushes him roughly away, but the point of the exclamation is taken. Bagaglok whirls around to leave: the cause is forsaken. The surviving Orcs do not need to be told twice, for they already thunder off in retreat toward the distant water's edge...splashes can be heard as the creatures make for the east river-bank, and they soon melt back into darkness. Even with the beasts gone, a foreboding air seems to lie on the scene in their wake. There is a chance that this is not the final meeting between the two forces...