Elendor
Throwing stones
A memento is sent across the Poros, and the Scouts of Ithilien learn the fate of Amrundirn - or do they?
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Crossing of Poros
Game Date: July 3047
IC Time: Midday
Description: [+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Mid Morning on Highday, Day 13 of July.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 09:46:27 MDT on Mon Jul 27 2009.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
It has been days of cat and mouse, the Scouts crawling on their bellies about the banks of the Poros or just north thereof, trying to keep an eye on what the Southrons are up to--since the Southron patrols seem so active. No, on a hot day in the middle of July, they are back again. This time they are not so close to the river as to be trapped without a way out should the Southrons cross the ford and wander the northern banks. Instead, the Scouts are hidden in the tall grasses on the ridge of a small hill that overlooks the river--a vantage point from which they could stand and fire arrows if need be. For now, though, they watch. Ceredir kneels in the reeds, peering down below toward the ford.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Daerthor finds himself once again in a crouched position, with his bow and arrows at hand. Such is the life of a scout. He hides behind a bush, watching the river below, his eyes squinting in the sun, and rigidly holding himself, lest he knock a rock free with a fidget.
[Aearion(#17937)]
Aearion scratches the welts on his arm from last night's insect feast. His movements are slow, as befittng someone in ambush. He isn't far from Daerthor, being posted just to the left of the young man. He is low, on his knees in the grass, concealed quite nicely.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"Seems quiet today," Ceredir notes after some time. "If we can spot some terrain that will let us move closer but give us cover, we can try moving closer to the ford."
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Casting his eyes around, Daerthor frowns. "Sir, do you think that it seems a little... too quiet?" His question comes in a quiet whisper.
Ceredir's assessment is correct the area round the fords has seen rather less of tribal activity in the past couple of days. Perhaps the new influx of men to Umbar's garrison maintained to the south of the crossing has something to do with that. Tribesmen and city-dwellers do not always mix willingly.
Thus it is that a small contingent of Umbar's soldiers keep watch on the Crossings from the south on this sweltering day, their own 'shelter' being the weathered, scrub-dotted dunes that give fair protection from enemy eyes but little from the sun. These are men on foot and not desert horsemen, and most are clad in leather and armed with scimitars. Some hands hold bows others are currently empty.
Amongst these southrons is one man broad and strong of shoulder, his head swathed in a dirtied keffiyeh that both keeps the sun at bay and hides his features from view, for a fold is drawn up across his mouth to keep out the gritty sand. He holds no bow, but as he watches the sluggish water below, his right hand fingers a piece of looped cord and leather.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"Could be," Ceredir mutters to Daerthor without taking his eyes off the ford. "I think...do you see movement out there?" He points toward the dunes south of the ford, his own mask giving some protection from the glare of the blinding sun.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Daerthor rolls his shoulders, working out the tension in his muscles, and squints into the distance. Ceredir's finger points him in a direction directly facing the sun, and he flinches momentarily. Cursing inwardly, he watches the stillness - and there it is. A slight shadow of movement, jerking and abrupt. "Yes, I think so, sir," he says. "Southrons stationed to ambush us should we try to get too near, it seems. Do we continue this stalemate?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"We could...though it's rather pointless." Ceredir squints into the distance, frowning. "We could fire off a few arrows, make them run in the heat, perhaps. Though they might just come running after us."
With both sides motionless, there is little to be seen by the watching men of Umbar. One of them, peering northward, starts to nock an arrow and then stops, sighing, as a single wader rises from the reeds. The man in the dirtied keffiyeh turns his head the merest fraction and makes a short, abrupt motion with his hand, below the level of vision from across the Poros. 'No'.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Daerthor sighs as he contemplates the options available to the group of Scouts. Just then, more movement in the distance captures his attention. He sees the tiny figure of a man rising, and then the movement ceases again... what has happened? Frowning, he turns his head towards Ceredir, and inclines it towards the dunes, a whisper on his lips. "Sir...?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"I see," Ceredir nods, and though he is already half standing and starting to draw his bow, he quickly kneels back down between the reeds. "Not sure howlong their horses will hold out in this heat if they give chase, but I'm not sure I want to try."
The motion is seen from across the muddy water. The southron who had moved before presses flat against the desert sand, but still his hand begins to draw the bowstring back ... slowly, carefully.
And again comes the hand gesture from his companion, this time accompanied by a shake of the head that might well be seen by one watching for movement atop the dunes. The broad-shouldered man stuffs something into the pouch of leather and cord he has been fingering in his other hand, then rises to his feet, alas all-too-visible for a moment despite the thornbush he is relying on as a screen, and with a single swift movement a stone is cast from the sling. It lands in the mud across the Poros, and lies there .. hmm. Odd. The little missile (if such it is) appears to be wrapped in a piece of black cloth.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Daerthor's eyes widen at the scene unfolding in front of him. He ducks instinctively at the stone is flung, but at the dull thud of the landing, he lifts himself up again, puzzled as he stares. Meanwhile, he takes an arrow and puts it to his string, gesturing to the exposed Southron below. "Sir, to attack? Or to wait to see what the strange stone is for?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"I am going to see what that stone is about," Ceredir says. "Give me some cover--shoot if you must, but only with you must." With that, he advances in a low crouch toward the stone.
That momentary hesitation is all the sling-user needs with a grunt he throws himself down into the bush's cover, not caring that he has raised a little cloud of dust. His position is already betrayed.
The would-be archer, though, sees Ceredir's crouching motion. Without the other man to hold him back he grins wickedly, then eases up to a half-crouch so that his curved southron bow looses a feathered shaft toward the Gondorian.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Seeing the release of the arrow towards his superior, Daerthor reacts, and not a second after, an arrow from his own bow is loosed in the direction of the Southron. He quickly nocks another arrow, prepared to shoot again should any more provocation appear. In the corner of his mind, he keeps track of the firs Southron, the one who disappeared into the bush.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Alerted by Daerthor loosing his arrow, Ceredir looks up and manages to hit the dirt just in time, the Southron arrow narrowly missing him. He crawls forward, flat on the ground, until he reaches the odd rock, then grasps it.
Daerthor's arrow must have found its mark, for the archer who had loosed the first arrow does not send a second. As he drops toward the dunes again, he grits his teeth and clutches half-blindly at the shaft sticking from his upper arm.
The other Southron though, the one behind the bush - he barks a couple of words of Haradaic that are presumably an order. No more arrows are loosed for the now.
When Ceredir lifts the rock he will find that it is wrapped in a scrap of black cloth - unrolled, this would be recognized as the face-mask worn by a Ranger of Ithilien. Within its folds are pinned a little brass cloak-pin. Someone's personal possessions?
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Curious rock clutched in his hand, Ceredir backs up toward the main group of Scouts until he is once again in the cover of grasses. It is there that he unwraps the rock, going a little paler under his own mask as he sees where it is. "This...is our answer, I suppose."
[Ceredir(#1394)]
That last is said to Daerthor as he offers the rock and its wrapping and contents toward Daerthor.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Hesitantly, Daerthor takes the proffered items, and lets his eyes fall upon them, fear and curiosity both equally evident in his eyes... which widen as the implication of the items hits him. "Amrundirn?" he whispers, his voice trailing off in the wind. He places the contents on the grass and turns towards the Haradrim now, furious.
In the heat of his anger, his bow is drawn up again. And in a flash, an arrow is headed to the spot marked in his mind - the bush where he last saw the other Southron.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"The very one," Ceredir confirms the Scout's suspicions. He tone changes from grief to harsh in a flash,t hough, as Daerthor stands and fires. "Sit down!" he barks at the man, too late reaching a hand up to stop him from firing an arrow. "Do you mean to have their entire company upon our small band, you idiot?!"
The Southrons watch from their side of the river. Daerthor' shaft flies up, across the muddy waters, to tear through the screening thornbush. There is muffled curse, suggesting that it has either found a target or was too close for comfort. Then a pause, followed by another barked word with the ring of a command to it. A single Southron arrow is loosed, its target the very edge of those concealing grasses.
A warning, perhaps.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Flattening himself as the arrow flies towards them, Daerthor lets his head fall onto the ground in frustration at himself. The thud of the arrow in the grass patch relaxes him for a moment, and he raises his head again. "Sorry, sir," he says belatedly. "I was foolish. Should we retreat, then?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"Don't do it again," Ceredir spits. "And yes, retreat for now. This is useless," he mutters to himself as he beings the pullback.
Mid Morning on Highday, Day 13 of July.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.
Real time is: 09:46:27 MDT on Mon Jul 27 2009.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
It has been days of cat and mouse, the Scouts crawling on their bellies about the banks of the Poros or just north thereof, trying to keep an eye on what the Southrons are up to--since the Southron patrols seem so active. No, on a hot day in the middle of July, they are back again. This time they are not so close to the river as to be trapped without a way out should the Southrons cross the ford and wander the northern banks. Instead, the Scouts are hidden in the tall grasses on the ridge of a small hill that overlooks the river--a vantage point from which they could stand and fire arrows if need be. For now, though, they watch. Ceredir kneels in the reeds, peering down below toward the ford.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Daerthor finds himself once again in a crouched position, with his bow and arrows at hand. Such is the life of a scout. He hides behind a bush, watching the river below, his eyes squinting in the sun, and rigidly holding himself, lest he knock a rock free with a fidget.
[Aearion(#17937)]
Aearion scratches the welts on his arm from last night's insect feast. His movements are slow, as befittng someone in ambush. He isn't far from Daerthor, being posted just to the left of the young man. He is low, on his knees in the grass, concealed quite nicely.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"Seems quiet today," Ceredir notes after some time. "If we can spot some terrain that will let us move closer but give us cover, we can try moving closer to the ford."
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Casting his eyes around, Daerthor frowns. "Sir, do you think that it seems a little... too quiet?" His question comes in a quiet whisper.
Ceredir's assessment is correct the area round the fords has seen rather less of tribal activity in the past couple of days. Perhaps the new influx of men to Umbar's garrison maintained to the south of the crossing has something to do with that. Tribesmen and city-dwellers do not always mix willingly.
Thus it is that a small contingent of Umbar's soldiers keep watch on the Crossings from the south on this sweltering day, their own 'shelter' being the weathered, scrub-dotted dunes that give fair protection from enemy eyes but little from the sun. These are men on foot and not desert horsemen, and most are clad in leather and armed with scimitars. Some hands hold bows others are currently empty.
Amongst these southrons is one man broad and strong of shoulder, his head swathed in a dirtied keffiyeh that both keeps the sun at bay and hides his features from view, for a fold is drawn up across his mouth to keep out the gritty sand. He holds no bow, but as he watches the sluggish water below, his right hand fingers a piece of looped cord and leather.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"Could be," Ceredir mutters to Daerthor without taking his eyes off the ford. "I think...do you see movement out there?" He points toward the dunes south of the ford, his own mask giving some protection from the glare of the blinding sun.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Daerthor rolls his shoulders, working out the tension in his muscles, and squints into the distance. Ceredir's finger points him in a direction directly facing the sun, and he flinches momentarily. Cursing inwardly, he watches the stillness - and there it is. A slight shadow of movement, jerking and abrupt. "Yes, I think so, sir," he says. "Southrons stationed to ambush us should we try to get too near, it seems. Do we continue this stalemate?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"We could...though it's rather pointless." Ceredir squints into the distance, frowning. "We could fire off a few arrows, make them run in the heat, perhaps. Though they might just come running after us."
With both sides motionless, there is little to be seen by the watching men of Umbar. One of them, peering northward, starts to nock an arrow and then stops, sighing, as a single wader rises from the reeds. The man in the dirtied keffiyeh turns his head the merest fraction and makes a short, abrupt motion with his hand, below the level of vision from across the Poros. 'No'.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Daerthor sighs as he contemplates the options available to the group of Scouts. Just then, more movement in the distance captures his attention. He sees the tiny figure of a man rising, and then the movement ceases again... what has happened? Frowning, he turns his head towards Ceredir, and inclines it towards the dunes, a whisper on his lips. "Sir...?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"I see," Ceredir nods, and though he is already half standing and starting to draw his bow, he quickly kneels back down between the reeds. "Not sure howlong their horses will hold out in this heat if they give chase, but I'm not sure I want to try."
The motion is seen from across the muddy water. The southron who had moved before presses flat against the desert sand, but still his hand begins to draw the bowstring back ... slowly, carefully.
And again comes the hand gesture from his companion, this time accompanied by a shake of the head that might well be seen by one watching for movement atop the dunes. The broad-shouldered man stuffs something into the pouch of leather and cord he has been fingering in his other hand, then rises to his feet, alas all-too-visible for a moment despite the thornbush he is relying on as a screen, and with a single swift movement a stone is cast from the sling. It lands in the mud across the Poros, and lies there .. hmm. Odd. The little missile (if such it is) appears to be wrapped in a piece of black cloth.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Daerthor's eyes widen at the scene unfolding in front of him. He ducks instinctively at the stone is flung, but at the dull thud of the landing, he lifts himself up again, puzzled as he stares. Meanwhile, he takes an arrow and puts it to his string, gesturing to the exposed Southron below. "Sir, to attack? Or to wait to see what the strange stone is for?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"I am going to see what that stone is about," Ceredir says. "Give me some cover--shoot if you must, but only with you must." With that, he advances in a low crouch toward the stone.
That momentary hesitation is all the sling-user needs with a grunt he throws himself down into the bush's cover, not caring that he has raised a little cloud of dust. His position is already betrayed.
The would-be archer, though, sees Ceredir's crouching motion. Without the other man to hold him back he grins wickedly, then eases up to a half-crouch so that his curved southron bow looses a feathered shaft toward the Gondorian.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Seeing the release of the arrow towards his superior, Daerthor reacts, and not a second after, an arrow from his own bow is loosed in the direction of the Southron. He quickly nocks another arrow, prepared to shoot again should any more provocation appear. In the corner of his mind, he keeps track of the firs Southron, the one who disappeared into the bush.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Alerted by Daerthor loosing his arrow, Ceredir looks up and manages to hit the dirt just in time, the Southron arrow narrowly missing him. He crawls forward, flat on the ground, until he reaches the odd rock, then grasps it.
Daerthor's arrow must have found its mark, for the archer who had loosed the first arrow does not send a second. As he drops toward the dunes again, he grits his teeth and clutches half-blindly at the shaft sticking from his upper arm.
The other Southron though, the one behind the bush - he barks a couple of words of Haradaic that are presumably an order. No more arrows are loosed for the now.
When Ceredir lifts the rock he will find that it is wrapped in a scrap of black cloth - unrolled, this would be recognized as the face-mask worn by a Ranger of Ithilien. Within its folds are pinned a little brass cloak-pin. Someone's personal possessions?
[Ceredir(#1394)]
Curious rock clutched in his hand, Ceredir backs up toward the main group of Scouts until he is once again in the cover of grasses. It is there that he unwraps the rock, going a little paler under his own mask as he sees where it is. "This...is our answer, I suppose."
[Ceredir(#1394)]
That last is said to Daerthor as he offers the rock and its wrapping and contents toward Daerthor.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Hesitantly, Daerthor takes the proffered items, and lets his eyes fall upon them, fear and curiosity both equally evident in his eyes... which widen as the implication of the items hits him. "Amrundirn?" he whispers, his voice trailing off in the wind. He places the contents on the grass and turns towards the Haradrim now, furious.
In the heat of his anger, his bow is drawn up again. And in a flash, an arrow is headed to the spot marked in his mind - the bush where he last saw the other Southron.
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"The very one," Ceredir confirms the Scout's suspicions. He tone changes from grief to harsh in a flash,t hough, as Daerthor stands and fires. "Sit down!" he barks at the man, too late reaching a hand up to stop him from firing an arrow. "Do you mean to have their entire company upon our small band, you idiot?!"
The Southrons watch from their side of the river. Daerthor' shaft flies up, across the muddy waters, to tear through the screening thornbush. There is muffled curse, suggesting that it has either found a target or was too close for comfort. Then a pause, followed by another barked word with the ring of a command to it. A single Southron arrow is loosed, its target the very edge of those concealing grasses.
A warning, perhaps.
[Daerthor(#31594)]
Flattening himself as the arrow flies towards them, Daerthor lets his head fall onto the ground in frustration at himself. The thud of the arrow in the grass patch relaxes him for a moment, and he raises his head again. "Sorry, sir," he says belatedly. "I was foolish. Should we retreat, then?"
[Ceredir(#1394)]
"Don't do it again," Ceredir spits. "And yes, retreat for now. This is useless," he mutters to himself as he beings the pullback.
Players: Ceredir, Daerthor, Aearion, Barjad
