Elendor
The Pretender Chronicles: Information Passed
Barjad of Umbar tries and fails to capture Ceredir of Gondor, but the Master Scout manages to pass on some information to the Southron nonetheless
Sort Date: no date set
Location: South Ithilien
Game Date: November 10 3046
IC Time: Night
Description: [Barjad(#29188)] Night has settled once more on the dim forests of Ithilien, darkening that already shadowed land. Somewhere above the interlocking boughs the moon perhaps passes above here, though, all is black, and for the most part quiet. The Southron camp cannot conceal its presence - with that many men, the cries of beasts and the faint tang of smoke from a cookfire carry on the air. So they watch: guards patrol at its perimeter, while little groups of scouts range far beyond that perimeter.
One such group, no more than three in number, is led by the corsair Barjad. Worn leather armour protects his broad frame, and a helm his head, but a dark cloth is still wound round his nose and mouth despite it, concealing his features as ever. The man does /try/ to move silently, but the creak of leather and the occasional crack of a twig betray the fact that he is unused to - or else long out of practice at - scouting.
The Southrons may be out of practice scouting, but the men of Faramir's company are not. They move through the forest silently, eyes and ears ever-present and watching the harvesting of the wood. Yet they are too few in number to put up a good resistance--the best they can do is hit and run ambushes, and so far they have only managed one of those.
But on this night, this small company of scouts is spread out among the trees, bows strung as they wait for the enemy to fall into their trap. Among them is Ceredir, masked, hooded, bow strung and ready. At the creak of leather, he puts arrow to string and waits, trying to better mark his target in teh trees.
[Barjad(#29188)] That target seems to have paused, for the moment, something about the ground garnering his interest, for Barjad's head is bent downward. A hesitation, then a jerk of his head to his companions and the trio move forward again, eyes ever watchful for sign of movement amongst those concealing cedar trunks.
Silence - or near-silence, save for the sussurus of breathing ... but then a drift of dry leaves rustles under Barjad's next footfall, and the heavy-set man freezes. Oh, the sound /could/ be just an animal, but it would have to be a rather heavy animal ...
The woods are thick and dark, but this is their homeland and territory, and the Scouts have placed themselves cunningly. Two hidden among trees to the north, and these two now loose a series of arrows in the direction of the rustling leaves. Ceredir and 4 others are hidden to the east they stay completely still.
[Barjad(#29188)] It is dark, and in that darkness it is not immediately clear whether those arrows have found their mark. An eerie silence reigns for a moment - surely an animal would cry out? - and then an answering arrow arcs from the trees somewhere further to the west. Then another, from a slightly different position - the single archer is on the move, making it hard for an enemy to judge whether he be one or several.
And near that drift of leaves, Barjad's features are contorted in a grimace of pain, no doubt due to the long-shafted arrow that has pierced the leather protecting his upper arm. That concealing scarf also serves as a convenient thing to bite on, and he manages to make no sound. Carefully as he may, he edges back behind a tree, his other hand now at his belt.
More arrows flit through the air, now from Ceredir and his group on the east, as they loose. But many--from both sides--thump uselessly into tree trunks. If the arrows of the Southrons find their mark, the Scouts give no sign, though the arrows from the nort have ceased.
A bird calls in the night an answering call is returned.
A crunch of leaves underfoot betrays movement to the east, but then a hare scampers by, heading right past Barjad in the dark.
[Barjad(#29188)] The trio of Southrons have split up now. Barjad behind his tree, the archer ducking and weaving further westward (it would appear that swiftness or fortune have protected him from harm this far), and the third, the hindmost, has waited no command to begin retreating - gone to warn the camp, no doubt.
The birdcalls are heard, and their positions marked, judging by the direction in which the archer's next arrow is loosed. Barjad's eyes narrow at the sound, but it is the crunch of leaves to the east that is answered - not with an arrow, but with a stone, as the man's right arm, the undamaged one, arcs back and up and looses a carefully rounded missile from that odd contraption of leather and cord he always carries, a stone-hurler in minature. He does not wait to see whether he has bagged a fine hare for tomorrow's dinner already he is moving to the next tree under cover of the darkness, his feet surer now that they follow a way already trod.
"Oof."
The stone has found its mark, by the sound of that grunt, quickly bitten off in the darkness. But the stone also gives a hint to the location of Barjad, and four arrows now fly through the air--two from behind (to the north) and two from the east. Footsteps can be heard running through teh forest toward the south, as if men pursue the one going to warn the main camp. One of the men is shooting arrows as he does so.
Back by Barjad, one of the arrows that flies toward him flies crookedly, as if unbalanced by something.
[Barjad(#29188)] The archer's arrows come more seldom now - perhaps he, too has succumbed to the rangers' keen aim, or perhaps he merely wishes to conserve his shafts.
Barjad continues his own retreat, fortunate that his motion has taken him out of the arrow's path. Or almost - the crooked-set arrow lodges at the base of his leather jerkin and reflexively he snatches at it.
There is something wrapped around the arrow shaft and tied with a thin leather thong, only as Barjad grabs at it, part of it crumbles, as if it is overly dried parchment or a leaf.
And as the Southron grabs at the arrow in his leather jerkin, a shrill bird calls, nearby, too--perhaps even too close for comfort. It's Ceredir, but the Master Scout is sounding retreat to the rest of the company and backing off quickly into the darkness of the trees. He's too close to use his bow quickly enough--he has slung it on his back and as he backs up--grey eyes staring at Barjad, his hand goes to his belt to unsheath his dagger and hold it defensively.
[Barjad(#29188)] (repose)The 'something' held in Barjad's fingers is jerked loose and thrust into his jerkin, that action losing him precious time, for by the time his hand is free again Ceredir sounds that birdlike signal and the enemy's closeness is all too apparent. The corsair's fingers close round the battered hilt of his scimitar, and abruptly he yanks the protesting blade free, hissing as the motion jars his other arm.
"Too close!! Too many!" Ceredir hisses under his breath, glancing behind him for a half a second, so that he slows his own escape inadvertently. He slashes through the air with that dagger, trying to perhaps keep Barjad away and from doing too much damage, but it is more defensive than anything else.
"Read it! Tell her!"
[Barjad(#29188)] "Paleskin filth!" The insult is growled at Ceredir as the point of the dagger snags in the studded leather protecting Barjad's arm, causing minor irritation rather than any real injury. And, lower-voiced. "Not enough. You will come." He jerks his arm back then swings the scimitar down in a graceless, hacking motion toward his opponent's shoulder - whether by clumsiness or intent, the blade is turned slightly so that any wound inflicted is unlikely to be deep.
"No.." Ceredir hisses under his breath as he does the only thing that he can to get out of the way of that hacking strike--he moves in close to Barjad, hand grasping for the man's collar or scarf to pull him close enough so that the Master Scout's breath can be felt on the Southron's face. Along with that comes his dagger, which he tries to put at the man's throat. "They will wonder why you do not kill me. No!" It's hissed through clenched teeth.
[Barjad(#29188)] The scarf covering the lower part of Barjad's face rips free, and as its wearer jerks back, Ceredir may well get a glimpse of that ugly scar in the slight lifting of the blackness that presages dawn's approach. A grunt follows, as Ceredir's dagger pricks at his throat the corsair's own backward motion causes the blade to slice away a few strands of greyish beard. "Maybe I'm trying." His own speech is more growl than hiss, as he swings the blade again, for all the world like a woodcutter plying his trade, aiming for Ceredir's weapon-arm. This time, it is not turned.
The full force of the blow is absorbed by the leather that Ceredir wears so that the blade is stopped short of skin and bone. Still, the impact is enough to nearly jar the dagger out of Ceredir's hand--he hangs onto it, but barely so, and instead reacts by trying to smash his left fist into Barjad's face and thus gain a moment to put distance between them. "Fiend!" he hisses. "I am sworn to Lord Alphros! Traitor!"
In the forest, bird calls sound back and forth. The other scouts have gone for cover at Ceredir's original command to retreat, but the calls clearly indicate they search for their leader.
[Barjad(#29188)] Ceredir's fist makes contact with Barjad's jaw - he'll likely have a nice bruise there by the morrow. It does not, however, stop the man from speaking. "No." The single word is half-mumbled, and he shakes his head as though to clear it. "That is you."
Then the bird-calls sound, and there is no more time for speech. "If you serve Alphros then come. Else run. The choice is yours." The scimitar swings wildly now, as a man might swing a scythe to clear brambles.
That last seems to especially anger the Master Scout, for he slashes out for real with his dagger toward Barjad. "I am no traitor! I am sworn to Alphros, not traitor to Gondor!" he hisses, all his anger in his words and attack. "Get the note to Lord Alphros or you are traitors yourselves. He will understand it." And with that he turns and tries to run into the cover of the woods.
[Barjad(#29188)] Ceredir's finesse with his weapon is as clear as Barjad's inexpertise, as the slender blade slices a long gash down the outside of the corsair's weapon-arm, parting leather and drawing a thin line of red beneath. Torn lips part in an animal snarl but the dawn is coming, and with it clear sight for the multitude of unknown archers that may yet concealed beneath the tree-boles. "Run, then, Stonelander," the man grunts as he prepares for his own retreat. But first the scimitar stabs out spear-like to urge the Gondorian on his way.
"Take the message back to Lord Alphros," Ceredir hisses as he dashes into into the trees, the Southron's blade missing his retreating back by a hair's breadth. Safely out of range and blocked by several trees, He pauses and turns, sneering a grin. "And take this to the Lady Eruphel. It belongs to her." With that he pulls a thin stiletto from his belt and throws it toward Barjad, quite clearly trying to actually injure the man, not just toss him the knife.
[Barjad(#29188)] Barjad is backing away, his own motion necessarily slower, when Eruphel's blade is cast in his direction. The thin stiletto lodges in his shoulder above the arm that was already arrow-struck, and the man lets out a short bitten-off gasp before his torn lips press tightly together to suppress any further sound. He continues his retreat, amber eyes watching the trees warily, but when some time has passed and no further missiles are forthcoming, he turns and breaks into an awkward, zig-zag run. Eventually he stops and pulls the blade free, leaving a blood-offering on Ithilien's sandy soil. As he stumbles the last few yards back to the perimeter, his swarthy features are decidely grey. Who is the paleskin now?
One such group, no more than three in number, is led by the corsair Barjad. Worn leather armour protects his broad frame, and a helm his head, but a dark cloth is still wound round his nose and mouth despite it, concealing his features as ever. The man does /try/ to move silently, but the creak of leather and the occasional crack of a twig betray the fact that he is unused to - or else long out of practice at - scouting.
The Southrons may be out of practice scouting, but the men of Faramir's company are not. They move through the forest silently, eyes and ears ever-present and watching the harvesting of the wood. Yet they are too few in number to put up a good resistance--the best they can do is hit and run ambushes, and so far they have only managed one of those.
But on this night, this small company of scouts is spread out among the trees, bows strung as they wait for the enemy to fall into their trap. Among them is Ceredir, masked, hooded, bow strung and ready. At the creak of leather, he puts arrow to string and waits, trying to better mark his target in teh trees.
[Barjad(#29188)] That target seems to have paused, for the moment, something about the ground garnering his interest, for Barjad's head is bent downward. A hesitation, then a jerk of his head to his companions and the trio move forward again, eyes ever watchful for sign of movement amongst those concealing cedar trunks.
Silence - or near-silence, save for the sussurus of breathing ... but then a drift of dry leaves rustles under Barjad's next footfall, and the heavy-set man freezes. Oh, the sound /could/ be just an animal, but it would have to be a rather heavy animal ...
The woods are thick and dark, but this is their homeland and territory, and the Scouts have placed themselves cunningly. Two hidden among trees to the north, and these two now loose a series of arrows in the direction of the rustling leaves. Ceredir and 4 others are hidden to the east they stay completely still.
[Barjad(#29188)] It is dark, and in that darkness it is not immediately clear whether those arrows have found their mark. An eerie silence reigns for a moment - surely an animal would cry out? - and then an answering arrow arcs from the trees somewhere further to the west. Then another, from a slightly different position - the single archer is on the move, making it hard for an enemy to judge whether he be one or several.
And near that drift of leaves, Barjad's features are contorted in a grimace of pain, no doubt due to the long-shafted arrow that has pierced the leather protecting his upper arm. That concealing scarf also serves as a convenient thing to bite on, and he manages to make no sound. Carefully as he may, he edges back behind a tree, his other hand now at his belt.
More arrows flit through the air, now from Ceredir and his group on the east, as they loose. But many--from both sides--thump uselessly into tree trunks. If the arrows of the Southrons find their mark, the Scouts give no sign, though the arrows from the nort have ceased.
A bird calls in the night an answering call is returned.
A crunch of leaves underfoot betrays movement to the east, but then a hare scampers by, heading right past Barjad in the dark.
[Barjad(#29188)] The trio of Southrons have split up now. Barjad behind his tree, the archer ducking and weaving further westward (it would appear that swiftness or fortune have protected him from harm this far), and the third, the hindmost, has waited no command to begin retreating - gone to warn the camp, no doubt.
The birdcalls are heard, and their positions marked, judging by the direction in which the archer's next arrow is loosed. Barjad's eyes narrow at the sound, but it is the crunch of leaves to the east that is answered - not with an arrow, but with a stone, as the man's right arm, the undamaged one, arcs back and up and looses a carefully rounded missile from that odd contraption of leather and cord he always carries, a stone-hurler in minature. He does not wait to see whether he has bagged a fine hare for tomorrow's dinner already he is moving to the next tree under cover of the darkness, his feet surer now that they follow a way already trod.
"Oof."
The stone has found its mark, by the sound of that grunt, quickly bitten off in the darkness. But the stone also gives a hint to the location of Barjad, and four arrows now fly through the air--two from behind (to the north) and two from the east. Footsteps can be heard running through teh forest toward the south, as if men pursue the one going to warn the main camp. One of the men is shooting arrows as he does so.
Back by Barjad, one of the arrows that flies toward him flies crookedly, as if unbalanced by something.
[Barjad(#29188)] The archer's arrows come more seldom now - perhaps he, too has succumbed to the rangers' keen aim, or perhaps he merely wishes to conserve his shafts.
Barjad continues his own retreat, fortunate that his motion has taken him out of the arrow's path. Or almost - the crooked-set arrow lodges at the base of his leather jerkin and reflexively he snatches at it.
There is something wrapped around the arrow shaft and tied with a thin leather thong, only as Barjad grabs at it, part of it crumbles, as if it is overly dried parchment or a leaf.
And as the Southron grabs at the arrow in his leather jerkin, a shrill bird calls, nearby, too--perhaps even too close for comfort. It's Ceredir, but the Master Scout is sounding retreat to the rest of the company and backing off quickly into the darkness of the trees. He's too close to use his bow quickly enough--he has slung it on his back and as he backs up--grey eyes staring at Barjad, his hand goes to his belt to unsheath his dagger and hold it defensively.
[Barjad(#29188)] (repose)The 'something' held in Barjad's fingers is jerked loose and thrust into his jerkin, that action losing him precious time, for by the time his hand is free again Ceredir sounds that birdlike signal and the enemy's closeness is all too apparent. The corsair's fingers close round the battered hilt of his scimitar, and abruptly he yanks the protesting blade free, hissing as the motion jars his other arm.
"Too close!! Too many!" Ceredir hisses under his breath, glancing behind him for a half a second, so that he slows his own escape inadvertently. He slashes through the air with that dagger, trying to perhaps keep Barjad away and from doing too much damage, but it is more defensive than anything else.
"Read it! Tell her!"
[Barjad(#29188)] "Paleskin filth!" The insult is growled at Ceredir as the point of the dagger snags in the studded leather protecting Barjad's arm, causing minor irritation rather than any real injury. And, lower-voiced. "Not enough. You will come." He jerks his arm back then swings the scimitar down in a graceless, hacking motion toward his opponent's shoulder - whether by clumsiness or intent, the blade is turned slightly so that any wound inflicted is unlikely to be deep.
"No.." Ceredir hisses under his breath as he does the only thing that he can to get out of the way of that hacking strike--he moves in close to Barjad, hand grasping for the man's collar or scarf to pull him close enough so that the Master Scout's breath can be felt on the Southron's face. Along with that comes his dagger, which he tries to put at the man's throat. "They will wonder why you do not kill me. No!" It's hissed through clenched teeth.
[Barjad(#29188)] The scarf covering the lower part of Barjad's face rips free, and as its wearer jerks back, Ceredir may well get a glimpse of that ugly scar in the slight lifting of the blackness that presages dawn's approach. A grunt follows, as Ceredir's dagger pricks at his throat the corsair's own backward motion causes the blade to slice away a few strands of greyish beard. "Maybe I'm trying." His own speech is more growl than hiss, as he swings the blade again, for all the world like a woodcutter plying his trade, aiming for Ceredir's weapon-arm. This time, it is not turned.
The full force of the blow is absorbed by the leather that Ceredir wears so that the blade is stopped short of skin and bone. Still, the impact is enough to nearly jar the dagger out of Ceredir's hand--he hangs onto it, but barely so, and instead reacts by trying to smash his left fist into Barjad's face and thus gain a moment to put distance between them. "Fiend!" he hisses. "I am sworn to Lord Alphros! Traitor!"
In the forest, bird calls sound back and forth. The other scouts have gone for cover at Ceredir's original command to retreat, but the calls clearly indicate they search for their leader.
[Barjad(#29188)] Ceredir's fist makes contact with Barjad's jaw - he'll likely have a nice bruise there by the morrow. It does not, however, stop the man from speaking. "No." The single word is half-mumbled, and he shakes his head as though to clear it. "That is you."
Then the bird-calls sound, and there is no more time for speech. "If you serve Alphros then come. Else run. The choice is yours." The scimitar swings wildly now, as a man might swing a scythe to clear brambles.
That last seems to especially anger the Master Scout, for he slashes out for real with his dagger toward Barjad. "I am no traitor! I am sworn to Alphros, not traitor to Gondor!" he hisses, all his anger in his words and attack. "Get the note to Lord Alphros or you are traitors yourselves. He will understand it." And with that he turns and tries to run into the cover of the woods.
[Barjad(#29188)] Ceredir's finesse with his weapon is as clear as Barjad's inexpertise, as the slender blade slices a long gash down the outside of the corsair's weapon-arm, parting leather and drawing a thin line of red beneath. Torn lips part in an animal snarl but the dawn is coming, and with it clear sight for the multitude of unknown archers that may yet concealed beneath the tree-boles. "Run, then, Stonelander," the man grunts as he prepares for his own retreat. But first the scimitar stabs out spear-like to urge the Gondorian on his way.
"Take the message back to Lord Alphros," Ceredir hisses as he dashes into into the trees, the Southron's blade missing his retreating back by a hair's breadth. Safely out of range and blocked by several trees, He pauses and turns, sneering a grin. "And take this to the Lady Eruphel. It belongs to her." With that he pulls a thin stiletto from his belt and throws it toward Barjad, quite clearly trying to actually injure the man, not just toss him the knife.
[Barjad(#29188)] Barjad is backing away, his own motion necessarily slower, when Eruphel's blade is cast in his direction. The thin stiletto lodges in his shoulder above the arm that was already arrow-struck, and the man lets out a short bitten-off gasp before his torn lips press tightly together to suppress any further sound. He continues his retreat, amber eyes watching the trees warily, but when some time has passed and no further missiles are forthcoming, he turns and breaks into an awkward, zig-zag run. Eventually he stops and pulls the blade free, leaving a blood-offering on Ithilien's sandy soil. As he stumbles the last few yards back to the perimeter, his swarthy features are decidely grey. Who is the paleskin now?
Players: Barjad,Ceredir
