Ithilien: Fire! Foes!

Players: Amrundirn (Fin), Ceredir (Co)

On a hill, south of the crossroads of Ithilien...

Amrundirn

There wind moans as it flies across these plains, raw and chill in spite of the dwindling daylight -- which ought, in any other place, have left some lingering warmth, even in this season -- the branches of that lonesome broken shell of a tree on that hill over there, fingers clawing at the sky like talons of some great beast, creaking as they turn to and fro with the gusts. The grass grows knee-high where the soil is not laid bare, cracked and dry and sickly little straws they are, grey and bent, scarcely living growing things they seem. Over yonder, to the east, the great black mountains seem near.

Too near.

And there, then, lain in wait upon the northen side of that hill, a figure may be spied amongst the gnarled lifeless roots should one happen to look from above. His attire blends well with the sparse vegetation grey and brown and black covered all but for his brow and sharp grey eyes. The latter are now poised on an southern watch barely raised above the crest of the hill.

What then, lies yonder?

Ceredir

What indeed is on the southern horizon?

In the dim light that serves for day and night here, shapes can be seen moving about, but vaguely so. There is activity, for certain, and there is smoke curling into the sky, but whether from campfires or the ever-present foul smoke of Mordor itself, it is not possible to say from a distance.

And then, at the crest of the southern horizon, the figure of a orc appears, helmed and with a sword in hand. Large he might seem, and his yellow eyes narrow to slits as he surveys the land. Several times his gaze sweeps across where the hidden figure lies, a frown coming to his face, yet he makes no move north.

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Amrundirn

Thither in the distance, some hundred yards to the west, a woodpecker\'s call rises. A mating cry, one should think, shrill and lively -- and it is the season for it, with spring nearly at the door.

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But......There is not a tree in sight for leagues.

The still figure remains, the grasses swaying back and forth all \'round, still but for his glance that roams the lands freely. No smoke without fires, \'tis said, and yet... On those eyes wander -- snapping to the hulking figure of the orc as he comes into view.

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Ceredir

\"Birds,\" the huge orc snorts to himself. Then...\"Birds?\" He squints, peering into the grasses. \"Cralb!! Snorger!\" He waves an armoured hand behind him. \"Come here and tell me what you see! Birds? Tarks, I say, but if tarks they be, then well hidden,\" he snarls.

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At his command, two smaller orcs appear on th eridge where he stands. They cower and crouch, staring toward the grasses.

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Amrundirn

Indeed, birdsong in so sinster a place is cause for suspicion where only a silent dread grips the heart of man and beast with each step closer to the east -- from which the lament of the winds seems no respite a bitter, eerie thing indeed.

A green hand, hid \'neath the covering grasses and windswept hill\'s head, is lowered to grasp a white-fletched arrow the sort feared by tresspassers in these lands, for few are those that pass \'neath the rains of such darts and live to tell of it -- and, it is said, rain comes sudden and unexpected in Ithilien. The shaft is withdrawn from it\'s vessel, and that same hand then settles on what would appear to be a bent staff that lies there beside the watchman.

A precautionary measure, as it would appear, for there is no movement to nock and draw nor does he -- Amrundirn -- reveal himself to the trio over yonder.

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All the while, his head remains unmoving.

Ceredir

\"Tark-loving turds..there\'s movement out there I think!\" One of the smaller orcs now says, spitting on the ground. \"Or my name\'s not Cralb.\"

\"Movement? You dog!\" Snorger sneers. \"It\'s the grasses in the wind. Yer just out to make yerself look good! Blind is what you are!\" Snarling, Snorger takes a step forward to shove Cralb, but this is prevented by the intercession of the large orc.

\"You!\" He shoves a finger at Cralb. \"Get me bow and arrow. And you!\" This to Snorger, \"Find me a rag soaked in oil and a coal from the fire! Now!\" He roars and peers off into the grasslands, foul-tempered.

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Amrundirn

One of two eyebrow curves above the countenance thus veiled \'hind a sheet of black cloth furrows on the brow all about save for the scarred skin above the nose-ridge in between, that remains uncreased. The watcher bides his time.

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And then the orcs shuffle beyond sight some moments pass. And the move is made.

With a faint rustle in the grasses, and a scraping against the dry roots, the Ranger -- for that is what he must be -- rises to his knees. Tall bow held oblique like so, the string is drawn back to his ear, the arrow\'s glimmering point aimed some distance above the large orc, and held for a breath. Two breaths.

Loosed.

Ceredir

Dog that he is, Cralb trots right back to the crest of the hill, dark bow in hand. Snorger is close behind, black rags in one hand, and a bucket that smokes in another. These thigns are set beside the large orc when a cry piereces the lands.

\"Aieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeergh!\" It is Cralb, hopping about and desperately pulling at the Ranger\'s arrow, which sticks in his thigh. \"Tarks! Tarks! Tarks!\" he screeches.

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There is an answering roar from the large orc, who grabs at the bow Cralb still holds and kicks him ot the ground. \"Archers!!!! Fire arrows! Burn them out!\"

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The commanding orc grabs a shield from a hapless orc who heeds his command and appears on the hillside, holding the shielld over his head. And then the hillside is suddenly filling with orcs with black bows, and there is clearer movement on that side of the hill as orcs scramble for bows, arrows, oil rags and fire.

Amrundirn

A frown, by the furrows on his brow.

Another arrow is pulled from the quiver, nocked, and sent flying with, as it ould seem, little care for the aim -- it is more or less the same, but hastily fone as haste can be reckoned with a sturdy yew bow as tall as a man. \'tis no rain, however, a stray drop from a sky that, while it ever brews storm, bears neither wrath nor thunder as yet this day.

Amrundirn Ranger lowers himself then, half sliding, half treading fleetfooted down the hillside before the orcs unleash their hailstorm of fire and death a thin and shortlived mist of dust rising in his wake, \'ere it is dispersed by the wind -- clear to see, should any look for it and should his movements remain unseen.

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To the west then, barely overheard in the clamor of orcs, there rises again that birdcall -- the note is the same, but different. Swifter.

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Ceredir

And arrows are loosed into the sky, black against the grey. At first a rain of plain arrows, and then, after a few moments, the first fire arrows are sent toward the grasslands.

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\"Down! down the cliffs!\" The cry goes up among the orcs as the arrows are shot, the grasslands starting to smolder. \"Be ready to scourge the grasslands when the fires clear it of their foul hiding places!\"

Amrundirn

The arrows fall not silently down that slope whereas the whirl of one may go nnotcied, the sound of many cleaving the air thus is clear borne whither the wind wills. The landings, however, are deathly silent.

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Fire! Fire!

Smoke rises here and there about the northern ridge and beyond. A pair of searing shafts strike the roots of that tree over there, and another the trunk, and another is stuck amidst the dry branches, and a few sail beyond -- and the flames climb quickly. Thus a beacon is made and the smoke on the air grows more dense.

A shout then rises from down below, muffled and miscarried by wind and obstacle but clear enough all the same -- \"GONDOR! GONDOR!!\"

\"GON--...\"

And there is then but the moans of the wind.

Ceredir

On their side of the clifftop, the orc archers stretch their bowstrings, dancing with dark glee as they release more arrows, some of fire, most not. It is not until the large orc roars a command of \"Bows down!!\" that they stop, though the cackles and hoots and shouts continue, even so.

\"Let the flames do their work and pick off with arrows any that you see

moving!\" the orc commander bids them, his own eyes searching the landscape.

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Other orcs have gone about the long way to descend the cliffs, but this will take a while before it can be affected, as it requires a long march. Black smoke curls up into the sky, and the grasses, dying for water as it is here, crackle and hiss, the fire spreading steadily west.

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Amrundirn

And yet, as the rain of arrows subsides, the fires do not. Some twinkle and die out, landed upon patches of dry cracked soil where naught grows, and others consume the grasses with great speed, expanding this way and that uniting with their ilk. A wall of flame, broken in many places but fueled by the wind, soon creeps slowly northward.

As for the hunters, the orc-kind, who come thither in its ashen wake far underneath the flaming brand of the tree, they cry out in angered dismay. \"Follow the flames, maggots and mongrels!\" Their leader utters with a voice not unlike a rockslide grinding and overloud, the seared cloth -- as though a cloak, or some such -- that hangs from his cleaver, pierced by an arrow, is thrown aside. \"He cannot be far! Find him!\"

\"Where did he go?\" Another answers in turn, to which the leader retorts: \"Follow the flames!\"

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And where to indeed has the Ranger fled? He is vanished, as were he a ghost.

End.

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