Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post - Veryadan

Veryadan lay on the cot in his sparsely furnished room in the Guard’s Quarters. His cape was thrown over the straight-backed chair at his small desk, mocking him with its memories of the times he had hidden beneath its folds to escape the notice of the enemy. He sighed, turning to his side, his head now elevated on his right hand. One of his larger maps was pinned to the wall, and he traced with his gaze the route he had once taken from Calenhad over the Ered Nimrais to Ethring. There had been reports of increasing numbers of Orcs in the mountainous regions, and he had gone to investigate . . . and eliminate, as he could. Now that had been an interesting foray . . .

He caught himself . . . You are starting to sound like some of the old warriors! Drifting off into dreams of the olden, ‘better’, days! He laughed out loud, startling a sparrow who had come to rest on his window ledge, in hopes of a few crumbs.

‘I beg your pardon, Master Sparrow!’ he said grinning and shaking his head at the discomfited bird. The olden days were only a few short years past, he reminded himself, and I have not reached my dotage yet!’ The bird, appeased by the offer of a small wedge of seedcake, resumed his perch on the window ledge with one wary eye on the now up and pacing Man.

He had been chafing under the duties and expectations of life at court. True, Aragorn . . . No! King Elessar, he reminded himself for the thousandth time . . . had requested the presence of the company of Men who had fought with him, but now there were no foes to fight save the few mice he had seen scurrying to hide behind the arras in the great dining hall or the occasional flying bug that found its way through the open window in his room. And no dark plans to disentangle and avert save for those of his two darling sisters, whose sole purpose it seemed of late was to thrust ‘eligible’ females in his path, at every turn. He had been firm with them, saying he enjoyed their company and the company of their children, and indeed he was all a child could ask for as an uncle. But, that was as far as his desires in that area had gone. In time, perhaps, he thought to himself, when I have had my fill of wandering . . .

^*^

Later that day, seated at his desk, at work on the legend for his newest map, that of the lands just west of the Eastern Sea, in particular Dorwinion, he was annoyed at the discrete knock at his door that broke his concentration and thought to send the offender away with a curt dismissal. A few words heard dimly through the thin door and the sound of a familiar laughed stayed him.

With a grin, he threw open door, and thrust out his ink-stained hand to clasp the arm of the man who stood there, craning his neck beyond him for the source of the familiar laughter . . .

[piosenniel]

Nuranar’s post

Two Elves stood in the narrow corridor. “Why – how – how dare you!” the young female protested to her laughing companion. “Tarondo, you – I never—”

“There you are, Veryadan!” Tarondo interrupted his sister, catching sight of him as the door opened. “We were just discussing the last time we had seen you. Wasn’t it when Luinien fell off her horse into the creek?” the Elf continued, a rascally twinkle in his eye
.
Grinning, Veryadan stepped forward. “Was that how it was? I seem to remember seeing quite a splash…”

“Oh – you two suit each other!” Luinien turned and stormed dramatically down the corridor, her sky-blue gown trailing grandly. At the corner she stopped. “Come along, children,” she teased, a smile breaking through. “We mustn’t keep the King waiting!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“It pleases me to hear you are settled in Ithilien, at least for a time,” Veryadan said as they strode up the street. “But why does the King want to see us?”

“Because he wants to, that’s why,” answered Tarondo. “As for why—ow!” he broke off, stubbing his toe on an uneven step.

“Serves you right,” Luinien said unsympathetically, then turned to the still-perplexed Ranger. “Surely you have heard stories of the violence up north, along the Great East Road past Bree. Rumors of travelers who are never heard from again, entire flocks and herds vanishing, even several outlying farmsteads destroyed.”

“I have heard,” Veryadan nodded. “The merchants are growing apprehensive about traveling anywhere near there, even as far west as Lake Evendim.”

“I fear that some threat has re-arisen in the absence of the Rangers,” Tarondo resumed, frowning. “It may even threaten the settlement at the Angle. We think the King will send us north to discover what is truly happening.”

“So what do you think we will find?” the Elf-maid questioned pertly, after a short silence. “A dragon or two, perhaps? I think we’re about due for another one to show up.”

Tarondo narrowed his eyes at her flippancy. “Petty bandits, more likely, or some others of the Enemy’s servants, out for themselves. Perhaps even orcs,” he concluded heavily.

“Now that would be fun,” Veryadan said, a new note of interest in his voice. Tarondo looked at him curiously, but no one spoke again until they reached the White Tower.

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post – The King’s request

Elessar was busy with his Minister of Trade when they arrived at the hall. A serving man ushered them into a small, sparsely appointed waiting room and after a while yet another brought in a tray with a small ewer of chilled wine and three cups. Veryadan poured them each a drink, then paced about the room. ‘It’s been twenty years since the War ended,’ he said, fingering the thin and somewhat frayed about the edge tapestry that hung on one wall – some scene of old, one of the stewards, he thought. ‘Twenty years,’ he continued, ‘and this place still looks like the spare quarters we kept as Rangers.’ He nodded at the plain, uncushioned wood chairs. ‘And look at those! You’d think that . . .’

‘I like to keep my visitors just a little on the uncomfortable side.’

Veryadan and the Elves turned from their perusal of the room to see the familiar figure leaning casually against the door frame, watching them. His grey eyes glinted with amusement that they had been caught critiquing the appointments of the room.

Elessar motioned for them to follow him to his private office on the second floor and bade them enter. The door was shut securely behind them by the guard behind them. And once they were comfortable in their chairs he sat on the edge of his desk looking at each of them. ‘I’ve had an increasing number of unsettling reports come in over the past few months,’ he began, ‘of an escalation of attacks on livestock and travelers in Eriador. At first they seemed random – the last dregs of whatever ruffians escaped our notice. But now they seem to happen with a greater frequency and on a greater scale. And sightings of strange creatures, fell creatures, are being reported. I’m especially concerned because most of out troops of Rangers have been withdrawn from that region since it showed signs of settling in peacefully into the Kingdom. There are few left there to stand between any remnants of shadow that might remain.’ He paused for a moment, considering his next words. ‘I also fear that eventually, with Rivendell’s folk for the most part gone West, whoever is behind this malicious actions may take it into his head to overrun the Rangers’ hidden fastness in the Angle. There are still a number of families there – but not enough men to protect them should a concerted attack come.’

‘What would you have us do?’ asked Veryadan, leaning forward, his brow furrowed at what the King had said.

‘I want you three to travel north to Breeland to find out what is happening around the area of Weathertop. Take what action you can against the ones who are the troublemakers, taking care to keep yourselves and what companions you might bring with you as safe as possible. I’d rather have you back here with a report for me, than for you to go haring off after some wicked foe who will easily overpower you.’ Elessar picked up a rolled vellum writ and handed it to Tarondor. It was a writ directing them to be allowed to search out where they wished for the source of the problem and to enlist those whom they needed to assist them.

‘And when would you wish us to start for Amon Sul?’ asked Luinien.

‘Today . . . if I could make that happen. But since that will not be possible, just see my Minister of the Treasury this afternoon for funds. I’ve already spoken with him, and he should have them ready by midafternoon at the latest. And the quartermaster for the City guards will also await your visit – he’s put together supplies for you at my request. Tomorrow, at dawn, breakfast will await you in the Guards’ quarters, and then you should be on your way.’ The guard at the door rapped lightly and opening it announced that there was someone to see the King on some pressing matter.

Elessar stood and bid the three farewell, dismissing them with his hope that their mission would prove fruitful. They bowed and took their leave of him saying they would see it through as he wished . . .

[piosenniel]

Nuranar’s post

Traffic along the road from Minas Tirith through Rohan had increased greatly in the twenty years since the king’s return. The three riders, traveling quickly but not with haste, passed numerous people on foot, farmers with wagons, and men driving flocks and herds to market. Periodically they came upon small merchant caravans of heavy wains, and once a patrol of Riders swept around them.

After several days, the travelers stopped in a small village for fresh supplies, thinking to save their waybread and dried meat for the less-settled lands beyond the Gap. Tarondo found himself delegated to procure bread – “As fresh as possible, and make sure it’s wrapped up well!” – while Veryadan and Luinien went to the market for fruits and early vegetables.

He wandered aimlessly about the square for several minutes, oblivious to the stares of villagers not yet accustomed to the sight of an Elf. Finally, by dint of following his nose, he discovered a small bakery in a street just off the square.

“Good day to you, sir!” he greeted the baker, shrouded in a large apron and liberally sprinkled with flour. He had been a large man, though now stooped with age, but out of his wrinkled face gazed clear grey eyes. “May I buy half a dozen loaves? And my sister would like them to be ‘wrapped up well’ – whatever that may mean,” he confessed with a grin.

“Certainly, sir.” The old man moved swiftly, swathing the hot bread in clean cloths and packing them into the saddlebags Tarondo had brought. “Whither are you bound?” he asked, glancing keenly at his customer.

“Oh, for the northlands, far away from here,” Tarondo said carelessly. It was his habit not to give away too much information – just in case. Yet they still needed to find good men to join their mission. “I have come from Mundburg. My companions and I have been sent on an errand by the King Elessar.”

“Then I wish you a safe journey and success on your errand,” the baker said, handing him his bags. “And any friend of the King will always be welcome here!”

Tarondo thanked him warmly and left the shop. He was gazing into the market, searching for his sister and the Ranger, when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Sir, I heard what you said to Aldor. May I speak to you about it?”

[piosenniel]

Alaksoron's post

"I heard what you said to Aldor. Could I talk to you about it?"

The Elf turned on his heel smoothly. "Certainly" was his cautious reply.

"What manner of errand might you be running for King Elessar?" Tarondo opened his mouth, but the Rohirrim man cut him off. "No, don't bother answering. My name is Osric Falkur, and I was a soldier of Rohan. I am greatly indebted to your King, indeed with my very life, and would be more than happy to assist in your errand for the King, if my services could be of use." He spoke of King Elessar with a touch of reverence.

[piosenniel]

Nuranar’s post

Tarondo did not answer at once, evaluating what he saw. The man was carrying a bow, and a sword hung at his side. Both weapons showed much use. Osric’s voice was low but clear, and his eyes gazed back steadily at the Elf, with just a hint of challenge. He had made his offer and would not beg.

“The services of the Rohirrim will always be valued by the King,” Tarondo said at length. “Come, I will introduce you to my companions, and you shall tell us about yourself.”

They joined Veryadan and Luinien, who were surprised to see Tarondo with a companion but pleased to learn of his volunteering. After a brief council Osric Falkur’s assistance was accepted. After Osric gathered what he needed, the four rode on together.

All through the long, lonely lands past the Gap of Rohan Osric demonstrated himself to be a brave and skillful soldier. The details of their errand intrigued him, and he spent many hours discussing all the possibilities of what they would find, and how they would need to respond to all of them. Tarondo listened with interest (and maybe a hidden smile) but rarely participated, while Luinien was as eager to theorize as the man himself. She had not entirely given up hope of seeing a dragon.

In due course they crossed the Greyflood at Tharbad, where they intended to stay the night at The Trade Inn. This would be their first good chance of hearing recent news. As they dismounted and walked up the path to the inn, Veryadan was not without hope that some of the Rangers would be waiting for them.

[piosenniel]

rutslegolas’ post

Aidwain had traveled with his friend from Rivendell for days, after the war he had traveled a lot less so he wished to roam about the land where his forefathers so long lived. At last after wandering in the wilderness for so long they had come to Tharbad.

They stepped in a good inn called the Trade Inn to rest for the day.
“Hey, there you, can me and my friend have drink of cool water?" called Aidwain to the Barman.

“A drink of cool water my lords and lamb stew would go down good I suppose?" called out the Barman.

"Yes very well," said Aidwain. “I haven't had anything proper to eat since that Inn we stooped at, and that was 15 days ago," Aidwain said to his companion.
But she only nodded in apprehension and said," The number of orcs and trolls has certainly gone up since the end of war near the Angle hasn't it, Aidwain?"

The Barman had arrived with their food and drink, so Aidwain could not reply. But he did notice the arrival of a Ranger, two Elves, and a man from the Riddermark just down the dusty path towards the Inn, and he wondered what would such unusual companions would be up to in this land......

[piosenniel]

Esgallhugwen's post

Silrûth rode along on her silver white mare, content, beside her companion. It was days after they left Imladris on horse and now she could see that they neared their destination.

They came to the Trade Inn at Tharbad for a brief rest, she was sitting down when her male counterpart called to the barman, “Hey, there you, can me and my friend have a drink of cool water?"

"A drink of cool water and lamb stew for the lord and lady would go down good I suppose?" the barman called back, then scurried off to fetch the order. Her companion waved him on and turned to her saying, " I haven't had anything proper to eat since that Inn we stopped at, and that was 15 days ago".

Silrûth only shook her golden head, "The number of Orcs and Trolls has most certainly gone up since the end of the War near the Angle hasn't it Aidwain ?" the mere thought of those foul creatures made her body tense and she sneered in disgust. Aidwain was about to reply when the barman came bustling up with the food and drink, he closed his mouth and sat across from Silrûth.

At that moment he turned his head in curiosity and Silrûth followed his gaze. Out of the window they could both see four companions leading their horses up the path to the Inn, a Ranger, a man of Rohan and two Elves.

She took two spoonfuls of stew and a sip of water, waiting for the four to enter the Inn. She felt they would meet very soon.

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post

Arrival at the Trade Inn . . .

‘How the old place has changed,’ thought Veryadan as his eyes swept the little Inn which stood on the western bank of the Greyflood. In its prime it had been a welcome gateway for those wishing to travel quickly through the Shire, to pick up the Great East Road in the West Farthing, and from there west to the Emyn Beraid and the River Lune’s Grey Havens. Now the Shire had been closed to all outlanders by edict of the High King these many years, its Bounds fiercely guarded by the Shiriffs and their men. Only the traffic of men and the scarce Elven party bound for the north stopped now to refresh themselves.

The Inn had suffered, it seemed, from the shrinking commerce. The wood gone a little greyer; the railed front porch sunk under the weight of the many feet that had crossed into the welcome comfort of the common room; the wooden shingles gone quite mossy and some just gone. The image of an old man nearing his dotage crossed the Ranger’s mind as his horse trod down the ill-kept path. ‘We’ve both put on the years, old friend,’ he remarked to himself, his gloved hand coming up to tuck a bit of stray silver-streaked hair behind his ear. ‘Though of the two of us, I think I’ve fared the best.’

A familiar figure had come out onto the porch and was even now hailing them with a wave of his dish towel. There, hair gone greyer and girth wider, stood Haldon Rushy, mouth drawn up in a great grin, eyes sparkling even at this distance. ‘Tis a grand day, indeed! Four more patrons for the Missus to cook for and four more tongues to share the news of the road!’ He hurried as fast as his stout legs would carry him toward the approaching horses. ‘Here you!’ he called to his sons. ‘See to these good folks’ mounts!’ ‘And you!’ he exclaimed, taking the Ranger’s hand in his own ham-fisted grasp. ‘I’ve a small cask of the nut brown ale just finished off and ready for tapping.’

He peeked around Veryadan and nodded his head at the man and the two Elves who were just dismounting. ‘Now isn’t this a day for the Fair Folk,’ he whispered to the Ranger. ‘There’s two more what’s just come to my little establishment.’ he nodded toward the door with his chin. ‘There, in the common room . . . and isn’t my old gal happy to be feeding them!’ He tapped the side of his nose with his great stub of a finger. They’ve come all the way from Rivendell . . . I’ve yet to find out why, though . . .’

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

The company of six rides north . . .

The late night of talking with the two Elves from Rivendell had paled into the next day’s dawn. Silrûth and Aidwain were bringing news westward from Rivendell. The old fastness of the Rangers in the Angle had brought troublesome news to Imladris – something was stirring up the trolls in that area. Patrols had been increased there, and several of the brutish giants had been driven off by the Rangers, with one Troll killed who had chosen to try his strength against them. The two Elves spoke of traveling southwest down the River Mitheithel, the Hoarwell as it was known to men, arriving finally at the Greyflood’s ford where stood the Inn. What small patrols of Rangers they happened upon, they brought news of the Troll activity, urging them to be on the lookout for similar problems in the areas they patrolled. And from many they picked up news of assaults and ill happenings to the north. They would go north from the inn to speak with others of the Rangers and gather what information the could before returning to Imladris.

Veryadan’s face was grim as he heard the news they brought. ‘Travel with us, if you will,’ he had offered Silrûth and Aidwain. ‘We are also bound north, at the behest of the King. He has had some reports of the disquiet in that area, though I do not think he knows the extent to which this ripple of shadow has spread.’ Tarondo nodded at the invitation as Envinyatar continued. ‘Two extra sets of eyes and blades would be welcome. And you need not fear that we might slow you down. We will head up the Greenway to Bree at first light.’

*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*

At the sign of The Prancing Pony

And so it was the four companions found themselves now swelled to six with the addition of the party from Rivendell. Four days hard riding with only short, cold camp stops along the way brought them to Andrath, the narrow passageway between the Barrow-downs and the South Downs, through which the Greenway passed, heading north. A day and a half further and the six found themselves passing in through the West Gate, the welcoming archway and windows of the The Prancing Pony now well within their sights . . .

[piosenniel]

Meneltarmacil’s post

Thoronmir mounted his horse and resumed the journey toward Bree. It had been about a week since he and his companion had left Evendim to meet the emissaries from King Elessar, and he hoped that they would be able to help with the problems he had been experiencing. Things hadn’t been going well at all for the last few months. Reports came in to Annuminas day after day about mysterious disappearances of livestock from farms near the Weather Hills and the surrounding regions, and lately people were reportedly disappearing as well. Thoronmir had sent out a few rangers to scout out the area, but none of them had come back after weeks of waiting. Thoronmir was glad indeed to hear that his message to Gondor had been received and that people were on their way to help. Due to the important nature of the problem and the need for it to be discussed and find a working solution as quickly as possible, Thoronmir felt it necessary that he should go to Bree himself instead of sending an emissary and that he and his companion should make the journey on horseback instead of walking, as time was more important than secrecy here. He had seen enough death at the Pelennor Fields; he did not want any more coming here.

Thoronmir and his companion rode eastward until they had reached the southwestern part of the North Downs. From there they would continue to ride east until they met the Greenway and then turn southward toward Bree. They passed through a gap in the hills, a narrow passage that was wide enough for two, maybe three horses to walk side by side. Thoronmir’s horse stopped suddenly in the middle of the passage, tossed back his head, and snorted.

“What is it?” Thoronmir asked. “Is something wrong?” Suddenly, he too heard the sound. He listened intently. There were footsteps of five, maybe six individuals somewhere up ahead and a little higher up.

“Thoronmir?” his companion asked.

“We’re not alone…” the older ranger said.

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Dragon Elf odin Ragnorock's post

After a semi peaceful night Menecar woke up to the sound of birds chirping and a great day for traveling with his companion. It was a peaceful day has begun with the sun shining through the trees. They had a half a days travel by Horse to Bree left to go.

“Do you think that there will be people waiting for us to arrive at the Prancing Pony?” asked Menecar’s companion.

“I think there would be I don’t think that King Elessar would let two Rangers do this alone,” said Menecar.

Suddenly Menecar heard the sound of leaves moving in the woods. He stoped to listen, and to see if he heard the sound again. Sure enough there it was again, but it sounded louder as if the thing or things were getting closer. He looks over at his companion to see if he heared the same sound. But he dose not look like he has. Menecar rode over to him and says:

“Do you not hear the sound of leaves?”

“the sound is drawing closer.” said Menecar

[piosenniel]

Meneltarmacil's post

"Did you hear the sound of leaves?" asked Menecar.

"Yes, indeed," Thoronmir responded.

"The sound," whispered Menecar, "is drawing closer."

Thoronmir drew his sword as Menecar pulled out his bow. They continued to ride forward through the gap in the hills. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, an orc leaped from the top of a nearby ledge, knocking him off his horse. The orc took a wickedly sharp knife and tried to stab Thoronmir, but fell dead before he could. Looking behind him, Thoronmir saw that Menecar had shot his would-be killer.

"Thank you," Thoronmir said as he got back on his horse.

"You're welcome," replied Menecar.

Several more orcs apppeared both in front of and behind them. Thoronmir rode over the ones in front while Menecar took out their pursuers with his bow. More orcs came, but by then the Rangers were already out of sight.

************************************************

Thoronmir and Menecar arrived at Bree in the late afternoon. They rode up to the Prancing Pony Inn and went inside.

"Good afternoon," said the inkeeper. "Thorgil, isn't it?"

"Thoronmir," said the ranger. He never gets my name right no matter how many times I try to tell him. "And this is Menecar. We'll need a room for the night and stabling for our horses." They paid the necessary amount of money and then walked into the common room to await the arrival of the messangers from Gondor. Thoronmir and Menecar both ordered some ale, then sat down at a nearby table.

"How many orcs do you think there were?" Thoronmir asked.

"I only heard about five or six from a distance," Menecar replied, "but there were about twenty trying to kill us."

"That's what I thought as well. The ones we heard were probably just a scouting party," Thoronmir continued. "I didn't expect to find that many orcs in the area we were in. We'll have to mention this to the messenger when he arrives." He looked over at Menecar, who clearly wasn't listening, but was instead looking at a corner of the room. "Are you alright?" the older ranger asked.

"That man," said Menecar, pointing at a rather mean-looking fellow, "has been watching us ever since he got here."

[piosenniel]

The pain. It’s long deathly fingers puncture the skin, slithers through the ribcage and seizes your heart. Strong fingers close so tightly that your blood vessels start to burst and your body begins to convulse. A cold chill caresses your spine, numbs your senses and send you into shock. Darkness covers your eyes…

Andas signed aloud to himself as he continues his best to read yesterday’s edition of the village routine orders in the dimly illuminated room; community fees going up next month. The poor weather did little to comfort his mind. Helga’s loud shrill voice continued booming from the back of the kitchen, she was ranting about his spectacular inability to perform the easiest of household chores now,

“And how many times do I have to tell you? Reds don’t go into the wash tub with the whites! Now look what you’ve done! Another braccae spoilt! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you…”

The pain. It picks you up and smothers you in a deadly embrace. It plucks the soul from the very core of your being with cruel fingers, pops it into a black bottomless maw and chews. It bites and sucks the juice that is your personality, your aspirations, your hopes and relishes it. Once done, it spits out what remains of your incorporeal form and rub it into the dirt with a heavy suffocating foot…

Helga was done with nitpicking Andas’ poor housekeeping skills and was now relating to him the events that occurred during the morning’s trip to the market. Andas squirmed uncomfortably in the overstuffed armchair and tried to read, dull brown eyes darting left from right; another sheep missing, Old Grant defaulting on insurance. Still, nothing could dull the formidable voice box of Helga’s,

“Rosy Parker was at the fishmonger’s today and Gregory was with her. Oh, he was such a dear thing! Carrying her heavy baskets and buying those expensive white flowers from that Monty lad to surprise and such…

Now how come you don’t do those things for me?!”

The pain. Helga was pain. Helga was pain personified. And nothing could stop Helga, not even hail nor brimstone could deny the awe-inspiring phenomenon that was Helga ****ed…

It was now or never. Andas knew his moment had come.

“IS THAT YOU PRAND?!” He shouted aloud suddenly to no one in particular,
\
“WHAT’S THAT?! YOU WANT TO TALK TO ME?! YOU WANT ME TO COME OUT?! IT’S IMPORTANT?!”

Every word forcefully enunciated.

The disembodied voice of Helga’s queried,

“Why are you shouting Andas? Did you say Prand is here? Why don’t you invite him in?”

A turning point has been reached and the wheels in Andas’ head turned faster,

“WHAT’S THAT PRAND?! YOU CAN’T COME IN BECAUSE YOUR SHOES ARE ALL MUDDY?!”

Meet Helga the cleanliness freak.

“OK PRAND! OK! I’M COMING OUT NOW! HERE I GO!”

With surprisingly quick reflexes, Andas pulled his body off the armchair, sprinted across the room and grabbed his belt and cope from the coats hanger.

“I’m going out to see what Prand wants, dear! Could take a while! Don’t wait up for me! Love yah, bye bye!”

Before Helga could reply, Andas swung open the front door leapt out and slammed it shut. Liberation never felt better.

It was dusk and ominous dark clouds were already forming overhead in the north. Andas was hungry and from the looks of it, he also needed a roof overhead soon too. And he knew just where to go in situations like this.

Adjusting his belt and getting into his cope, Andas Loudewater stepped onto the gravel skewed dirt path and marched briskly over to The Prancing Pony…

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post – Fen Sheperdspurse

‘Well, look what just slunk in, would ya.’ Matty Thistleseed nudged his companion at the Pony’s bar, his chin rising just slightly in the direction of the sallow fellow who’d come in through the door. His head ducked quickly back toward his drink and he wrapped his cloak tighter about him as the newcomer’s greasy haired head swiveled toward him.

Fen Sheperdspurse grinned at the man’s discomfort. Or rather his lips twisted into a gruesome imitation of grin – a sort of ghastly rictus caught halfway between a snarl and a sneer. Others of the present inhabitants of the common room looked at him coldly as he passed their tables, on the way to far corner booth. Many of them muttered imprecations at his presence, their hands clutching at their purses in fear they would disappear if Fen’s shadow slid over them in passing. And well they might fear, save for the fact that Fen was feeling flush today, his purse replete with a jumble of silver and copper coins he’d just last night “come into”.

Seated at last in the dim corner booth, Fen thunked his yew would stick twice on the floor to catch a passing server’s attention. One bony finger pushed a silver penny to the edge of the table, his ragged, dirty fingernail tapping insistently on it. The server came close enough to snatch the penny, stepping back quickly to avoid the touch of Fen’s hand. ‘A pint of ale, boy. And one of new baked loaves with a wedge of Archet cheddar.’ He fixed the server with a knowing leer. ‘And none of that with the moldy rind just peeled off. I’m onto your tricks, you hear!’

Fen drew back into the shadows as he waited for his drink and meal. His eyes slid about the room taking in the ‘usuals’ and the more interesting newcomers. A pair of Rangers occupied a table across the room from him. They both sat facing toward the room, their gaze darting here and there as they spoke quietly to each other. Why were they here, he wondered. Seeking someone? Seeking news?

One of the men’s eyes narrowed as he spied the dim figure in the far corner, causing Fen to shift further back into the dark protection of the booth. His hand sought his coin pouch and stuffed it far into the pocket of his breeches. The coins clinked as he did so, and fear sprang up that perhaps the Ranger had heard them. He preferred not to have to explain how they’d come into his possession.

‘Plenty more where those come from,’ his new “acquaintance” had told him.

Fen smirked at the thought of his present employer coming into the Inn for a pint. ‘Serve those goody-goody’s right,’ he snorted.

From out the window, just visible in the gathering dusk, a familiar face intruded upon his thoughts – there was that henpecked Andas Loudewater just coming up the path to the Inn . . . and in the distance behind him was a curious group. He could but barely make them out if he squinted against the lowering sun. Another Ranger, it looked . . . and a man riding near him. And there, much to his disgust, rode four Elves on their fine horses. Fen spit on the ground, his brow beetled, as he calculated just how much he might get for such a horse, should it go ‘missing’ . . .

[piosenniel]

Saurreg's post

Andas Loudewater had just reached the front porch of the most popular drinking hole in the whole of Bree when large raindrops started to fall, creating tiny little craters on the much used dirt road. Dark clouds rumbled precariously overhead, blocking out whatever light the setting sun could offer and enveloped the entire evening sky in black velvet from horizon to horizon and as far as the eye could see. Loudewater frowned to himself and sighed deeply as he pulled the hood of the cope off his head, this night would offer nothing but heavy down pour and his creaky joints would pay the dear price.

Damned rheumatism, damned age. What I wouldn’t give to be twenty years younger again.

The grease caked windows of the establishment were illuminated weakly by lit lamps and a sonorous burble could be felt through vibes that shook the loose floorboards of the porch - it was the sing-a-long, happy hour had begun.

The Breeland farmer took a deep breath and readied himself mentally as would an athlete before the race. After a momentary pause, he swung open the door of the Prancing Pony and confronted destiny head on. Rising to the occasion, destiny sprung forward like an uncoiled spring and smashed into Loudewater’s face. The farmer staggered but recovered himself quickly enough; years of patronizing the Prancing Pony had somewhat dwindled the potency its overwhelmingly pungent whiff on him but for the uninitiated, the whole affair of simply entering the tavern could be an insurmountable ordeal. Butterbur had never believed in the concept of proper workplace hygiene and many a newcomers had paid the price. More than often regulars like Loudewater and even old Butterbur himself had heckled at unfamiliar faces contorting in agony followed by the whizzing (they always whiz) and the occasional nausea.

It was all good “clean” harmless fun really. But incidents do happen, those that make simpletons like the good folks of Bree go “hmmm”

Once, an elven wayfarer (dainty and disturbingly pretty in a girly way) tried to enter the Prancing Pony (don’t ask why) and results were somewhat horrific… (For the faerie that is).

Suffice say, that incident was significant enough for Butterbur to go “hmmm” and the next day after the tragic affair, Loudewater saw for the first and only time Butterbur scrubbing the floorboards and opening up the windows to air the place. It was a momentous event that Loudewater rated up there with the likes of the return of the king.

******

Loudewater stepped through the doorway and entered the main serving hall of the tavern. The hospitable warmth radiating from the fireplace felt most comfortable and he permitted himself a wane smile of self-satisfaction. If there was any place he would want to be when a raging storm came along, it would be here.

The Prancing Pony was already packed to the walls when Loudewater entered. Breelanders of different walks of life and trades have already packed the benches and tables and were all bellowing in drunken unison with lusty voices, throats were well lubricated by free-flowing pints and cheap wine. It was “Roll out the Barrels!” a popular hit penned by the famous Susan Delgado and Loudewater found himself almost subconsciously humming along to the tunes of the ever popular folksong.

No one writes such great works anymore, he reflected sadly.

Loudewater’s head swerved upon his scrawny neck as he scrutinized the crowded room looking for some unoccupied spot for himself and perhaps a friend or two to interact with. Amidst the mass of swaying and rocking heads, and raised arms clenching tankards and goblets of spilling beverage, Loudewater’s dull eyes caught sight of an appendage belonging to a familiar face waving frantically in the air. Loudewater grinned at the familiar face, waved back and made his way through to the bar.

[piosenniel]

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[Primrose Bolger]

A little north of the Weather Hills . . .

‘Nay, brother! It’s the little ones what goes on the bottom and then them bigger pieces. And step back a bit. That scraggly old wolf skin of yours is about to catch fire!’

Grimm watched as Broga raised his great ham fist to his temple and knuckled the coarse patch of hair there in a worried manner, trying to recollect the rudiments of making a small cooking fire. Grimm wheezed out a resigned sigh, standing up from the log he’d rolled near for a seat, and went over to help his brother. ‘Here, now. Let me get this going. You ready them rabbits we trapped.’

Broga spitted the stringer of unfortunate hares, skinned and gutted earlier, on two long, thin metal poles. Four to spit, with some fat taters pushed in between them. 'Kay-bobs' they called them, remembering the word one of those Southron fellows had used. Last word, he’d used, in fact, as Broga had bashed him soundly on the skull just after Grimm had inquired what the man called that spitted meat he was holding. Very tasty, they were . . . those first kay-bobs . . .

‘Wish we had sumthin else to eat, brother,’ grumbled Broga, threading the last of the rabbits on the second spit and securing it with a fist sized tater. ‘Rabbits yesterday. Rabbits today. And don’t it just look like rabbits tomorrer.’

Grimm nodded, his beady eyes taking in the wicker cage where their hunting ferret lay curled up on some old rags - a rabbit hindquarter clutched in his paws; his sharp little teeth stripping the meet from the bones; his hind teeth and strong jaws cracking open the bones as he sucked the marrow. ‘Think we might learn him to fetch chickens for us,’ said Broga, breaking in on his brother’s perusal their little companion. The answer to that question was cut short as Grimm’s attention was caught by the slow approach of two other Trolls.

‘Best put on some extra taters,’ he muttered low to his brother. ‘Here comes old Big Nose and his shadow . . .’

[Envinyatar]

He could not say that The Pony had changed much. The paint looked a little fresher on the sign above the entry arch, the faces of the serving girls had changed some, grown older and a little warier, he thought. Butterbur had retired, he learned from the stableboy. His son, just as fat and forgetful, the stableboy confided with a laugh, now followed in his father’s footsteps.

Standing on the wide verandah of the Inn, Veryadan shook the dust from his cloak, watching, in a casual manner, the ebb and flow of patrons. Men, the lot of them. A brief glance in the front window threw the faces of other men into relief from the blazing fire on the hearth and the hanging lamps scattered about the beamed ceiling of the common room. Veryadan looked round at his Elven companions, wondering what stir the entrance of four of the Fair Folk would bring. ‘Won’t know ‘til the deed is done,’ he thought to himself.

With a smile and nod to the ladies he pushed open the door, entering first for a quick survey of the premises. The others of his companions followed closely on his entrance. Heads turned from their pints to see the faces of those whose bright, melodic voices preceded their presence. Conversation lulled for brief moment; chair legs scraped along the wooden floor as those in the back twisted round on them for a look-see. Following its natural short-lived course, interest in the companions waned, mugs returned to eager lips, and the low hum of conversation and laughter picked up again.

Among those, though, whose eyes continued to follow the Elves and the men with them, were two Rangers sitting together at a table across the room from the entrance. And there in the shadows of a dimly lit booth, the rat-faced visage of some man darted quickly in and out of the low burning lamp that hung near him, his glittering eyes taking in the companions with calculating interest before withdrawing into the darkness.

‘Would you just see to getting us a table and rooms?’ Veryadan spoke low to Tarondo. ‘Let me join you in a moment. Make it a table to accommodate two more, if you will.’ He nodded his head toward the two Rangers. ‘I’ll see if they will sup with us. Perhaps they have fresh news they bring with them of happenings in this area.’

A few strides brought him to the Rangers’ table. One of them indicated a chair for his use as he approached. ‘Veryadan,’ he said, nodding to each of the men. ‘My companions and I were hoping you might join us for our meal. It’s been a long road from Minas Tirith to Bree. We would enjoy your company. And any tidings of this area you might have to share with us would be greatly appreciated. What say you? Shall we pull up extra chairs for you at our table?’

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain and his companion Silruth eat their supper peacefully as ,they caught sight of arrival of a Ranger, two Elves, and a man from the Riddermark into the Inn.Aidwain and Silruth both invited them to have supper as they were alone through most of their journey and now they wished for some company ,here they found out that the company had arrived here due to the orders of the King,so wishing to help them as they could they told them about the increasing number of the orcs and trolls near the Angle -The Old fastness of the Rangers.

Veryadan’s ( the ranger's) face was grim as he heard the news they brought. ‘Travel with us, if you will,’ he had offered Silrûth and Aidwain. ‘We are also bound north, at the behest of the King. He has had some reports of the disquiet in that area, though I do not think he knows the extent to which this ripple of shadow has spread.’ Tarondo one of the elves nodded at the invitation as Envinyatar his sister continued. ‘Two extra sets of eyes and blades would be welcome. And you need not fear that we might slow you down. We will head up the Greenway to Bree at first light.’

And so Aidwain and Silruth now joined the company travelling North .

Four days of hard riding with only short, cold camp stops along the way brought them to Andrath, the narrow passageway between the Barrow-downs and the South Downs, through which the Greenway passed, heading north. A day and a half further and the six found themselves passing in through the West Gate, the welcoming archway and windows of the The Prancing Pony now well within their sights .

Aidwain was very relieved that they had reached the Inn at last, for four days of non-stop riding had made his body sore,and he wished for some supper and a good night's sleep.He did not wish to go into the common room and speak with anybody.But inside they found two more Rangers sitting at a table as if waiting for their arrival.Veryadan went and talked with them while Aidwain and Tarondo arranged for a table and few chairs.

There Aidwain and his companions waited for their supper .....

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The smell of roasting coney pulled Arrald and Dim toward the low hill. They went as stealthily as they could, thinking to surprise whomever had set up camp, but their great feet seemed to find every dry branch and loose stone. After each noise broke the silence of the wilderness they would freeze as though by stilling themselves they could silence the air, and make elaborate gestures to one another to be quiet. “Well it’s not me as kicked that ruddy great log into the stream,” Dim protested in a loud whisper. “And it’s not me as thought that going up that great shale bank was a good idea.”

Arrald frowned at his brother so mightily that his beady eyes almost disappeared entirely beneath the sagging folds of his forehead. “I don’t recall your saying nought about the plan at the time,” he rumbled dangerously. “In fact, as I recall it, we both thought it was a good idea to head in a straight line with that smell, so as not to lose it.”

Dim cocked his head to one side and searched the untidy cellar of his memory. “Aye, aye, I do remember that…” he conceded. “But you’re still the one as started the avalance!” he cried out in victory, and his sudden outburst set echoes rattling amongst the hills.

“SSSSHHHHHH!” Arrald practically roared at him, slamming one sausage-finger to his lips while clamping his other hand over Dim’s mouth. Dim’s eyes went wide with shock and mimicked his brother’s action with his own finger in front of his already covered mouth. Arrald slowly removed his hand, and Dim said quietly once more, “Right. Quiet.”

They resumed their trek toward the smell, picking their way through the rough landscape of the hills by the light of a very pallid moon. They were disappointed when they saw Broga and Grimm gathering around the fire, for it meant that they would have to beg a share of the food rather than snatch it for themselves. Arrald sighed – it had been days since his last really decent meal. Fortunately, that might soon change…

Broga and Grimm were none too pleased to see them, if the manner of their reception was anything to go by. Openly trying to hide one long skewer of food behind his back, Grimm burst out, “We ain’t got no food here! Only a bit of rabbit as we’re just finished!” Broga stuffed a half a rabbit and two taters in his mouth at once and made a great show of chewing and swallowing.

Arrald’s eyes narrowed. “Now look here Grimm-me-lad, I’m not stupid nor blind nor have I lost my sense of smell – I know you’re got a stick-full of coney and taters behind your back. You’d best share it round or things are like to get ugly.” Grimm made a great show of defiance at first, to which Arrald and Dim responded with words of their own. Broga swallowed the last of his food and leapt to his brother’s aid. There were a few blows and some terrible curses shattered the night, but soon the trolls were setting about the fire and sharing out the food as equally as they could.

What had finally convinced Broga and Grimm to share had been Arrald’s promise to tell them how they could come by some truly gorgeous fresh meat, without too much trouble. Swallowing the last tater, Arrald leaned in over the fire and explained in a conspiratorial whisper. “You both know as Dim and me have been a-helping some orcs hereabouts in their attacks on the invaders.”

“Of course we know about that, Arrald; we’ve been doing the same and have seen you once or twice in the fights.”

“Have you now?” Arrald said, trying to appear canny. “Be that as it may, and we’ll have to look into that later, the orcs are set to meet with Dim and me later tonight so’s we can plan our next little outing. This one promises to be an absolute feast!” His eyes glittered with a greedy light as he sat up and threw out his chest. “Why those orcs have said that there’s a small farm with dozens of sheep, and we can have half the flock. And all the orcs want in return is the small bag of gold pieces they say the farmer has in his bedroom! Can you believe it?” And his eyes went wide at the idiocy of orcs.

[Saurreg]

It took Andas Loudewater longer than expected to reach the bar. The serving hall was so crowded that he had little choice but to push and shove his way through the masses of warm reeking bodies, raising surprised yelps and curses, rich with local favors from the recipients. By the time he reached his destination, tiny beats of sweat were trickling profusely down his shiny forehead.

Prand Adams beckoned Loudewater towards him and pointed to at an empty bar stool which Andas promptly introduced his arse to.

“Hey Andy,”

“Hi Prand,”

“Trouble with the missus?”

“What else?”

It wasn’t so much of a question but rather a matter-of-fact statement. Loudewater scratched his backside and shifted his weight on the stool so that he was in a more comfortable position, he then raised his left hand index finger towards the innkeeper to catch his attention. The innkeeper nodded in acknowledgement and rumbled towards the duo.

If there was such a thing as Loudewater’s bosom buddy, Prand was it. The two farmers have known each other since childhood and as far as the former could recall, Prand had always been there for him and he was like the suave and world-wise older brother Andas never had. Prand had always been good to Andas, Prand had always had the hapless (in Mister Adams’ point of view that is) Loudewater’s best interests in mind, which was coincidentally, why he introduced his distant cousin, a certain Miss Helga Ofella to Loudewater in the first place.

Both men had since rued the day that in drunken stupor, Prand offered to play match-maker and the equally intoxicated Loudewater readily agreed.

“Lenny’s here too. He’s at the floor talking to some eastsiders,” Offered Prand nonchalantly.

Loudewater merely grunted in reply. He never liked Lenny the carpenter.

Butterbur II was pushing fifty and looking more and more like the old man each day. He was also well on his way in dwarfing his father in girth. The bubbly innkeeper came to a halt behind the bar and faced Loudewater. His robust, protruding belly signaled its own arrival with a fierce attention grabbing “nod” when his master stopped abruptly.

Butterbur Jr. smiled warmly at the west Bree farmer because he was a regular, then frowned when he realized that he couldn’t recall the latter’s name at the moment of time. Absentmindedness was trait in the Butterbur line. That was followed by the shrugging of very stout pudgy shoulders as the innkeeper decided to give his mind a break from the strenuous ordeal of name recollection. He turn reached under the apron (an exerting task for one of such physique) and produced a copper platter of moldy rye bread, obnoxiously foul-smelling cheese and some green stuff that had seen better days. Something very small and brown scrambled across the green stuff hastily. Butterbur Jr. cocked his eyebrows in mild surprise and assisted the refugee on its way with a flick of his pinkie that sent said uninvited one somersaulting through the air. Pleased with his dandy work, the innkeeper set the platter before loudewater with the full aplomb of a master chef unveiling his culinary masterpiece. Butterbur then beamed widely, gave Loudewater an affectionate pat on the head and went off to get the farmer a drink.

Loudewater raised his brows in thought and stroked the day-long stubble over his chin before giving out an very audible “hmmm” Prand had an amused look on his face.

*******
Loudewater surveyed the serving hall as would a raptor gliding high above in the sky, scanning the wide land below for its next meal. The bread was too sour for eating and the cheese was rather dry. But the green stuff was actually pretty good, tasted like chicken.

Loudewater caught sight of Fen Sheperdspurse in a dimly lit booth, narrowed his eyes with disgust and breathed in deeply as would a man trying to control his temper. As much as Loudewater disliked Lenny, it was nothing compared to the distain he had for the greasy headed mongrel. Loudewater remembered many a times how Sheperdspurse tresspassed on his property and stood leering as he toiled and how he had to stop work and wait for the loathed one to leave before feeling at ease again. Sheperdspurse had of course never done anything to Loudewater that warranted such strong detest, but the farmer had always nursed a weighty hunch against him, one that never really went away. Something deep in his mind told him never to let his guard down whenever Sheperdspurse was around.

There was an unusual couple that stood out like sore thumbs amongst the crowd of distinctive Breelanders; two exotic looking men. Both were clad in green traveler’s attire, exceptionally tall and from the looks of their dreadful arms, very dangerous. They were called the rangers and were thought of as dangerous gangsters or sorts until the day one of their kind became the king. Strider they called him, and since then the simple folks of Bree looked upon these strange formidable men with new eyes. It has been a while since Loudewater saw these dark haired men whom were rumored to have come over the sea from some enchanted isle and now there were two of them sitting together at a table. Loudewater could have sworn that he had seen the older man before sometime during the lost years of his childhood. But the man looked of the same age as him and was perhaps a few years younger. It was highly unlikely that he and that familiar face from the woods were one and same.

Unless he was of great longevity and no one lived that long. No one.

The oaken doors of the prancing pony creaked opened and six newcomers ventured in. The buzz of merriment and song died abruptly as all eyes turned upon them. Loudewater saw that Sheperdspure took a quick glance before slinking further into the corner of his dark booth as if attempting to avoid detection by the unfamiliar faces. The five newcomers were led by a man of the same built and features as the two rangers, but he was better groomed and cloaked in grey. There was another man just two steps behind him, slightly shorter, heavier built and crop of rich golden hair. This one Loudewater reckoned to be one of them horse-tamers from beyond the east mountains. His remaining four companions; two women and two men were strangely captivating and charismatic. They had such sharply defined, delicate features and bright piercing eyes that it was almost impossible not to be entranced by them. Just then one of the females, the shorter one pushed back a few strands of stray black hair behind her left ear and Loudewater saw that it was pointed. The four of them all had pointy ears.

Now this is interesting… mused Loudewater to himself as he continued to stare.

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir studied the man in the corner, wondering what he was up to. He was about to go and question him when the door opened and six figures stepped in. Four elves and two men, one Rohirric-looking, the other Numenorean and about Thoronmir's age. The man clad in gray said something to one of the elves, then walked over to the table where Thoronmir was sitting. Thoronmir indicated a chair for his use as he approached. "Veryadan," the man said, nodding to each of them. "My companions and I were hoping you might join us for our meal. It’s been a long road from Minas Tirith to Bree. We would enjoy your company. And any tidings of this area you might have to share with us would be greatly appreciated. What say you? Shall we pull up extra chairs for you at our table?"

"Certainly," Thoronmir said. "I'm Thoronmir, leader of the Dunedain in this area. This is my second-in-command, Menecar. I believe I've met you before, Veryadan," he said as he headed to Veryadan's table and sat down. "You and I fought together at the Pelennor Fields."

"Yes, I remember seeing you there," Veryadan said. "You almost got trampled by that mumak that I had warned you about five seconds ago."

"Well, I was a little too worried about that giant troll that was trying to smash me with his club to hear you," Thoronmir said. "But more importantly, I must ask you not to speak very loud." Thoronmir's voice had become a whisper. "We spotted a man who's been very interested in us..." He gestured toward a dark corner of the Inn, where Fen Shepherdspurse had concealed himself.

[Kransha]

O, toil and work are now all done.
Down, down; there goes that yellow sun.
High-ho, there’s no more race to run
Until the new dawn comes.

The wind blows still, but all is well.
Din-din; so says the farmer’s bell.
And peace is in the field and the dell
Until the next day comes.

The Wargs all sleep, they ate their fill.
The clouds are quiet, the trees are still.
There’s hearth and home on the old bald hill
Until tomorrow comes.

The song was an old favorite, sentimental in some ways. Orcish voices (especially when singing) really didn’t have the same melodic quality as mannish voices, but orc’s didn’t care about that. A good orcish chorus was hard to find, especially in the north. Truthfully, Gundabad orcs sung much better than Mordor worms or the rats from Sharkû’s tower in the south. Bâzzog knew this very well. He’d never been one of the orcs who fell into line with the other marchers, singing those songs, but he’d heard them. In Gundabad, you could hear everything, even if you didn’t want to. It was of those unavoidable, annoying facts that sounded like a proverb or a figure of speech, but really wasn’t. Maybe that was why Bâzzog had left. Honestly, the real reason for his sudden, but supported departure from Mount Gundabad was lost to him. Maybe he didn’t remember it, on account of his lousy memory, or maybe it had been too trivial to waste valuable mental space remembering. He had enough of a hard time remembering names.

Thinking on that subject, Bâzzog looked around, crossing his arms before him, his gaze scanning the camp. A great, smoking fire, black plumes swirling above the crackling tongues of flame, sat in the middle of the darkening camp and orcs sat and stood all about it, eating their fill of leftovers from the company’s last hunt. There were not that many orcs in reality, but enough to make the group look formidable to others. On a number of sharpened sticks plugged into the ground around the camp were, impaled, a number of rabbits, foxes, rats, and other small, furry creatures, which were, one by one, plucked from their roosts to be devoured. The camp was celebrating its victory, though nothing had truly been one. The grand scheme was working and life was good, which was as fine a reason as any to celebrate…for orcs. Bâzzog, the chieftain, did not celebrate, though. He was not a very celebratory individual. He could be jocund when necessary, but he wasn’t in the mood. He usually had to kill something to be in the mood. Right now, he was content to overview his troops and his lieutenants, eyes traveling slowly from right to left.

The first thing he saw, looking to his right, was a monumental orc called Búbkûr. Búbkûr was Bâzzog’s second-in-command (making him third in the line of military succession, a system whose intricacies eluded him) and one of the orc chieftain’s most trusted brethren, though they were not friends…not legitimate friends, at least. He was large, brawny, and swarthy, but still somewhat shorter than Bâzzog himself, which suited the latter just fine, as he did not like orcs who were taller than him. His right arm terminated in a stump where his hand once was. He had lost that appendage in an unfortunate incident involving a late-night gambling session (the other fellow lost more than a hand, as Bâzzog remembered). For the sake of intimidation, Búbkûr had jammed a large, bent hook, twisted incorrectly at several points so that it was really not much of a hook anymore, into the stump on his arm soon after his accident and the residual healing of the wound held the weapon in its place, with the assistance of some ‘appropriated’ nails, bolts, and metal coils. Búbkûr was strong, mightily so, but barely as intelligent as his commander, thankfully. He was, if at all possible, less clever than Bâzzog, and talked more. Some might say he talked too much for his own good, but he defended his own good with really big arms and that hook. To his credit, he was a compulsive gambler and a drunkard.

Rapidly (as Bâzzog did not relish the sight of Búbkûr), the orc chieftain’s gaze turned away to look upon another being. To Bâzzog’s left, sitting upon a mound of solid dirt, was an orc called Gráthgrob, his two hands extended with a mess of sparkling, glittering, coins cradled in them, slipping through the gaps between his skinny fingers. Gráthgrob was, as far as he and his commander were concerned, was Bâzzog’s lieutenant in terms of negotiation and acted as a supply of necessary information. He knew more about the geography and locals of the area than most other orcs, and his input to Bâzzog’s crude stratagems was invaluable at least. He was smaller and less formidable, with a nature and gait that predisposed him to sidling about conspiratorially, like a snake in the grass, but he was not clever, just smart. His features were generic for an uruk, though his arms and legs were more flabby than muscular. No orc cared about his weakness and lack of stamina, since his intelligence garnered him plenty of respect, but not as much as Bâzzog.

At last, after straying over countless nameless orcs, Bâzzog’s eyes fell upon the last orc, Kransha, who stood far off, his shadow and form silhouetted against the night sky’s dark grey-blue as he stood perched atop a cresting hill, looking away into the distance as he often did. It was his job, anyway. Kransha, the eyes and ears on the orc company, was always alert, always wary and circumspect. Even now, in this festive hour, he clutched a hide-bound short bow in his hand with a narrow bolt grasped between his left hand’s index and middle finger. His small head kept spinning on his neck, searching for any sign of life on the plains of Eriador. Kransha didn’t talk much, and some suspected he was a mute orc, a great rarity, but this opinion was dissuaded by the fact that the occupation of scout usually requires the ability to speak. Most orcs had never heard his voice, but they didn’t need to. Though Bâzzog was strong and Gráthgrob was smart, Kransha possessed the greatest battle prowess. He was quick like the wind and could fire his arrows like lightning bolts that could not miss their targets. If Kransha had not been so soft-spoken and meek, he could have taken over the company a long time ago. The fact that he was loyal still to Bâzzog was a testament to Bâzzog’s command abilities, and with the marvel marksman at his side, Bâzzog was unchallengeable. Even the fact that Kransha spoke little added to the aura of eerie splendor…and equally eerie silence, around him.

Unfortunately, that fitful silence was severed immediately.

“Are you done yet?” growled Búbkûr, who sat beside Bâzzog, as he contemplated a large piece of ox meat still fixed stubbornly to a broad bone. As he spoke, he took a grandiose bite out of the victual, allowing a mess of meat chunks, grease, and spittle to fall from his gaping jaws. This action slurred the last two words vilely together, mangling the syllables beyond recognition. Unfortunately, a number of disgruntled, drunken uruks still understood him. With orcs, one often understood what another orc was saying, even if it was inaudible and incomprehensible. One orc, with a dull, witless expression plastered on his drawn face, spun to glower at Búbkûr with a pair of luminous blobs the size of horse hooves, which had taken the place of his eyes, his features twisting grotesquely. “’Ey,” he grunted simply, “shut yer stinkin’ mouth.”

Búbkûr shot a sour glance back, but otherwise, did not look up from his handheld meal. He did, though, develop the verbal ability to reply with witty, elegant, sardonic style. “You shut yer stinkin’ mouth, pushdug!” He snarled, through a second enveloped mouthful, and continued to engorge himself. “Is ‘dat a challenge, bagronk?” snorted the second, anonymous uruk, taking several imposing steps forward. He was obviously a bad logician, or else he would’ve realized that the chances of him being able to deck Búbkûr were slim to none. Luckily for the wretched orc, Bazzog, meandering forward, intervened with a raw scowl. “Maybe both of ya should shut yer stinkin’ mouths, yeah? Now that ye’re all done with yer bloody singin’,” he shot a displeased look at the rowdy revelers, “we can get back to bus’ness.”

“What business?” queried Búbkûr dumbly, his face the very picture of obtuseness. His mouth lolled open, as if he were searching for more to say but could find nothing and had settled for wordless movements of the tongue. Bâzzog fixed him with a damnable expression. “You know roight well what bus’ness.” He spat, slurring half the words together, “The trolls, sha!”

“Ah, the trolls.” Said Bubkur back, feigning understanding.

For good reason, Bâzzog hated it when Búbkûr pretended to be smart. Any one-eared dimwitted, ape knew that Búbkûr had the intelligence of an under-educated rock, so it was senseless and silly for the orc to deny it. Perhaps, if he kept his mouth shut, he’d surely be thought less of an idiot than he’d publicly proclaimed himself to be. Brushing this fact and irritance aside, Bâzzog spoke to the orcs, his voice swelling to one of command and superiority. “Alroight, lads,” he said, “gather ‘round, gather ‘round. Gráthgrob ‘ere ‘as us a plan, that he does. Go on, Grob, show ‘em the map.” On command, the orcs began to congregate in a huddle around Gráthgrob, who knelt on the grassy ground. Most uruks settled into comfortable seats on the earth, looking toward Gráthgrob as he dug around in his multilayered outfit for something. Bâzzog and Búbkûr both took places just behind Gráthgrob, on either side of him, while Kransha, stowing away his bow and arrow, took a seat at the head of the orc audience, bemused and seemingly uninterested. With few exceptions, all eyes were fixed on Gráthgrob.

Gráthgrob, looking very intelligent to the other orcs, produced a grease-slathered scroll of parchment and unrolled it expertly, revealing a large, monochromatic map, simply designed, of a small area. On the top right hand corner, in nearly illegible chicken scratch was scrawled the word ‘Bree-land’ and under that, in a smaller handwriting, the words ‘Whittleworth Farm.’ Gráthgrob, his eyes coldly illuminated and reflecting the vague light of dusk, jabbed his pudgy forefinger at the map, aiming it at a series of overlapping rectangles which represented a building in the map’s center. “This here is the farm of one Rob Whittleworth,” he began most astutely, “a Bree-land farmer with a modest fortune…but not too modest.” There was an immodest snicker from the huddled group, and Gráthgrob smiled in a self-congratulating fashion before he continued. “He’s got a load of gold in his house collected after his last shipment of crops was exported to Combe and Staddle. My sources tell me that he keeps the gold unguarded, since he lives in a remote area, so it should be easy to get it, ‘specially for trolls. The man’s got plenty of cattle and sheep all fenced up in pens on the farmland. The trolls can have their fill of ‘em. They think they’ll get half, but tonight, we seal the deal by tellin’ them they can have the whole flock. They won’t question our motives after that, not that they have yet.”

One anonymous orc interjected, objecting. “’Ey, can’t we have a few o’ the sheep?” Bâzzog silenced the wretched goblin with a fearsome look, one eye opening wider than the other to glare murderously down. With a meager little whimper, the orc shut his mouth tight, but Bâzzog still saw fit to explain his reasoning, thinking himself very wise in his tactics. “No,” he said, gesturing philosophically with his gauntleted hands, “we let the trolls ‘ave the flock.” He pointed coolly at the orc who’d posed the question. “You can get all the bloody food ye want with yer share of the gold.” With this, he turned back to Gráthgrob and hunched over, peering over the other orc’s lumpy shoulder and at the map. “Now then, back to the plan.” Gráthgrob nodded and went on. “Well, Mister Whittleworth don’t have much in the way of material possessions, maybe some personal items, but nothin’ we need. There ain’t any other folk in the area, ‘cept Whittleworth’s li’l wife and daughter.” At this, there was an unsettling surge of chatter and gossiping whispers among the orcs, and a second interrupting goblin raised his hand, like a schoolboy in a classroom, and began to wave the limb about madly as he spoke. “Oh,” he cried in a raspy, eager voice, “tell the trolls ta bring the wife!”

Again, Bâzzog’s sinister mono-ocular gaze fell on the orc who spoken out of turn, his other eye shriveling into a beady dot. The orc’s excited expression shrunk, and his puffed out chest deflated dejectedly. “No!” growled Bâzzog, irritated by the constant surfeit of interruptions. Them trolls’d probly crush the lass before they got ‘er outta the house. Anyways, t’was ‘ard enough to get the trolls ta understand how to get the gold. Tellin’ ‘em ta bring us the farmer’s wife’d just confuse ‘em. An’ we don’t want to get the trolls confused, now does we?” There was another unanimous snicker from Bâzzog’s captive audience. The dullness of the trolls had become a running gag among the orcs. Some had even been using the word olog as a synonym for ‘dimwit’ and the slang caught on fast. Ever since the trolls first accepted the orcs’ one-sided offers, orcish opinion of troll intelligence had plummeted. Whenever the trolls were brought up, laughter was sure to be close behind. Unfortunately, the merry mood was cracked and shattered by a last ill-aimed question.

“So, who’s gonna tell Ugwakh all this?” Búbkûr inquired, moving up beside Bâzzog, stooped over with a hand on Gráthgrob’s back. “Ol’ ash-bûbhosh’ll wanna know the plan.” Bâzzog rolled his eyes (actually, he managed to roll only one eye, while keeping the other affixed on Búbkûr, who still bore a look of unadulterated stupidity), and shot a reply back filled with false, but familiar, orcish pleasantry. “Yer gonna tell ‘em, Búbkûr, that ye are.” He said sweetly, eliciting a chuckle from Gráthgrob, and a distinct gulp from Búbkûr, who knew that when Bâzzog was pleasant it was a sure sign of trouble. “Use yer bloody fancy talk and tell ‘im that he’ll get half the gold.” The orc chieftain concluded, with a wry grin. Búbkûr’s right tuft of eyebrow rose inquisitively.

“We’re gonna give ‘im half?”

“No, glob,” snarled Bazzog in response, “we’re givin’ ‘im a fourth of it. What d’ya think I am, stupid?”

The stare given reduced Búbkûr’s interrogative nature. He shrunk back, much to the satisfaction of his rivals in the horde and nodded obediently. “No, sir.” He murmured, “I’ll tell ‘im he’s gettin’ a fourth.”

A second later, Bâzzog’s armor-covered hand shot out and a fist clenched around Búbkûr’s throat, hauling him to within an inch of the snorting chieftain’s face. Gráthgrob below, eyes wide, threw himself defensively backward, out of the way, as the rest of the surrounding orcs leaned forward curiously. “Don’t TELL ‘im that, ye bloody fool,” Bâzzog roared, hot breath and saliva covering Búbkûr’s large, quivering nose, “tell ‘im he’s getting half, got it?” Búbkûr nodded frantically as Bâzzog pushed him away harshly. “Y-Yes, sir, yes I do, sir.” He stammered miserably, stepping back. Bâzzog approached again, looking enraged. “Than get off yer high horse and TELL ‘IM!” He bellowed; his bass voice rumbling and echoing throughout the camp. In an instant, Búbkûr had spun on his heel and was scurrying away, with a few illicit giggles following him, but no laughter or speech. When Bâzzog put his foot down, what he said was final. No one would speak until he had broken the unsettling silence, on pain of death (or painful dismemberment). Luckily, he did so.

“C’mon, lads.” He said, a smile returning to him as he turned to Kransha and Gráthgrob, “We’ve got a date with the ologs.”

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Can you believe it!’

Broga shrugged away his fascination with the long stringy morsel of rabbit that hung from Arrald’s lower lip. As the Troll spoke, his lips flapped up and down against each other, sending the dangling bit of dinner dancing against Arrald’s jowl. It was fascinating . . . quite mesmerizing . . . Grimm reached out and gave his brother a light smack on the arm. He could tell his attention had narrowed, as his lower jaw hung slack, a thin line of drool evident at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes looked a bit more vacant than usual.

‘Ow!’ cried the injured sibling, rubbing his arm. With a shake of his head, then, Broga caught the last of Arrald’s little monolog. Moving close to Grimm, he whispered in his brother’s ear. ‘He’s wantin’ a answer, ain’t he? Do we believe it or don’t we?’

‘Leave him to me. Just keep your wits about you, will you.’ Grimm’s eyes had narrowed at the mention of gold. He wanted some of those glittery coins. Rubbing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together in anticipation of their cold smoothness, he gave Arrald a comradely smile and said what a fine outing it sounded. And would they wanting a little extra help on this venture?

Arrald drew back, his meager brow beetled. Grimm could almost see him counting the mutton in half a flock. ‘One good sized ewe’s good enough for us . . . not big eaters, really,’ he went on in the best assuring tone he could muster. We were thinking we could take care of the farmer and his wife and get . . . bash ‘em good. That’s what we like doing. We’ll bring out the gold to you . . . you can give it to the Orcs if you like. What say?’ He gave Arrald a ghastly wink. ‘Leaves your hands free for grabbing more sheep, it does.’

[Envinyatar]

Nuranar's post

The landlord evidently provided his more distinguished guests with better fare than the local folks rated. Even at this distance the untouched bread and cheese before the thin man at the bar did not look particularly appetizing. Tarondo decided he didn’t blame the man for attending more to them than to his meal. And yet . . .

Naturally the appearance of four Elves in Bree had not gone unnoticed, but this man was the only one who was still staring. Furthermore, it was not the vacant gaze of a slow-thinking rustic, but the observant watch of a very present intelligence. Tarondo could detect no hostility in his eyes, but neither did he have any intention of discussing their mission in front of all those open ears. And especially not before the character in the booth whose endeavors to hide had made him so conspicuous.

Thoronmir, the elder of the two Rangers who had been waiting for them, pushed back his plate with a sigh. “Very good,” he remarked approvingly. “A little slim on the mutton, but that is hardly surprising.” He looked meaningfully at Veryadan, then Tarondo, then back to the Ranger.

Tarondo nodded at him, then turned away slightly and called in a low, clear voice, “Mr. Butterbur.”

The heavy little man trotted hurriedly over from across the room. “Oh, sir, I hope, everything’s –”

“Everything is perfectly satisfactory,” Tarondo said firmly. He had no intention of allowing the flood to get underway. “Is there a room where we may speak in private?”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A few minutes found the eight of them in a small room with a fire. There were a few chairs, but not enough, so Butterbur brought in a few more stools. “And if there’s anything more you need, just ring the bell on the table there, and I’ll come runnin’. Always a pleasure, anytime . . .”

Menecar shut the door on the burbling landlord and turned around with a grin. “Just like his father,” he said, shaking his head.

“I will close these,” Silrûth said, crossing to the window. Swiftly she swung the shutters to and barred out the night.

Luinien was looking quizzically, almost expectantly at Tarondo. Catching her eye, Tarondo glanced at the door and then back. “Would you be so kind?”

“Of course.” Luinien picked up a stool and set it down by the door. She eased it open, peered swiftly down the hall in both directions, and noiselessly re-closed it. Sitting on the stool, she leaned her head back against the doorjamb and winked at her brother. Her hand rested gently on the hilt of her dirk.

Nearly everyone else had found a seat, but Osric Falkur still stood in the middle of the floor, his brow furrowed. He glanced speculatively at Tarondo, then turned to Thoronmir. “Who is he? The twisted man hiding in the shadows?”

“Fen Shepherdspurse,” the Ranger replied. “One of the brigands who took cover under the Shadow in this area, and nearly the only one to have survived this long. We try to keep aware of him, but he is very sly and has no love for us.” He spoke quietly, a wry smile on his lips.

“And the other?” Aidwain leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “The thin one, who watched us the entire evening?”

“That was only Andas Loudewater, a local farmer,” Menecar spoke up. “I expect he was taking refuge from that sharp-tongued termagant he is married to.” He paused, frowning. “Surely he could have nothing to do with any of this,” he said, a note of protest in his voice.

“That is not the issue, Menecar,” Veryadan interposed. “We have no reason to believe either Shepherdspurse or Loudewater of being involved in anything. At the same time, we are not going to assume they are not involved. Especially when both have showed particular interest in us.”

Tarondo nodded. “This is simply part of being aware.” He stood up and paced slowly across the floor. “The problem is, we don’t know what is going on, much less who is behind it. We are here to discover exactly what is happening and who the enemy is. Only then will we take action, if we can. The King gave us strict orders to keep as safe as possible. He would rather have a report on the trouble than our deaths proving that there is trouble.

“Thoronmir and Menecar, what can you tell us? We need specifics on these attacks, and the more recent the better. Right now, that is the place to start.”

Thoronmir nodded. “We have that. Four weeks ago, there was . . .” he paused. “If you have a map I can show you more clearly.”

“Here.” Veryadan rose and extracted his map case from the pile of their gear. He pulled out a roll of parchment and spread it out on the table where the lamp stood.

“This is marvelous!” Thoronmir said.

Veryadan smiled slightly. “It’s by way of being my vocation. Now, tell us when and where everything happened.”

The group gathered around the table as the Rangers recounted the incidents of theft, bloodshed and death that were terrorizing the country.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater continued to stare at the strangers until the very moment, the door to their private room was shut by the female faerie. For a moment there, Loudewater was surprised at how attractive her face was. He turn backed towards the bar top and returned to his meager fare. Prand was still staring at the closed door. Loudewater thought to himself,

Either ‘em strangers are pretty shy folks or they’ve got some business that they want no stray ears or eyes to share…

Like a hulking war galleon, Butterbur II turned from the said shut door and rolled through the floor towards the general direction of the bar (people moved out of his way instinctively because if they don’t, he’ll just mow over them). The fat innkeeper was rubbing his thick hands together in glee and a sly smile was pasted on his bright red round face; he was obviously pleased that one of his expensive private rooms was rented. Butterbur caught sight of Loudewater and smacked his forehead when he remembered that he had yet to serve the farmer his drink.

“I wonder what them strangers are here for? And in such numbers…” asked Prand, as he turned back towards the bar top to join his companion.

“Who cares? I’m more interested to know when they’ll leave.” replied Loudewater untruthfully.

The world works in mysterious ways and Andas Loudewater was experiencing its wash over effects. Something within the farmer’s bosom suddenly stirred as he recollected the coming of the strangers and felt the sensuous air around them. He felt as if an indescribable feeling had just overwhelmed him and he was suddenly inquisitively interested in the newcomers and their business. Annoyance of their unwelcome presence seemed to have dissipated as swiftly as it came.

Something in him snapped. Something else felt unleashed. Liberated.

“Madness!” He uttered beneath his breath. But it was self-denial, a change had come.

“What?” Asked Prand, as he gave Loudewater a wary side glance. The younger man’s voice sounded harsher than he ever heard before and there was a quivering hush to it.

“No, nothing. I said nothing!” Snapped Loudewater curtly, eyes betraying anger, voice cold and harsh. Prand’s query had caught him off guard and he was both embarrassed by his own state of mind and unreasonably annoyed at Prand’s acute hearing. But as soon as the words left his lips, he immediately regretted his outburst.

Prand did not deserve that. Loudewater hated himself.

Prand was taken aback by the sharp reply, he turned back to his tankard and said no more. He had never seen good natured Andy in such a state before and it stunned him.

Lenny Henry pushed his way pass the chairs and tables of the tavern hall, sauntered towards the bar and squeezed himself between Prand and Loudewater uninvited. There wasn’t much space there and a sensible person might have looked for another spot, but good manners and common sense seldom applied to the crass carpenter. Lenny had a smirk on his face this night which probably meant that he had picked up the latest gossip and rumors of town (Prand reckoned that Lenny could give the most nosey and talkative women in town a run for their monies).

“Hey guys, guz what I heard,”

No one rose to the bait. Loudewater continued to dine while Prand sipped on his ale and pretended to read the labels of the wine barrels at the back of the bar. No one liked Lenny much. He had one drink too many already and was reeking of alcohol. Loudewater found himself stuffing more cheese than he would have liked into his mouth just to block out the pungent stench.

Undeterred, the carpenter tried the usual approach. He turned towards Loudewater and eyed him casually from head to feet for a moment, an evil grin forming at the edges of his thin lips,

“Lemme guz, ‘nother tiff with Helga again Low’water? No wait! Yer too spotless to start a fight! She threw yer out of the house? Or did jah run away while yer could, like the good dog you are, with your tail tucked between yer legs?”

Damn you Lenny!

Lenny bursted into a fit of mean sarcastic laughter that made nearby heads turn towards the bar. Picking on Loudewater whenever he could was his usual way of getting attention. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. But that was ole’ Lenny for you; deriving perverted self satisfaction from other people’s misery. And usually Loudewater would stifle wherever sense of embarrassment and hurt he felt inside and either feign not hearing the jib or laughed along in pretended good-natured ness.

Loudewater’s nostrils flared with irritation, but he said nothing and continued to eat. His teeth clamped hard with each bite and he was clutching the cheap fork harder than he should be. Many a times he wanted to put his foot down and demanded that the insults come to a stop. But his courage had always failed him at that particular moment when it was most needed and Lenny got off unchallenged. That hasn’t changed.

Nothing’s changed.

“Roll down the barrels” ended in applause and whistles of appreciation. A young man spotting a crop of flaming hair yelled for the popular hit “Panic in Gondor” but was deemed out of order. Finally after some hassle back and forth, the good patrons of the Prancing Pony broke into a drunken rendition of “You arn’t nothing but a hound warg”

A humming Butterbur Jr. came back to Loudewater with a greasy tankard of weak ale and cleared his throat loudly so that Lenny would know that he’s being watched. The innkeeper pouted when he noticed the visibly bended folk in Loudewater’s trembling hand but said nothing. Another patron shouted for service and the innkeeper rumbled along towards him.

Disappointed that his provocations had not yielded the desired effects, Lenny shrugged and cleared his voice,

“Whatever… Anyway, as I was saying, big things are happening in the east. ‘Em eastsiders are losing cattle and sheep faster than Butterbur can finish a bowl of cream soup!”

Prand signed and replied patiently, “We know of the missing life stock Lenny. It’s been reported in the weekly town circulars. It’s old news,”

“Yeah, but jah haf no idea the scale of it! We’re talking about entire enclosures, tens of hundreds, of thousands of them! All missing, guard dogs slaughtered in the most gruesome manner, farmers with missing heads. Barns and houses flattened! Makes yer sick in the stomach!”

Lenny. Persistent and prone to exaggeration.

“Then how come it’s not reported in the circulars?” retorted Prand, his interest perked.

“How would I know? Look, you can’t trust those town council and village elder sorts. They’re working in cahoots with that king to swindle us folks. ‘Em bloody bureaucrats!” swore Lenny as he hit the bat top with his clenched fist to emphasis his distain for authorities.

“You’re being unreasonable Lenny. The return of the king was a good thing. Federal taxes are lower than town taxes, I’ve never had so much gold in my purse… Not that there’s a lot to start with anyway. But there’s moderation of the price of corn and crimes have dropped. Life’s good,”

Lenny snorted loudly in a derisive manner, but Prand on a roll was not to be denied,

“This, this missing life stock thing, it’s just a recent development. You saw those rangers? And those newcomers that joined them? I bet Gondor sent them here to deal with it. The king cares. He was after all, one of us.” Prand concluded the last line with a proud smile. He enjoyed reminding people that he met Strider a couple of times during his younger days.

“HA! You Prand, and all yer government trusting sorts. I’m willing to wager that ‘em riders are behind those missing animals and travelers. I dunno, maybe some ploy of Gondor to raise highway taxes or sumthang! Never trust the government!”

Lenny. Paranoid conspiracy theorist.

Loudewater thought that he had heard enough and chuckled slightly to himself at Lenny’s aspersions and foolhardy beliefs. The adversary heard him and spun around for the inevitable confrontation. Loudewater the pacifist jolted a little but pretended not to notice the bigger man, and glued his eyes to the table, preparing for the inevitable.

Nothing’s changed.

“What’s that Low’water? You’ve got something to say? You’ve got a problem with me?” challenged Lenny in his characteristically bullying tone when dealing with the gentle farmer.

“Leave him alone Lenny!” ordered Prand. He was still icy after Loudewater snapped at him. But he wasn’t about to allow the insulting to go on.

Loudewater’s pupils dilated and his face blushed due to the accelerated flow of blood through his arteries and the quickened breathing. Anger was mounting within him and that was not all; the same emotion he felt earlier after he saw the strangers had resurfaced. The same sensation that made him lost his head and snap at Prand.

A change was coming.

For a moment he said nothing and continued to push the food on his plate around with the fork. He reached for his tankard and took a long sip.

“Yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? Laugh behind my back and pretend not to notice me when I’m talking to you… You’re gutless Low’water! You know that? And you know what? I’m willing to bet Helga’s got more guts that you do! I’m willing to bet that whenever you get lit’ troubles like this, you go running home to dah missus for protection!”

A change had come.

Lenny was about to continue but his words died in his mouth and his black eyes bulged in surprise when loudewater turned speedily towards him, dull eyes now wide opened, steely sharp and ablaze with fire, lips quivering uncontrollably and trembling hands clenched into vein-popped fists - the bended fork snapped into two and clattered onto the floorboards. The farmer’s breathing was now heavy and ragged, chest heaving and his shoulders rose up and down. His entire body was shaking like a coiled spring waiting to be released.

Lenny was caught unprepared and staggered backwards into an equally shocked Prand who had never seen Loudewater in such a state before. But just as quickly as it came, the sensation and all anger within Loudewater dissipated. The farmer convulsed and sucked in a long breath, his eyes were still wide but they were dull again. Disbelief and embarrassment of his own audacity now filled his head.

Without a word of courteous leave-taking, Loudewater leapt off his stool and mad his way to the exit, this time elbowing and shoving harder than required. The predictable yelps and torrent of curses filled the tavern air.

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

Veryadan spread a delicately thin layer of parchment over the map he’d placed on the table, securing it with four small, round, sand-packed leather weights. The dark, thick lines and letters he’d used on the original showed through clearly enough, and he took out his quill and ink, quickly sketching in a rough outline of the areas and a hasty scribble of each place name. Taking his place at the top of the map, he asked the two other Rangers to stand opposite him.

‘Now show us, if you will, where the attacks have been reported – and what sort of attack it was, and when each occurred if you have that information. I’ll mark them in as you go along, and we’ll see if any pattern emerges.

The room was hushed save for the murmurings of the two Rangers as they conferred with one another. A finger would then reach out to tap the parchment lightly. Veryadan marked each with a small ‘X’, then put a few abbreviated notes alongside each . . .

[Envinyatar]

Fen Sheperdspurse

The Elves and those nosey rangers had left the common room, the man from Rohan following behind. Gone down the hall to one of the fancy rooms. Fen watched them as they left, and waited patiently for a few moments to see that none would return. With the ease of one used to oozing quietly from one place to another, he slid up to the bar, landing close to the hallway the companions had gone down. Fen nodded casually to the man standing next to him, offering to stand him a drink. He’d jostled the man as he’d leaned in against the bar, and he wanted no trouble. Fen was waiting for old Butterbur’s son to have his attention occupied, then he intended to sneak down the hallway to hear what he might.

A trio of Bree men near him caught his interest with their loud talk. He sidled a little closer, leaned in on the bar, and cocked his ear toward the group. The din in the room rose and fell, allowing him only snatches of the conversation.

“ ‘Em eastsiders are losing cattle and sheep faster than Butterbur can finish a bowl of cream soup!”

Fen hid a smirk at this declaration, nodding his head slightly at the truth of it..

“We know of the missing life stock Lenny . . .” his companion remarked in an impatient tone.

“Yeah, but jah haf no idea the scale of it! We’re talking about entire enclosures, tens of hundreds, of thousands of them! All missing, guard dogs slaughtered in the most gruesome manner, farmers with missing heads. Barns and houses flattened! Makes yer sick in the stomach!”

‘You’ve no idea how sick it would make you if you knew the whole story,’ thought Fen, relishing the fact that he was lucky enough to be ‘in’ on it.

An argument broke out at a table by the fireplace, causing Fen to miss the next few patches of conversation at the bar. By the time things had quieted, Prand was speaking again.

“This, this missing life stock thing, it’s just a recent development. You saw those rangers? And those newcomers that joined them? I bet Gondor sent them here to deal with it. The king cares. He was after all, one of us.”

Fen spluttered into his mug as he tried to take a drink. He hadn’t made the connection himself . . . and now here was this other fellow making it for him. The Rangers and Elves weren’t just passing through. They were here to nose around in his boss’ business. Well, that wouldn’t do! Fen had plans for retiring to his own comfy little place once he collected enough coin to see himself comfortable. The Boss would need to hear about this development.

The Innkeeper had gone over to see to the argument at the fireplace. Fen slipped away from the bar and down the lamplit hallway. He doused the lights as he went, drawing near to the room where his quarry was gathered. The door was shut, locked in fact – he’d tried the latch ever so slightly and met resistance. Something scraped near the door and he leapt for the darkness of an open, empty room . . .

[Meneltarmacil]

"Four weeks ago, we started hearing reports of livestock disappearing in the area just east of Bree, which was somewhat disturbing considering the fact that the area had been completely quiet for almost twenty years. At first I put it down to increased numbers of wolves and other predators, but when people started disappearing we knew it had to be more than that. I sent out a scouting party two weeks ago, but there hasn't been any word from them since. It's a good thing you got that message I sent." said Thoronmir.

Veryadan spread a delicately thin layer of parchment over the map he’d placed on the table, securing it with four small, round, sand-packed leather weights. The dark, thick lines and letters he’d used on the original showed through clearly enough, and he took out his quill and ink, quickly sketching in a rough outline of the areas and a hasty scribble of each place name. Taking his place at the top of the map, he asked the two other Rangers to stand opposite him.

‘Now show us, if you will, where the attacks have been reported – and what sort of attack it was, and when each occurred if you have that information. I’ll mark them in as you go along, and we’ll see if any pattern emerges.

The room was hushed save for the murmurings of the two Rangers as they conferred with one another. A finger would then reach out to tap the parchment lightly. Veryadan marked each with a small ‘X’, then put a few abbreviated notes alongside each. The map eventually showed several points on the map, mostly between Bree and the Greyflood.

"I think their most likely base of operations would be at Weathertop." Veryadan pointed to the hill that was almost dead center of the attack sites on the map.

"The attacks appear to be spreading out farther and farther out," Menecar observed.

"If kept unchecked, they could threaten the Angle, Rivendell, Annuminas, and our own base of operations in Evendim." Thoronmir added. "Aidwain and Silrûth, I believe you are both from Rivendell," he said to the elves. "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?"

[Dragon Elf odin Ragnorock]

“I have another question for you elves?” Menecar asked

“ What would that be ranger?” asked Veryadan

“ How long would I take a man by any mode of transportation except by air to get to whethertop?”

“Well a long time maybe 2 to 3 days I don’t really know for sure.” Said Veryadan

“Good because the man in other room was spying on us because he was paying too much attention to what we were doing and looked very interested in our conversation.” said Menecar.

While the others were marking the ambushed sites Menecar Sat down by the door and he noticed that the handle on the door was moving so he walked over to the door and looked to see what was out there. But when he opened the door there was no one out in the hall so he blocked the door.

“Ranger what are you doing?” asked one of the Elves

“Someone was trying to get in here so I blocked the door.” Answered Menecar

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain and his companions waited patiently as Veradan talked to the two people who looked like Rangers.Aidwain obsevered that one man from the common room was particularly in terested in their company.And he meant to ask one of the rangers whether he was slinkard sort of a person.But then Veryadan arrived with the two rangers and becokoned them to sit with them.They had a very pleasent and fulfilling dinner of meat and mutton and some green stuff that tasted like chicken which Aidwain did'nt like it at all.

Butterbeer had given them a private room so they could talk in private as they certainly wished to do.

A few minutes found the eight of them in a small room with a fire. There were a few chairs, but not enough, so Butterbur brought in a few more stools. “And if there’s anything more you need, just ring the bell on the table there, and I’ll come runnin’. Always a pleasure, anytime . . .”

Menecar shut the door on the burbling landlord and turned around with a grin. “Just like his father,” he said, shaking his head.

“I will close these,” Silrûth said, crossing to the window. Swiftly she swung the shutters to and barred out the night.

Luinien was looking quizzically, almost expectantly at Tarondo. Catching her eye, Tarondo glanced at the door and then back. “Would you be so kind?”

“Of course.” Luinien picked up a stool and set it down by the door. She eased it open, peered swiftly down the hall in both directions, and noiselessly re-closed it. Sitting on the stool, she leaned her head back against the doorjamb and winked at her brother. Her hand rested gently on the hilt of her dirk.

Nearly everyone else had found a seat, but Osric Falkur still stood in the middle of the floor, his brow furrowed. He glanced speculatively at Tarondo, then turned to Thoronmir. “Who is he? The twisted man hiding in the shadows?”

“Fen Shepherdspurse,” the Ranger replied. “One of the brigands who took cover under the Shadow in this area, and nearly the only one to have survived this long. We try to keep aware of him, but he is very sly and has no love for us.” He spoke quietly, a wry smile on his lips.

“And the other?” Aidwain leaned forward, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “The thin one, who watched us the entire evening?”

“That was only Andas Loudewater, a local farmer,” Menecar spoke up. “I expect he was taking refuge from that sharp-tongued termagant he is married to.” He paused, frowning. “Surely he could have nothing to do with any of this,” he said, a note of protest in his voice.

“That is not the issue, Menecar,” Veryadan interposed. “We have no reason to believe either Shepherdspurse or Loudewater of being involved in anything. At the same time, we are not going to assume they are not involved. Especially when both have showed particular interest in us.”

Tarondo nodded. “This is simply part of being aware.” He stood up and paced slowly across the floor. “The problem is, we don’t know what is going on, much less who is behind it. We are here to discover exactly what is happening and who the enemy is. Only then will we take action, if we can. The King gave us strict orders to keep as safe as possible. He would rather have a report on the trouble than our deaths proving that there is trouble.

“Thoronmir and Menecar, what can you tell us? We need specifics on these attacks, and the more recent the better. Right now, that is the place to start.”

Thoronmir nodded. “We have that. Four weeks ago, there was . . .” he paused. “If you have a map I can show you more clearly.”

“Here.” Veryadan rose and extracted his map case from the pile of their gear. He pulled out a roll of parchment and spread it out on the table where the lamp stood.

“This is marvelous!” Thoronmir said.

Veryadan smiled slightly. “It’s by way of being my vocation. Now, tell us when and where everything happened.”

Then the two rangers described the places where most of the attacks took place,and Veryadan marked each of them with an "X" .Meanwhile Aidwain had been throughly bored of this dissucsion and he wished only for a good night's sleep,but then he was waked from his stupor by Thoronmir ( one of the rangers) "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?",he asked to Aidwain.

" Well we can certainly say that the base of the attacks is not from the Trollshaws,we elves regularly patrol the Trollshaws but except on some occasions where we had to fight some trolls , we found nothing,but we did sense some evil in trees , what it is we do not know?"

At that time Aidwain noticed that one of the Ranger had opened the door and was peering outside,out of sheer suspicion he asked

“Ranger what are you doing?”

“Someone was trying to get in here so I blocked the door.” Answered Menecar

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”,said the Ranger .

Aidwain settled down on his stool and with some thoughts of sleep still lingering in his mind began to listen to Menecar...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Arrald stalked toward the farm with as much quiet as he could, but as always his lumpen toes found every stone in the fields and kicked them. Each time he made a noise, Broga would “shush” him with growing impatience, but when – finally – Arrald kicked a stone so hard that it hammered off the side of the barn, Broga let out a roar of anger and clubbed Arrald across the face. Arrald reared back with his club and Dim made to punch Grimm, but they were prevented from their battle by the cries of the farm hands. Brought suddenly awake by the angry yells of the trolls, the farmer and his five sons – all of them broad shouldered and thick-limbed – charged out of the large house and made their desperate stand. The farmer was armed with an aged sword, and had hurriedly put on an iron helm that was clearly the remnant of a more glorious past, but his sons were all armed with little more than farm implements.

At first the sight of these men in their nightshirts was a cause for mirth, but when they began yelling insults at Arrald and even throwing rocks at him, he began to get angry. He let out a really good roar and charged the men directly, swinging his club above his head. Dim was right behind him but where those numbskulls Grimm and Broga had got to he did not know. He was almost upon the men when a sting in his head brought him up short. He put his hand to his brow and found an arrow protruding from his skin. Looking up he just had time to catch the next needle-sharp arrow that flew toward him from the bow of the farmer’s wife.

Now truly angry, Arrald rushed forward and swung his club at the farmer and his sons. They all evaded his attack, but the impact of his club in the earth knocked them all from their feet and sent the wife shrieking into the recesses of the house. Whirling about in anger, Arrald noticed for the first time that Broga and Grimm were engaged in battle with another six or seven men who had appeared from the farmhands’ quarters. That’s their problem he decided. Me, I’m going to take care of these farmers then look for the plunder.

He turned back to the farmer and his family and found only empty air. He looked about dully with Dim, but saw nothing. They were just about to give up when a sudden hail of arrows began falling about them. Looking toward the trees that lay near the house they saw the farmer, his five sons, and his wife all armed with bows and all peppering them. Now Arrald was truly angry. Hefting his club he gave the farmer’s house a terrible knock that brought down the front half of the structure. Seizing a large chunk of debris, he hurled it at the meddlesome family where it fell with a satisfying crunch in which at least two of the farmer’s sons disappeared in a twisted maze of wood. He and Dim then gave it their best roars and charged the remaining family members, but they broke and ran.

Their initial impulse was to continue the pursuit, but the orders of the orc chief had been so insistently drilled into them, that they stopped to see if they could remember what they were. “It ‘ad something to do with the sheep,” Dim ventured.

“No no,” Arrald corrected him, feeling sympathy for his brother’s slow wit. “‘E said we could have the sheep for ourselves, but only if we brought back the gold.”

Dim nodded, then a light went on in his eye. It was not a pleasant light. “Gold?” he said, as though hearing of the substance for the first time. “I like gold! All shiny and slippery it feel in my hands. It’s nice to have something twinkly to look at when one’s eating.”

Arrald came up short at that. “Why that’s quite true, Dim. It is.” An idea struck him. “Look here now, Dim, something’s just occurred to me. The orcs, see, they’re not here, right? Well how are they to know how much gold is in that sack?”

“I don’t know,” replied Dim, his head on one side.

“That’s just the thing, see. They won’t know. So what say you and me take a bit of it for ourselves before we ‘and it over?”

Dim’s eyes lit up again with an even less pleasant light. “Oh, I like that, that’s good.” Smiling he started toward the farm house, but he paused and with a very serious look upon his countenance he inquired, “But what about the sheep, Arrald? We won’t give them up will we?”

“Of course not, don’t be daft,” Arrald replied, happy that his brother had reminded him of the sheep, which had all but slipped his mind as he contemplated the brilliance of his plan to deceive the orcs. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s see how them other two ‘ave made out.”

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Take care of them other wood-ticks, brother! I’m heading for the house.’

Grimm gave a final blow to the three farmhands who’d been foolish enough to face him. Their clubs had bounced off his scaly hide, much to their slack-jawed surprise; his axe, to their further chagrin, had found purchase in two of their soft skulls. The third had provided some brief amusement with a show of bravado – the man had moved in to help his mates, and been brought to his knees by a single blow. Grimm laughed as the man’s bloody stumps hit the dirt.

As he made for the rear of the farm house, he could hear Broga baiting his four distractions . . . followed by the sound of his thick oak club thwacking something in a satisfying way.

The rear door was locked. It offered no resistance to the ham-fisted grip of the Troll, soon parting company with the door frame altogether. A single lamp stood on the kitchen’s table, its light glinting off the polished pots the goodwife had hanging along the wall. Grimm’s eyes lit up with greedy anticipation at the lovely glitter that enticed him. A few moments of rummaging brought the find of an empty cotton flour sack. Its empty interior was soon stuffed with all manner of pots, a smoked ham from the pantry, several loaves of bread, and a number of pots of jam.

From the kitchen, Grimm made his way to the front room. Nothing much of interest there - save for the fire poker with its polished brass knob, which soon found its rattling way to the bottom of the sack. Up the dark stairs he went, then, trying each of the room doors as he came to them. Naught of interest in what appeared to be the children’s rooms, but the last room at the end of the hallway was a treasure trove. Pretty glass bangles hung from the edge of a lamp’s shade. Grimm harvested them, carefully stowing them in his leathern pouch – some lacy doily from a nightstand serving to cushion them from each other. A wooden box on the same nightstand gave in easily to his prying fingers, and the few baubles within (hair combs, a cloak pin, and a necklace with earrings) soon found themselves nestling against the glass bangles from the lamp.

Grimm poked about in the wardrobe of the room; pulled out drawers from the storage cabinet, emptying their contents on the floor; flipped the mattress off the bed, all in hopes of finding the gold. Nothing! In frustration, he kicked the massive wooden chest he’d already gone through, sending it flying against the wall.

Broga, by this time, had finished off his assailants and come in to look for his brother. He found him leaning against a wall in the bedroom, rubbing the toes of one foot. ‘Oh! What’s this?’ his piggish eyes caught the sight of a thick metal ring, set in the floor where the chest had stood. He pulled on it with one hand, the other reaching down into the dark recess beneath it. Not one but three, leather bags were soon brought up. Their ties undone; the glittering treasure within fondled lovingly by the rough hands of the Trolls.

‘Gold!’ came the soft exclamation from Grimm. His eyes narrowed, looking about the room suspiciously as if prying eyes might see their find. With a sweep of his hand he picked up one bag, the largest, and stuffed it into the waist band of his ragged kilt. Broga was about to do the same, but Grimm’s hand stayed him. ‘These two’ll do for those other lugs, brother. Keep the Orcs from wondering who’s been dipping into their gold.’ Broga grumbled at this reasoning and gnashed his teeth in frustration. ‘Just a handful for me own?’ he whined. A wide grin split his face as his brother sighed and nodded ‘yes’. Broga’s massive fist closed about a pile of coins, hiding them in the hollowed leg of one of the wolf skins adorning his body.

Making their way back out to the farmyard, they found Arald and Dim making their way to the house. They’d plundered the smokehouse, and a necklace of sausages hung about Arrald’s neck while Dim’s hands grasped several great hams. ‘Here!’ cried Grimm, waving the two leather bags at the approaching Trolls. ‘We’ve done your work for you!’ He threw the two bags at Dim. ‘Gold . . . for them Orc scum.’ Arrald looked at the lumpy flour sack and snorted. ‘Nowt you need to be seeing in here,’ said Grimm, axe coming quickly into his hand. ‘Some pots and pans we want; and a few little baubles from the bedrooms.’ He narrowed his eyes at the other two Trolls. ‘Take your gold and hams, and sheep, too. We’re heading back. Had enough fun for tonight.’

Broga and Grimm gave the other two a wide berth, heading toward their camp. Their retreat took them past the chicken coop. The poor birds were in a dither from the sounds and the smell of blood on the air. A single swoop of Broga’s fist gathered up a fair number by their scrawny necks. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said, holding up the now limp forms for his brother’s perusal. ‘We can cook ‘em up while we sort through our prizes.’

The two great lumpish forms made their clink-clank way to the edge of the farm proper, disappearing beneath the darkness of the trees that edged it.

[Saurreg]

A faint reddish hue tinted the night sky, but the clouds were smooth on the underside. There were no rumbling of thunder or bouts of lightning flashes within the wispy cotton nimbuses. There would be no storm tonight, not even a heavy downpour. The evening was turning out to be an anti-climax despite the cloud built-up during dusk.

Loudewater bursted through the door of the Prancing Pony and barely came to a stop at the middle of the dirt road. He was breathless with amazement and had to bend down with his arms propped against his kneecaps to catch his breath and allow the blood to flow to his head. Nausea came but he did not feel the urge to heave. As the farmer continued to breathe heavily and stare at the ground, he espied his old dagger dangling by the left side of his leather belt and froze in terror.

It would have been so easy for him to simply reach down, unsheathe the blade and slash Lenny across the neck, had he felt the dagger during his moment of temporal insanity at the bar…

Morbid realization sent shivers down the farmer’s frame and he suddenly felt the urge to make water. The lavatory of the Prancing Pony was behind the establishment, whereas he was standing in front of it. Loudewater felt immensely irritated by his inconvenient location and he was reluctant to walk around the huge complex or worse, reenter the serving hall where he had just committed his self exodus.

Nature’s call persisted and Loudewater’s temper augmented. He was irritated both by the discomfort of his bladder and the shameful state he was in. Face distorting hideously, he emitted a harsh low growl and kicked at the dirt, fashioning a small cloud of dirt and sand in the night air.

The imp of perversion and his sidekick, the pixie of irrationality paid a visit again. Loudewater’s eyes flashed with mad mischief and he bellowed,

“I AM ANDAS LOUDEWATER! A REAL MAN! RULES OF PATHETIC TOWN FROGS DON’T APPLY TO ME! I’LL MAKE WATER WHEN EVER I WANT! WHERE EVER I WANT! ARRRAAGH!”

The farmer then proceeded to untie the drawstrings of his trousers right where he stood, but his fingers were clumsy with adrenaline and complicated the knot even further. The more he struggled, the tighter the knot went. Loudewater was in such a desperate state of exasperation that he found himself clenching his teeth and literally hopping around like a great ape in heat.

The world worked in mysterious ways. Sometimes it drove normal men to the brink of unexplainable insanity and sometimes it was compassionately kind to said men. In this case, it decided to spare Loudewater the blushes and embarrassment of potential memories. An icy night wind blew and its cold touch washed over the maniacal farmer, who immediately became still. He tilted his head thoughtfully, cursed a little under his breath and then toddled into a dark dingy alley (well sheltered from the elements) between the inn and another mason building to relief himself.

After he was done, the farmer found himself unable or rather, unwilling to leave the dark recesses of the deserted pathway. Loudewater’s legs gave way and he fell heavily onto his own filth. He drew his knees together, rolled his shoulders so that he was in a fetal position and wept silently to himself…

[Esgallhugwen]

After Silrûth had closed the shutters she sat back down on the stool, moving it closer to the table. All of them had huddled closer together, watching as "X's" were inked onto a thin parchment paper, the places of stolen livestock and other violent happenings.

The fair golden haired Elf could not help but be bothered by the beady stare of a haggard old man that preceded their meeting, she was often distracted by the noises outside but kept a close ear to what the Ranger's were discussing.

"If kept unchecked, they could threaten the Angle, Rivendell, Annuminas, and our own base of operations in Evendim." Thoronmir added. "Aidwain and Silrûth, I believe you are both from Rivendell," he said to the elves. "How far into the Trollshaws would you say they have come?"

Silrûth looked at him, "too far for my liking", she gazed coldly at the markings on the map showing a widening range of attacks and thefts. She added to her partner by saying, "though the attacks are not based out of the Trollshaws, it is quite obvious on my scouting missions that the Trolls are indeed migrating from that region, something is giving them the confidence to move out from their refuge, while something else is moving in, orcs and such no doubt, the trees have ways of telling me".

She could not hide the hatred in her deep grey eyes, but she remained calm and smiled warmly at the Ranger's, one of whom was peering over the group about to reveal further locations, Silrûth believed his name to be Menecar.

“Could you come over here and tell us where some of the attacks happened?” asked Veryadan

“Sure, I would love to.”

But before he could continue Silrûth interrupted as politely as she could, "pardon my asking, but do any of you have any speculations as to what may be causing these disturbances, some sole force must be behind all of this, Orcs are not very independent and Trolls are far too feebleminded for well thought out attacks".

[Envinyatar]

Fen Sheperdspurse

His heart thumped so loudly in his chest he thought for certain the Elves would hear him. Fen stood in the darkness of the room across the way from the secret meeting. He’d flattened his back against the wall just inside the door, closed his eyes, and stopped his ragged breathing as best he could. ‘1,2,3,4, . . .’ he said slowly. Fen counted slowly to twenty, then opened one eye at a time and took a deep breath. No one had come looking for the source of the shaken door handle.

He snaked his head around the doorframe – the door to the room across the hall was still shut; no one he could see was lingering in the hall. Pulling his raggedy cloak about him, Fen made himself as small as possible and slunk quickly down the hall. He kept to the shadows as he made his way through the Common Room and hurried out the door.

Someone, at the end of the lane, had tied his horse to a convenient tree, avoiding the few pennies it would cost to stable the steed at the Inn. Fen reached out his grubby hand and rubbed the horse’s nose, speaking quietly to the beast. ‘Come now, my friend. I have use of you for the night. I’ll have you back before your cheapskate owner ahs downed his last mug.’

Untying the horse quickly, he mounted, and gave him a few sharp kicks in the flanks, urging him away from the Inn. He was bound for his usual meeting place with the boss’ representative, or so he called himself . . . now what was that throat-clearing name again . . . ah yes, Gráthgrob . . .

[Nuranar]

"Pardon my asking, but do any of you have any speculations as to what may be causing these disturbances? Some sole force must be behind all of this, Orcs are not very independent and Trolls are far too feebleminded for well thought out attacks."

Tarondo was studying the map over Veryadan's shoulder when Silrûth spoke. He spoke answered without looking up. "That is precisely what we are here to discover. The King ordered us to find out the source of the trouble and take what action we can." The Elf straighted up and smiled at the others. "We can sit up all comparing the intelligence and abilities of Men, Orcs, Trolls, and Elves," he said, "but I am weary, if no one else is. We need to learn exactly what happened during these attacks before there is value in speculation."

"I will tell Butterbur that we want to hear the stories," Thoronmir volunteered.

"He will have plenty to tell himself," laughed Luinien. "Beware!"

"He will tell others also," said Veryadan. "More will come forward; everyone loves to spread news of disaster. And we can find survivors, too. Their accounts will be most useful."

"If there are any," Alaksoron said gloomily.

Tarondo shot him a glance, then nodded and went on. "Very well, I think that is sufficient for tonight. And" - he halted them for a moment - "do not reveal that we are sent by the King, unless it is unavoidable. I do not see any good that would come of that information spreading throughout the countryside." After the companions agreed, they dispersed to rest for the remainder of the night.

[Alaksoron]

Osric didn't feel particularly tired so he decided to visit his horse before bed. Shadow was a fine animal, strong if not terribly fast. Falkur gave him a pat and fed him an apple and stroked his nose a bit, made sure Shadow went to sleep. Then he went for a smoke.

He didn't go back inside the inn, rather just leaned on the side of the porch. It was too loud inside for him. Right now he needed quiet. He needed to think. He mused over what the others had spoke of. Osric himself had taken little part in the conversation, merely looking at the map and offering what he knew.

A sudden wind made Osric shiver. Pulling his cloak closer against the evening chill, he thought bed might not be such a bad idea. His eyes dropped like lead weights. He was very nearly asleep where he stood when his keen ears picked up the distant sound of weeping.

[Envinyatar]

Kransha's post

A dull, pointless tune, whistled badly by orcish lips, rent the calm air. Búbkûr was not a good whistler, not at any rate, and his butchery of the same old uruk folk tune he’d heard circulating around the campfire was appalling. He didn’t even like the melody, as he’d made clear earlier, but the silence of the area disconcerted him greatly, filling him with the urge to be at least half as noisy as he usually was. He didn’t like all the nature, which was a given in a forested, hilly land. He especially didn’t like the trees. He’d lived his whole life in a place without trees, or bushes, or leaves, or roots, or any filth that accompanied trees. Any tree was like a thorn in his side. But, he especially hated those leafless, crooked ones. Those were the worst trees, and since Búbkûr didn’t like trees, he especially didn’t like the least likable trees, as they were not likable (which made perfect sense to him, somewhat). There were a lot of those in Bree-land, mostly in the dense, derelict forests. Thankfully, there were not that many of those trees in the area where Búbkûr was at the moment.

Where he was was at a familiar locale, between Bâzzog’s section of camp and that of Ugwakh, his second. He had come from Ugwakh’s section, having acted as an annoyed messenger who brought word of plans and schemes that he did not fully understand. He felt left out of the loop, regardless of who he spoke to, and it made him mad. Ugwakh’s dull, gruff attitude hadn’t helped. The parley broke into quick and steady argument, common for hostile orc-kind. Búbkûr was content to have left the wretched glob of an orc to his own wretched devices. His course back to Bâzzog was abandoned as he sought unheard of tranquility to ponder his situation. He felt better, not in the company of Bâzzog, Ugwakh, or the smart-mouth Gráthgrob. But, his feeling was overthrown when clip-clopping noise broke his ‘concentration’ and a trio of those crooked, horrid trees appeared just as he crested a small lump of a dirt mound. To the most crooked, most hateful tree was tied a horse, with its rider walking beside it. It took an irritatingly long time for Búbkûr to recognize the fellow and realize that he had wandered to an appointed place of meeting with said man.

“Yer Fen Sheperdsnurse, roight?” He said, enthusiastically, as he approached the man. He remembered that the 'negotiator' between the orcs an the Breelanders was actually old Grathgrob, and that's probably who this creature was expecting. It didn't matter, since, as they said in Bree sometimes, "Beggars can't be choosers." When it comes to orcs, everyone's a beggar, and nobody bothers risking their lives making choices. Choices are a bad thing, in uruk company. Finishing his exclamation, Búbkûr looked over the man, who looked dissapointed about the recipient of his soon-to-be-delivered message. He also looked like several other things, but Búbkûr was never any good at conjuring appropriate adjectives.

Fen coughed pointedly. “That’s Sheperdspurse, orc.” He corrected, his raspy voice grating on Búbkûr’s easily stricken nerves. Waving his clawed hand dismissively, the uruk nodded. “Yeah, sure it is. Whaddaya want?” He was obviously impatient, and in a sour mood. Even though he never considered challenging Bâzzog, he was often tempted when the superior orc treated him so dishonorably. Growling in his bracken-clotted throat, the orc’s hook hand scratched idly at the small of his back, drawing blood inadvertently. Though Fen’s eyes were drawn to the strange activity, the man of Bree managed to remain focused and continue speaking. Búbkûr’s gaze, though, unavoidably continued to sway, looking at that crooked tree behind the man; that tree he so disliked. Disliking the tree made him feel more confident, and he almost blocked out the sound of Fen Sheperdspurse.

“I come bringing ill news, orc,” Fen drawled on, “and you’d do best to pass it on to your captain.” Búbkûr looked up; one brow rising so that one of his two beady eyes became swollen and bulbous, which was probably the best look of inquiry the foul creature could muster. The orc whipped his hook hand back out and brandished it in a menacing fashion at the Breelander. “Yer bringin’ illness?” he said, skeptical and confused, “I don’t wanna get sick, ya know!” His two eyes were now bulging from their sockets, to Fen’s dismay. The Breelander probably would’ve been irritated by the orc’s stupidity if that same orc hadn’t been waving a rusty metal hook several inches in front of his nose. Hurriedly, Fen attempted to calm Búbkûr promptly, gesturing with his arms to settle the bewildered fiend.

“Bad news,” he stated swiftly, “I bring bad news.”

Astutely, Búbkûr settled down, speaking dimly as if nothing had happened. He needed no second measure of reassurance. His hook returned to its fleshy scratching post. “Oh…yeah, fine.” He muttered, looking away without a care or aim. “What is it?...The bad news, I mean.” Fen nodded, as if in understanding and, wrapping his narrow fingers around his staff again. Like a foul orator preparing for rhetoric, he contemplated. With a reserved gesture that plainly meant “Get to the point,” from Búbkûr, Fen began again, saying “There’s been some sort of clandestine meeting in the Prancing Pony” and pausing afterward to see the orc’s reaction (or lack thereof). After Búbkûr bobbed his head dimly, Fen went on. “Four northern Rangers and four Elves and a fifth ranger, all whispering like they’re talking about some dark secret. I thought Bâzzog would want to know.”

“Sure he would.” Búbkûr snapped, frustrated, not fully comprehending the situation, “Ya say four tarks meetin’ with four Elves?” Rolling his eyes as the orc looked away, Fen replied: “Yes, and another Ranger with the Elves.” Búbkûr’s lower, bulbous lip wound up over his upper jaw, enveloping it, and he scratched his hairy chin. “I’ve got it.” He said at last, a spark in his bugging eyes, “After we spend all the gold from last noight, we’ll get right on doin’ somethin’ about them tarks.” Fen’s own eyes illuminated evilly all of a sudden at the last statement. Stuttering in anticipation, the man ventured a query.

“Last night, you say?”

“Yeah.” Búbkûr tried to look intelligent as he nodded, still unaware of the wound he was tearing in his back, “Them stupid trolls got a grand haul from the Whittleworth Farm just outside o’ Staddle. Thems trolls get stupider by the day, I reckon.” He laughed, good-naturedly, but the laugh he elicited from Fen was forced (though Búbkûr was too busy developing the cognitions of a proper guffaw to notice). “Indeed.” Fen murmured, as soon as his ‘surfeit of raucous laughter’ had concluded, “So, what of the Rangers and Elves?” Búbkûr noticed Fen’s uneasiness, but ignored it in true orc fashion, considering. His feeble strivings toward philosophy were miserable, especially when he tried to look philosophical. “Pump ‘em fer information, ya know?” He growled sinisterly, “Ya can tell ‘em about the farm, that’s old news. Just so long as ya get some good news next time ya come.” He brandished his hook hand with ominous intent again, his eyes narrowing. “I won’t be quite so pleasant if’n ya bring ill news again.”

It didn’t take long for Fen Sheperdspurse to turn on his heels, leap onto the malnourished horse he had bound to that nearby, crooked and hunched over tree, and gallop off briskly into the distance, towards Bree. Chuckling merrily to himself, and thinking himself quite intelligent, Búbkûr galumphed back towards Bâzzog’s camp, slicing through half the trunk of that crooked tree, shaking it to its very roots. He really hated that tree.

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

One of the serving girls showed the Rangers, men, and Elves to the rooms they had prepared for them. The bed looked inviting to Veryadan; it had been a long day and a longer journey – the fatigue of their rapid pace had finally caught up with him, he conceded sitting down on the mattress. His saddle packs, he noted, had been placed on a small chest at the end of the cot. A small ewer of water had been left on the table next to the bed, along with a clean glass.

‘Now there’s a candle by the bed, sir,’ the girl said. She held it to the flame of the lamp she’d brought with her and secured it snugly in the candleholder. ‘I’ll bring round the hot water early in the morning for your wash basin. The towels and soap are there near it.’ She looked about in a satisfied way at the room. ‘Is there aught else you’ll be needing, sir?’

Veryadan shook his head at her question. ‘Just sleep, I think,’ he said seeing her to the door. He pressed a copper coin into her hand, asking that she get him up just after dawn, if she would. He’d something he wanted to see to. The girl smiled prettily and dropped a small curtsy, saying she would be sure to do so.

---

Dawn came earlier than he would have liked. The bed was indeed comfortable and he was loath to drag his warm limbs from it. The girl had brought hot water with her when she woke him and he took a few minutes to wash the sleep from his face. A short time later saw him in the common room seeking something to break his fast. Butterbur’s son was not yet in evidence, perhaps he was in the kitchen or more likely still abed.

Veryadan had just gotten his plate of eggs and toast when he saw Osric, and the Ranger, Thoronmir, come into the common room. He nodded to them as they drew near. ‘Come, have your morning’s meal with me.’ The three passed a short while in idle conversation, drinking the hot tea that had been left for them. Veryadan at last put down his mug and looked from one to the other. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which one of you was going to speak with the Innkeeper?’ He took another swallow of the sweet liquid as one of them claimed the task. ‘Have you been able to do that yet?’ he went on . . .

[Dragon Elf odin Ragnorock]

Menecar woke up early that morning to go get some supplies. He also took a little walk to think about what they were supposed to do at Whethertop when they got there.

“ I know that we are supposed to get information and see who is leading the Orcs in these organized raids, but what are we supposed to do with them when we see who is the leader?” He said to himself.

After he got some last minute supplies and a sharpening stone for his knives he went back to the inn. On his way back he saw that man that was looking at him and Thoronmir in the inn, so he gave chase. But lost him by the inn. Menecar heard voices inside so he opened the door and there was Veryadan, Thoronmir, and Osric sitting at the table eating.

“Have you been able to do that yet?” said Veryadan

“Able to do what Veryadan,” asked Menecar

“Talk to the inn keeper,” said Thoronmir

“ Oh, about what may I ask?” Asked Menecar with a strange look on his face

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had almost slept during most of the talk in the room but he was still listening to what the others said.For now they had decided to make a general announcement in the Inn about the attacks and gather information . When he returned to his room he did not feel like sleeping at all .

So instead of going to bed he decided to take a walk near the Inn .After going out he found Osric near the stables but he did not wish to talk to him so went to the other side of the Inn and sat on a nearby tree.Looking on the village he did not find it very impressive ,he wished he was back in Rivendell .

He woke up rather late the next morning ,and when he had washed ,he went down in trhe common room to have some food,there he found that Veryadan ,Osric and Menecar had already finished their breakfast ...

[Saurreg]

The morning sun was already shining down into the alley when Loudewater awoke. He got up, yawned and massaged his neck gingerly; the farmer had fallen asleep in an awkward position and his entire body ached. Stretching and rubbing his eyes as he reentered the main street, Loudewater turned towards the direction that would bring him home, walked a few steps, suddenly stopped and then turned about and headed back for the Prancing Pony.

Andas Loudewater was hungry. He was also quite comfortably calm. He was happy.

The farmer stepped onto the tavern’s porch, pushed open the creaky door and headed straight towards the bar, ignoring anything and anyone in the peripheral. He took a seat on one of the high stools just a few feet away from where he was seated the night before. But Loudewater was non-fazed, he wasn’t contemplating the events of the previous evening. He wasn’t even thinking about Lenny or his best mate Prand. The only thing on his mind was breakfast.

Andas Loudewater was hungry. And he was also happy. And that’s that.

Butterbur Jr. was at the far end of the bar but of the serving girls approached, shrank back alittle when confronted by the horrendous stench and stains on the farmer’s day old clothes but quickly regained her professional composure. The bubbly lass bade Loudewater a good morning (which, our farmer reciprocated courteously) and asked if he would like to break his fast (which again, Loudewater amicably agreed to).

Breakfast was a steaming bowl of congealed porridge served with a half-boiled egg and a steaming mug of tea which Loudewater quickly asked for to be substituted for a tankard of mead. Breaking the shell of the egg, the hungry farmer poured its contents into the bowl, stirred and wolfed down the meal greedily. He scalded his lips and tongue a little and amused the serving girl who tried to suppress her giggles. Loudewater’s senses were highly acute that morning, he heard the serving girl and responded most uncharacteristically – he busted into an infectious fit of hysterical laughter himself.

The high-pitched laughter of a young teenaged woman and the guffaws of a middle-aged men drew heads to the bar. In normal circumstances, the normal Andas Loudewater would have shied away in embarrassment and scrambled for a place to hide. But on this day, Loudewater’s stomach was contented and he was feeling strangely fine. He couldn’t be bothered.

As the last of the laughter died down, the girl returned to her chores behind the bar (she was wiping tumblers) and Loudewater resumed to his meal. He took a long swig of mead and savored the sweet sour taste of fermented honey and distilled well water and signed appreciatively. It wasn’t particularly good mead, but on this particular morning Loudwater was in a mysteriously good mood and the beverage tasted divine.

“Tell me sweet lass,”

“Yes, Mister?”

“Do you think I’m fat?” asked Loudewater as he felt himself about the stomach and waist. His groping hands detected the presence of a slight paunch typical of a middle-aged man of his physique, a bulge that he had noticed and disregarded countless times. But on this day he eyed it evilly with much disgust.

The young girl was too surprised by the nature of the question and did not answer. Instead she continued to busy herself with her chores (still tumblers). But Loudewater did not expect a definitive answer from her anyway.

“It would seem that I should loose some weight. Don’t you think?”

No bite on the bait.

“Partake in those… those exercises that young strapping boys are nowadays so involved in. Get fit huh?”

No knock on the door.

Loudewater shrugged nonchalantly and made a funny face at the serving girl. It was meant to amuse, but it terrified her. Getting up onto the floorboards, the farmer slapped a gold guinea on the counter as tips for the service rendered and sauntered towards the door. Peripherals not important.

“Tell ole’ Butterbur to put it on my tab. Andas Loudewater,” he touted loudly as he reached forward and turned the handle of the door.

As Loudewater took one step out of the Prancing Pony with his left foot, he paused in mid step, turned around and faced the serving girl again,

“You know what? I think I would like some change. Some adventure or something. I think… I think I’ll go camping,”

The farmer stepped outside, closed the door and surveyed the bustling main street that was choked to the sides with traffic. The sun was blazing mightily. He took the cope off, swung it around his back and went off whistling. He did not even notice that Fen Sheperdspurse had passed by him and slithered back into the inn.

Loudewater was happy.

[Primrose Bolger]

Grimm woke to the smell of roasting chicken. Peeling open one thick eyelid, he stared blurrily out from the little cave of skins he’d thrown over himself in the night. His nose poked just beyond their ragged edge, sniffing mightily at the enticing scent.

Broga heard the familiar snuffling noise and turned his head toward his brother. ‘Just about done. All nice and crispy on the outside like we likes ‘em and juicy on the innards!’ He grinned sloppily as Grimm heaved himself up from his pallet and scratched his backside, his familiar morning ritual. ‘Look here! I even got the fire going myself!’ Broga turned back to his cooking and ripped off a leg and thigh, crunching happily through the skin, meat and bones. ‘Come on! They’re done now.’ he said waving the half gnawed hindquarter at his brother, a trail of chicken grease slithering down his chin as he held out a rod of spitted hens to Grimm.

The sleepy-eyed Troll mumbled something as he stumbled toward the brace of hens. Grasping the hot iron rod in his fingers, he danced about a bit, blowing mightily as he slid the hot birds from their skewer and onto a nearby log. Picking one up in his great grip, he tore a sizable chunk from it with his snaggly teeth. He chewed thoughtfully on it, grimacing every once in a while as he rubbed his neck with his free hand.

‘Whatsa matter?’ asked Broga, wiping his hands on his clothes as he reached for a water skin.

‘Them bags a gold,’ mumbled Grimm round a mouthful of chicken. ‘They’re a poor excuse for a pillow, they are. My neck’s all tied in knots.’

Broga ignored his brother’s complaint, knowing that if he commented on it, the particulars of the aches and pains might go on forever. Instead, he picked up a thigh bone and cracked it open, sucking what marrow he could from it. The jagged end of it he used to pluck, ineffectually, scraps of meat from between his teeth. Sitting back, his stomach pleasantly full of good food, he surveyed their little camp. ‘Those Orcs ain’t bad little fellows,’ he offered in a congenial tone. ‘Think up some good fun, they do.’ He looked toward his brother. ‘Think they’ll have something thought up for us tonight?’

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir stood up and walked over to where the innkeeper was. "Mr. Butterbur?" he said.

"Something I can do for you, Thenamir?" Butterbur said.

My name is Thoronmir, as I've already reminded you fifty billion times. Thoronmir thought to himself. He sighed, then spoke, "We're interested in hearing about some of the attacks on the settlements around here. Do you know anything about it?"

"Well, I've heard from a lot of people about bad stuff happening to their farms. Livestock missing and such." Butterbur replied.

"Anybody in particular?" Thoronmir said.

"Bill Swiftstream lost a lot of cattle last week," Butterbur answered. "Tom Longbranch's cornfields were burned at around the same time, and I heard that Andas Loudewater's missing several sheep."

Thoronmir made a mental note of the names and the location of their farms. Then he addressed the people ion the common room.

"Does anybody have any information regarding the attacks in this area?"

[Envinyatar]

Fen Shepherdspurse

Fen leaned on the bar looking much the worse for wear. Most of the night had been spent galloping to and from his meeting with the Orcs, rather Orc, he should say. Búbkûr! Fen’s face screwed into a soured look as he thought of the Orc. That ugly son of a dark night irked him no end. Dumber’n a stump, he’d decided. He had hoped to speak with the other one, Gráthgrob, the one he’d first made contact with. ‘Ah, well,’ he’d shrugged mentally, ‘one Orc’s coins are as good as another’s.’ He’d come away from the meeting with a few extra coins in his pocket and a new task set for him: pump ‘em for information . . . – the tarks, Búbkûr called them, and the Elves.

And now here Fen was at the bar, wondering how he was to go about his assignment when his ears caught part of the conversation by one the Rangers and the Innkeeper . . .

‘We're interested in hearing about some of the attacks on the settlements around here. Do you know anything about it?’ one of the Rangers had asked. Butterbur’s back was to him and Fen could not make out what he said. But then the Ranger had turned and addressed all those in the common room. ‘Does anybody have any information regarding the attacks in this area?’ Fen was quiet, looking slyly about as several farmers spoke up saying, ‘Aye’, they’d heard the news of this or that happening.

Fen smirked to himself at their little stories. They were nothing compared to what he’d heard about last night. He called Butterbur to him, saying he might have something them Rangers might want to hear about . . . something horrible what just happened last night at the Whittleworth farm. Who should he talk to he wondered aloud, looking about the room at the Breelanders who had already engaged the attention of the Rangers there. ‘You wait here,’ said Butterbur, mistaking the man’s tired, grey, drawn face for one who had seen some horror and was distraught at the thought of it. ‘I’ll fetch someone to hear you out. You just set yourself down, and drink your ale. I’ll be back quicker’n you can wink . . .’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“Oy! Arrald! Get yerself out ‘ere and help me with these sheep!”

Arrald crept out of the cave that he shared with his brother, still scratching his armpit and yawning mightily. Even from where he stood three long troll strides away the smell was enough to curl the hair in Dim’s nostrils. “Ouch!” he cried. “How much of that farmer’s brew did you quaff last night?”

“As much as yerself!” Arrald shot back grumpily. In fact, he had downed a considerable quantity more than his brother in celebration of their takings from the farm. That and their cunning in withholding some of the gold from the orcs. Arrald chuckled again at the memory, causing him to burp loudly.

Dim squinted his eyes at his brother as he took the skin from another sheep. “What are you laughing at?” He rather suspected that it might be him, for Dim was very sensitive about his brother’s opinion. He had always known that he was the slower of the two and was self-conscious about that.

Arrald gapped and stretched again, then reaching out for one of the cold joints of goat from the night before he explained to his brother. “I’m just remembering on how those orcs were so easily taken in by us. There we were, practically falling over with the weight of the gold we had on us, and we handed over just one pouch to them. Ha!” he burped again as he chortled. “That will teach them stinking orky for calling us stupid.” Arrald and his brother enjoyed a good laugh together and the sound sent wildlife for miles around scuttling for cover. When they had regained their composure Arrald said, “Hand me over that bag of gold, Dim. I wants to count it again.”

Dim looked at him blankly. “I ain’t got it,” he said. “You ‘ave hold of the one we kept.”

“I do not,” Arrald replied angrily. “I gave my pouch on over to that orc chieftan. You know, the swaggering one as thinks he’s so smart and sharp. I handed my pouch over as you kept yours hidden.”

“No no,” Dim said shaking his head. “You’ve got it all misunremembered. I gave my pouch of gold to that second-in-commander orky, while you kept yours as you spoke with the commander.”

“No,” Arrald said, recognition of what had happened beginning to dawn upon him. “That’s backwards. I gave the gold, and you kept it.”

“No,” Dim said, growing angry. “I tells you, it’s the other way round. But why are we arguing about this? You must know what happened as you still have your pouch.”

Arrald fixed his brother with a rocky gaze. “I don’t ‘ave any more gold in me pocket as you have sense in your head you dunderbrained fool! You gave up the gold that you were supposed to keep, while I was distracting them with the gold I was giving up so that you could keep yours.” This took Dim some time to work through, but when it did he denied that this had been their plan, and Arrald insisted that it had been. Either way, it was now painfully clear to them what had happened.

They argued back and forth about it for most of the morning until finally they had a good knocking about over it which settled the matters nicely. Settling back down to their lunch and nursing their bruises they decided that at least they had been smart enough to keep the livestock and the beer for themselves.

[Esgallhugwen]

"That is precisely what we are here to discover. The King ordered us to find out the source of the trouble and take what action we can." The Elf straighted up and smiled at the others. "We can sit up all comparing the intelligence and abilities of Men, Orcs, Trolls, and Elves," he said, "but I am weary, if no one else is. We need to learn exactly what happened during these attacks before there is value in speculation."

"Aye", Silrûth replied with a small grin on her face, "forgive my hastiness, mayhaps I'll go for a short walk before I rest my eyes", she stood as the others began to leave the room, Veryadan rolled up the map and tracing neatly, taking it with him.

The Elf made her way to the front of the Inn, few patrons had stayed behind and the stragglers were too drunk to make it from there tables to the door. The fresh air pushed back the nauseating smell of alcohol and sweat, and already she began to feel her mind clear.

_~_~_~_~_~_~_

A thin ray of sunlight slid through a parting in the drapes casting a warm band across Silrûth's head. The golden circlet disappeared as she sat up and stretched the sleep out of her.

Fully dressed with saddle bags in hand she headed down the stairs, noticing her fellow companions she glided towards them and took a seat across from Menecar. She greeted them jovially and dug into the breakfast that was placed before her.

Thoronmir was off asking about the stories from young Butterbur, and her companion was no where in sight, "I don't suppose you've seen Aidwain this morning?", the three shook there heads and she nodded knowing his love for sleep.

"Well", Silrûth nudged the plate with her thumb, "I will be seeing to my horse, I'm sure he will be down soon", she smiled and excused herself from the table. Her horse nickered in greeting and recieved a few affectionate pats on the forehead. The mare had been well seen to and Silrûth had only to do a light brushing and hoove check before she was back inside.

Her seat had been taken by Aidwain who was lazily eating his breakfast, enjoying every mouthful. "Finally awake I see?" she stood next to him her leather saddle bag hanging from her shoulder.

Butterbur Jr. had rushed over to them, "there's a man just o'er there who 'as some bad news of recent 'appenings at the Whittleworth farm, would any of you be willing to lend an ear?"

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had come down to breakfast rather late and nearly everybody else had finished their's,he lazily sat down and cursed his habit of geeting up late.He sat down rather out of anguish and started eating . " Have any of you learned anything frm the locals ? ",he asked. " Not until now but we have made an announcement in the Inn as you would know ",replied Menecar " And yes before I forget Silruth was asking for you ,she has gone out to look after her horse".

After a while Silruth herself came inside with her saddlebags," Finally awake I see? " she stood next to him. Nrxt moment, Butterbur Jr. had rushed over to them, "there's a man just o'er there who 'as some bad news of recent 'appenings at the Whittleworth farm, would any of you be willing to lend an ear?"

[Envinyatar]

Fen Shepherdspurse

The door to the Inn swung open for a moment. Fen looked up, he could hear Butterbur’s voice somewhere a short distance before him, but saw only the large dark blur of him against the bright white light of day which framed his ample outline. The common room was still dim, only a few of the shutters had been opened and just a single lamp in the center of the area had been lit. Fen’s eyes narrowed at the bright light that now flooded in. He could hear the Innkeeper speaking to someone and the calm low voice of someone still unseen give answer. It was someone tall who followed closely after Butterbur; someone very tall, in fact. Golden haired. The daylight behind threw a nimbus of radiance about the person’s head causing Fen to squint harder as he tried to pick the features out in the darkened face.

The door to the Inn closed. Fen spluttered in his mug of ale as the features of the woman came into focus. No, not just some woman . . . Blast that brainless barkeep! Butterbur had brought one of the Elves to speak with him! Fen had little liking for the Fair Folk. He’d heard too often they could pry behind your eyes, to see if your mouth was telling lies. He swallowed hard at the short sword she wore so easily against her hip. He could almost feel the keenness of its sharp blade against his neck. His eyes darted about the room looking for an easy escape should this ‘interview’ not go well.

Butterbur was hurrying the Elf along, drawing nearer to where Fen stood. Her fair face looked up often as the Innkeeper nattered on, grey eyes coming round often to rest coolly on Fen. A thin bead of sweat broke out on his upper lip; his face turned a whiter shade of pale at her imminent presence. Fen jammed his hands hard into the pockets of his breeches to keep her from seeing them shake. He pinched his thigh hard through the thin material of one of the pockets, the pain of it driving away his rising fear. Thoughts refocused, he counseled himself with the consideration that perhaps he needn’t tell any lies if he doled out the truth with care.

By the time the two reached him, Fen was looking quite distraught . . . with a pale grey skin, ragged demeanor, of one who has seen something quite horrible.

‘Here he is, m’Lady,’ said Butterbur. ‘The poor blighter what saw such grisly sights as I was telling you.’

Grisly sights?! frowned Fen. What’s he been telling her?

Silrûth appraised him silently as the Innkeeper spoke. Fen, a moment of inspiration coming upon him, began blubbering; his breath coming in sobbing gasps. His shaking hands flew up to knuckle the tears from his eyes as he let out a desperate wail. ‘Oh, Lady! I’m so glad the King has sent you to give us poor folk some help. There’s wild nasty beasties of some sort as has come to bedevil us. Last night . . .’ And here he seemed overcome with genuine grief . . . ‘last night the Whittleworth’s ‘n their hands was cut down . . . murdered most foul by a ravening band of evil fiends. Killed ever one of ‘em. Children, too, so I heard.’ He shook his head at the thought of it, wiping his now dripping nose on a begrimed rag he’d fetched out of his pocket. He looked up at her with his red rimmed eyes. ‘You and your friends have come to pertect us, right?’ he asked in a fawning manner. ‘Afore they get to us, right here in Bree and kill us all as we sleep in our beds . . .’

[Nuranar]

When Luinien opened her eyes, she saw her baggage piled neatly against the door. Strangely enough, that innocuous sight sent her leaping out of bed and into her clothes. As she paced across the floor, grappling with the buttons that closed up her gown, she muttered disgustedly. Usually her inner clock was most reliable, waking her up on the dot just before dawn. Every so often, though, it chose to malfunction. And it would be the morning of their first day in Bree.

“What ho, sleepyhead!” Tarondo’s voice, muffled but still clear, came through the door.

“Come in!” she called to him, securing the last stubborn button with a quick twist of her fingers.

“I was beginning to wonder,” began her brother, but Luinien interrupted him.

“Never mind that. I’m up now. Is everyone else downstairs?”

“Veryadan, Osric, and the Rangers have already eaten, and I think Silrûth is nearly finished. Aidwain just came down. I think he may rival you in terms of sleeping late.”

Luinien gave a refined snigger. “I am not the one who slept through the meeting last night.”

“True, I had forgotten that.” Tarondo grinned, then sobered. “Thoronmir has been speaking to our landlord. Butterbur talked about some stolen livestock and a burned cornfield, and several others volunteered similar information.”

“That sounds like thieves. At least, the missing stock does.” Luinien stood before the small mirror, braiding her hair. She frowned at her reflection and at Tarondo, sitting on the bed behind her. “But burning crops? That’s simply destructive.”

“Maybe it was an accident.” Tarondo toyed absently with his bootlaces, then looked up. “Luinien, that man was in the common room again.”

“The one who tried to hide when we came in yesterday?” The Elf paused to consider. “I don’t see that it matters. Why shouldn’t he eat here?”

Tarondo sighed. “There is no reason. But he appeared both very tired and very wrought up in some way. There is probably no reason for concern, but I would like to keep it in mind. And do not forget that Menecar thought someone was outside the door last night.”

“I will remember it, and be careful,” Luinien assured him. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished, as usual,” he said, jumping up.

A thought struck her. “Wait a moment. If you have not eaten, what were you doing? Don’t tell me you were sleeping, too!”

“No, thank you, I was studying Veryadan’s maps. It has been some time since I have traveled in this area, and I wanted to get the lay of the land back into my mind.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

In the common room, Veryadan was reclining negligently at a somewhat bare table across from Aidwain, who was eating. When Tarondo and Luinien joined them, the serving girl remedied the table’s nakedness with plates of eggs and ham still hissing.

“Where are the others?” Tarondo inquired, between bites.

Veryadan gestured with his head. “Thoronmir got an earful from Butterbur, and then he announced to everyone in here. He and Menecar are over in the far corner right now, asking for details. Osric’s somewhere about. Oh, Butterbur came up and said he had someone else with news; Silrûth went over there with him.”

Luinien followed his pointing finger, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Tarondo, look!” said, in a hushed voice.

Her picked up his mug and drank, letting his eyes slide quickly to the far end of the bar. “Ah, the man in the shadows again. Very interesting.”

“Are you going to warn her?”

Tarondo was surprised. “If you mean, Shall I interrupt their conversation, of course not. But when she reports what he has to say, I shall simply keep in mind that he did not appear, shall we say, sympathetic to Elves and Rangers when we first saw him.”

Luinien nodded and quickly finished her meal. “I am going out to find some shops. I will probably find something I need, but I think that would be another good place to hear the news.”

“Very true. You may see me about later.”

Luinien nodded and left the Inn with her swift, silent stride. As she passed the pair at the bar, she caught Silrûth’s eye with a lightning admonition to be heedful.

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

Once Veryadan had finished with his meal, he’d gone upstairs to get his map of Breeland and the surrounds. There were a number of patrons of the Pony already standing about in little groups talking over the dark rumours they’d heard of merchants waylaid on the byways off the main road, the livestock gone missing. Gruesome stories of the farm dogs found dead, their skulls crushed, rumpled bodies heaved to the sides of the grassy fields where their now missing charges were pastured.

‘We thought they was done in by them wolves from up north. Happened a long time ago, as my own grand-da used to tell in his old stories about the time before the King,’ one grey pated sheepman said, shaking his head at the thought. ‘But,’ his brother went on, ‘in the old man’s stories, the wolves kilt a few sheep, ripped their throats out like. Ate what they could and dragged off a few of the lambs. This is sumfin bigger. Sometimes whole flocks is driven off over the rocky ground.’

‘And most times now, you hear the farmer’s house is hit, too. People been kilt. What savings they had and any fancy things - taken.’

The Ranger cleared a space on one of the tables and spread out the map he and the others had marked last night. He motioned those telling their stories to gather round and tell them one more time. ‘One at a time, if you please. And come stand near me here.’ The older man who’d spoken of wolves and his grand-da’s stories came up slowly, a rather sheepish grin on his face as the gazes of the others fell on him. He’d taken off his battered leather hat and stood twisting it in his hands, unsure of what the Ranger was wanting. He looked at the map perplexed; it was not something he’d seen before.

Veryadan drew his attention with a pointed finger at the little outline of Bree he’d drawn on the thick vellum. ‘Here’s Bree,’ he said, and the little dot here, The Pony. Just imagine you’re some sort of bird flying over and peeking down at the land below. This here’s your hedge and dike . . .’

‘Oh, aye!’ said the man, the light of understanding come into his face. ‘And this little line’s the Great Road what runs past us, isn’t it?’ Veryadan nodded. The man’s brother hovered near and pointed out the little patch of crudely drawn trees to the east of Bree. ‘Why there’s the woods and the little towns are marked with them circles.’ Murmurs from the others who had crowded in about the table brought recognition of other places on the map. ‘Well, I’ll be,’ said one fellow. ‘If that don’t beat all! There’s that old road up to Deadman’s Dike.’ ‘And old Weathertop’s marked here,’ cried another, quite pleased with his find.

Now that the group had gained some understanding of the map, they spoke with confidence about the incidents they’d heard discussed. Once again, Veryadan placed the thin parchment over the original map, pointing out to them where the other Rangers had placed their tales of the marauders. The men looked shrewdly at the map, saying the stories they knew of were happening closer now to Breeland. ‘Here’s the one old Tom told me,’ said one of the farmers in from Archet. He put his grubby finger down on a place just north of Weathertop, leaving a dirty smudge in which Veryadan marked an ‘X’ and asked about when did the incident happen. Others crowded in then, eager to have their stories heard, their marks put on the Ranger’s map.

When they were all heard, Veryadan called for a round of ale for the group and thanked them. They hung about the table, looking at the patterns of ‘X’s he’d put there. One of them shook his head, voicing the unspoken concern that was beginning to dawn on the group. ‘This don’t look good for Bree, Master Veryadan,’ said one of the younger fellows. He took a gulp of his beer, then shook his head at the map. ‘Whatever it is what’s been attacking the outlying places is moving closer to Chetwood. Don’t it look so to you fellows?’ Others nodded their assent.’

‘Well, if that’s so,’ said one grizzled old pig farmer from out Archet way, ‘then you’ve got to think whoever it is moving their camp in closer, don’t you think?’ Veryadan clapped the man on the shoulder, saying that’s one of the reasons he’d wanted to use the map. ‘I haven’t been in this area in a very long time. Since before the War, really.’ He turned the map round so that the bulk of the men could see it. ‘If you were going to look for the source of the trouble, where do you think a good place to start looking might be? And we’ll need a place to all meet back and share what we’ve learned. What’s the easiest place to get to if we go out to see about some of the places I’ve marked from your stories?’

Murmurs of Weathertop followed from some with grunts of affirmation from the others. ‘Easy place to get to,’ a few said. Tracing some tracks on the parchment that were not yet drawn in. ‘Good place for a look-see, too,’ the lot of them agreed.

Veryadan looked over the throng, toward the bar where Silrûth stood talking to a familiar looking figure. He hoped to catch the Elf’s eye. Perhaps the man could place another ‘X’ on the map for the searchers to take a look at . . .

[Esgallhugwen]

Silrûth silently stood before the haggard man as his story unfolded in wailing gasps. She noticed before he spoke his display of nervous behaviour, though he tried to cover it.

His eyes watered up perveying emotion, but the Elf kept her gaurd up, noticing the familiarity of this man's eyes to the same beady ones that had watched them so closely the night before. She showed no trace of emotion not even sympathy as she listened intently to every word that spilled from his blubbering mouth.

She made sure to neither acknowledge or deny the involvement of the King and nodded at the appropriate times during his story telling. Butterbur Jr. had bounced off to serve his other patrons breakfast, as they had begun to shout for it, accusing him of ignoring the other regulars in favour of the Elves and Rangers.

Sighing as he begged for their protection she answered, "we will do what we can to see that these attacks stop and to see those accused have a swift end".

Luinien passed by, giving Silrûth a warning with her eyes, the blonde Elf nodded slightly, knowing what the warning was about, Luinien had recognised this man as well, and no doubt her suspicions were of like mind.

"Tell me good sir, what is your name? So that I may tell my companions from whom this tale comes so that I may spare you further grief. Such troubling news is not easy on the heart, and you seem to be shaken quite badly" she looked quietly on the man, but his gaze strayed away from hers as if her grey eyes stung his own.

"I...I..ma....my nam" he stuttered fumbling with his hands in his pockets, his eyes shifted from side to side then finally back up at her. "My name is Fen, Fen Shepherdspurse" he blurted out at last looking anxiously around the dusty room, after a moment he managed to regain his composure.

She nodded cooly, turning on her heel, she stopped smoothly catching the intent gaze of the Ranger, Veryadan, as he looked across the gathering of people, looking directly at her she quickly turned again to face Fen. The man seemed distraught again, now that she had turned back facing him.

"Mr. Shepherdspurse would you kindly assist us in locating this Whittleworth Farm? It would greatly improve our chances of finding the assailants and ending this horror", She questioned him politely with her smooth lyrical voice.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain was still eating when Luinien came down to breakfast.After breakfast the company had decided to talk with all the people in the Inn about the attacks and gather as much information as possible.So after some time Silruth went off to talk to the lean,creepy man who Aidwain thought was spying on them,he wished she would be more careful while talking to a thing he thought as low as orcs.

Veryadan had brought out his old map and was asking the Breelanders to show him where the attacks exactly took place.

Meanwhile Aidwain who was not very keen to strike conversation with any unknown Breelanders,was standing beside Tarondo and Menecar,who were'nt very keen to join the conversation either...

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir sat at a table with Menecar and Veryadan, continuing to put X's on the map as the patrons told their tales.

"This is worse than I thought," he said. "The attacks are happening a lot more frequently and a lot farther away from their source. The later the attack happens, the farther away it becomes. They're definitely getting closer to Bree."

"That's not all," Veryadan said. "They're spreading farther east as well. I figure it won't be long before they reach the Angle. And judging by your encounter in the North Downs, they've expanded farther north as well."

"Thoronmir, look at this." Menecar pointed to a corner of the room. Thoronmir looked and saw Silruth talking to a man who appeared to be crying. He thought it might be one of the farmers who had been attacked, but then he recognized the man. It was Fen Shepherdspurse, the same man who had been watching him and Menecar intently the night before. Shepherdspurse would never act like this unless he was trying to fool somebody.

"I see," Thoronmir said. "Shepherdspurse. And I don't think he's up to any good. I'd better warn Silruth about him when they're done talking."

"Why do you think so?" asked Veryadan.

"Because he's the man that was eyeing us suspiciously last night, and he's the kind of person that would never try to appear weak unless it could profit him somehow," Thoronmir replied.

[Alaksoron]

Osric started. He slowly opened one eye. Taking in his surroundings, he realized he'd fallen asleep on the porch. He also realized the sun was shining, and most people were having breakfast, which told him he'd been unusually tired. It was uncharacteristic for him to sleep so late.

Getting up with some minor dicomfort, he headed inside, making a mental note to himself to never sleep in a chair again. He ordered water to be heated for a bath. He needed to freshen up.

A while later and feeling quite refreshed, he headed to the stables. He greeted his horse with a pair of apples. He decided to ride into the center of town. He saddled Shadow and gave him a pat, mounted and set off at a fast-paced trot.

[Alaksoron]

Guiding his horse carefully through the streets, Osric's keen eyes picked out the marketplace. He guided Shadow closer, then leapt lightly to the ground. He didn't even bother with tying Shadow to any of the unoccupied lead posts. Shadow was a trained warhorse, and most certainly wouldn't run away. Any sneaky horse-thief who might decide to try his hand at Shadow would quickly find himself with a
hoof-split skull.

So it was that Osric was completely unconcerned as he weaved his way through the bustling crowds, past vendors and hawkers calling out their wares. He did not notice, nor would he have cared, that the crowd cleared a path for him as he passed. Perhaps it was because of the sword that was so prominently over his coat. Yet he wore it so easily, like a soldier. The sword looked as if it belonged there.

His mind was clear as he walked along, searching for that one place, searching..... ah, there. There it was. The armourer's shoppe. Abruptly he was aware of a hand reaching into his purse.....

He whirled to face the pickpocket. The culprit was a dark haired man, average height, slight build, with a rather dirty look about him. The man's expression went form concentration to surprise to anger to determination in a matter of seconds. Suddenly there was a knife in the man's hand, driving straight for Osric's ribs.

Falkur's hand shot forward instinctively. He caught the fellow's knife hand at the wrist and twisted - hard. Hard enough to wrench the knife from his hand. Osric's boot was on top the knife as soon as it hit the ground.

Again the man looked surprised. Then angry. He tried to jerk his hand away, but Falkur's grip was iron. Osric's eyes could have frozen fire. The man swung with his free hand, but Osric anticipated. He twisted still harder on his wrist, forcing the man to his knees.

"What is your name?" Osric's voice was as cold as a winter pond. The man grunted and didn't answer. By now a ring of people had formed to watch. Irritated, Osric drew his sword and placed it to the man's throat. "You tried to stab me. I could kill you now, and no law in Rohan would say me wrong. Tell me your name!"

The man groaned as Osric's boot crashed into his rib cage. Still he remained silent. A wave of contempt for the man came over Osric, and, sheathing his sword, he jerked him to his feet. He forced his fist to unclench. The man began to rub his wrist. Osric bent over to pick up the man's knife. Rather than return it, he stuck it in his belt. "When you start to miss it, remember the man you tried to kill. When you've turned your life around, come find me and you can have it back."

Leaving the man there, he strode to the armourer's shoppe. Once there, he pulled a chainmail jacket from his bag. He briskly asked to have it repaired, paid for it, and said he would pick it up that evening. Then he made his way back to the street. The crowd was now granting him an even wider berth. Good. He whistled, and Shadow came cantering up, a clump of grass hanging from his mouth. Placing his hands on Shadow's flank, he vaulted into the saddle and, with a flick of the reins was off. He let Shadow gallop, leading him off the main road. Yes, he wanted to take a ride. The wind blew his hair. And after that........ breakfast!

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain did not wish to stand in the Common room full of people smoking different weeds,his head was spinning with the smoke,he wished for some air.Tarondo and Aidwain went outside and sat on a tree,Aidwain did not wish to speak ,only listen to the singing of the wind,and see the twinkling stars,he thought of his days in Rivendell,he would just spend days listening to the stream and sitting on the trees.

But Tarondo asked,"Who do you think could be behind this attacks?". " Well ,I do not think that these attacks are carried out by single attackers,I think that these farms are looted by organised gangs.",replied Aidwain. " But by whom that we do not know yet ."." That is what we are here to find out ",answered Tarondo.

"Let us go inside ,we cannot afford using such time according to our wishes when our companions strive to solve this puzzle.".
"Indeed ",replied Tarondo.

And they both went into the Inn once again ..

[Envinyatar]

Fen Sherdspurse

‘Well, lady, I might can do that for you.’ Fen wiped his dirty sleeve across his face, smearing away the tears he had managed to work up in the telling of his story. ‘But,’ he went on in a trembling, fearful whimper, ‘and begging your ladyship’s pardon if I offend, but I’ll not be going out that way less I have some good strong men at arms to protect me. There weren’t no sign that any of the attackers had been kilt.’ He reached out hesitantly to pluck at her sleeve, then drew back his grimy hand, thinking better of the act. ‘They could still be around you know. And Elf or no, what with your sword and all, you’re nowt but a lady.’

Fen blanched beneath his layer of dust and smudged tears as the Elf gave him a quick, mirthless smile. She gestured toward where Veryadan and the others of the Breelanders were gathered, discussing other incidents that had occurred. The crowd of farmers and traders parted as he came forward, not so much in deference to one who has witnessed a horrible thing, but more as if they wished to distance themselves from the man; to be clear of his touch even in passing as if it might taint them somehow.

Veryadan watch the crowd’s reaction and the flickers of distaste that played here and there on the others' faces. Fen he noted ignored their glances, coming to stand close to him, nearly touching the Ranger’s arm. Despite his display of fear and horror, there was a certain air of excitement that seemed to radiate from him. He told his story again to the Ranger pointing to the location on the map once Veryadan had explained it to him. As he talked, he glanced often at the Ranger, wanting to make sure he was following the story and more important believing Fen’s truth in the telling of it.

Throughout his narrative, he slipped in many questions. Why had they come, and who had sent them, and what were they intending to do were the repeated themes. None of the companions answered him directly, but others in the crowd began discussing those points. Often the King was referred to, though no one of the Rangers or Elves affirmed the connection.

‘Now, I can’t take you out there today. I’m just too tired and too wrought up to see it again,’ Fen said, as Veryadan finished putting the last of the notes on the map. ‘Tomorrow, I could do it or the next day. Whatever you good folk need.’

He looked round expectantly, awaiting an answer . . .

[Nuranar]

Tarondo

Fen flinched and nearly fled when a cool voice spoke directly behind him. "The day after next will do." The cringing Breelander turned guiltily to face Tarondo. The tall Elf's dark eyes fixed him in their daunting gaze. Fen backed up, his reborn assurance dissolving. Drat those soft-footed Elves! Had he heard him questioning the Rangers?

“Ah – I – ah, that’s good,” he stammered, nonplussed. “Uh, wh-”

“Be here by dawn,” Tarondo said shortly. His eyes swept the circle of his companions, then with an inclination of his head he left the common room. With a word of excuse, Veryadan followed him.

* ~ * ~ *

“I agree, Shepherdspurse has acted suspiciously. Most of the Bree men are nervous around us Rangers – and frankly, especially around you Elves.” Tarondo smiled but did not interrupt Veryadan. “But why were you so curt with him? We’re asking for information; he comes forward with information and is willing to lead us to the site. If he is up to something, all you’ve done is put him on his guard.”

Tarondo shook his head. “My friend, you do not understand. I want to put him on his guard. He may decide against making mischief if we show him we are ready. And if he is not deterred, we are prepared nonetheless.”

Veryadan still appeared doubtful but the entrance of the others prevented him from continuing the subject. He turned to the map. “Here is what we’ve learned today,” he said, indicating the new marks. With the assistance of Thoronmir and Menecar he briefed Tarondo on the latest news.

“That corresponds with what my sister learned. She spent most of the day in the markets, talking to the women.” Tarondo straightened up and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. “Very well, all of you keep your ears open for more, but prepare to leave the day after tomorrow. We may not return to Bree for some time, so give thought to your supplies. And we will probably be traveling separately for a bit.” He grinned suddenly. “I intend to keep a very close, personal eye on Master Shepherdspurse.”

[rutslegolas]

Tarondo straightened up and gazed thoughtfully into the fire. “Very well, all of you keep your ears open for more, but prepare to leave the day after tomorrow. We may not return to Bree for some time, so give thought to your supplies. And we will probably be traveling separately for a bit.” He grinned suddenly. “I intend to keep a very close, personal eye on Master Shepherdspurse.”.

Aidwain grinned at Tarondo,and then the company went to their rooms to have a good night's sleep.

Early next morning Aidwain remembered he had to get some supplies for himself.Once outside he went to the stables and then mounted his horse "Snowmount" and rode through the streets of Bree,he wished he could keep riding and never stop ,but once at the market place he dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby pole.

He strolled around the market place ,though the streets were crowded he was given a wide path by the crowd ,some wispering with each other passed him . At last he found the armourers shop he was looking for,here he bought himself a short sword,he had found in his jouneys that a sword is always handy wherever you go,he was not a very good swordsman but he knew the art's basics.Here he also sharpened his dagger and his knife.

Once outside he roamed the marketplace and got himself some water skins and then returned to his horse and returned to the Inn feeling much the better ....

[Alaksoron]

Osric reined Storm in and leapt lightly to the ground in front of the Prancing Pony. He handed the reins over to a stableboy and tossed him a thick silver coin. Then he walked to the inn, but rather than go inside he sat on the porch. He let his mand wander as he lit his pipe and produced a whetstone, sharpening first his sword and then his best set of knives. The blades of each, like Falkur's martial skills, were already honed to a razor edge, but he was fascinated by the intimidating effect it had on people.

He made the knife he was working on disappear somewhere inside his coat with an elegant flourish as Aidwain appeared before the Inn, also handing over his mount to a stableboy. Once Aidwain was on foot, Osric strode purposefully toward him.

"I went for a ride dis'morning." He called out before he was even within three meters. Still walking, he continued "I saw you at the armourer's shoppe, and I noticed you bought a sword. Are you, then, a swordsman yourself?" He carressed the hilt of his own long sword that was hanging at his hip as he waited for an answer.

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

A day and a half later and the companions had narrowed the reports down to three they thought would lead them to some definite evidence of those behind the attacks. The group’s suspicions about Fen Shepherdspurse had continued, especially since others of the Breelanders that had come forward had made little remarks which confirmed his shady character. Still, there were also one or two others who had come in from the area near the Whittleworth farm with confirming tales they heard of what had been done.

Two other incidents had also caught the eye of the Elves and Rangers. The first was the attack on a small party of merchants and their wagons on the Great East Road, just east of Weathertop. Two large trees, it seemed, had been blown down across the road. The merchants had tried to take their wagons around the barrier, they’d been told. But night was falling and the unsuspecting travelers had been set upon and killed; the contents of their wagons stolen.

The other incident occurred between the Midgewater Marshes and Weathertop. A sheepherder and his dog had been driving their small flock toward the foot of Weathertop, when they had been overwhelmed. The mangled bodies of the man and dog had been found flung on the rocks; the entire flock of sheep had disappeared.

Veryadan had been up since first light. He’d seen to the provisions he’d gotten the previous day, packing them carefully into his saddlebags. His horse, fed and groomed, had been brought round to the front of the Inn. He had just enough time, he thought, to enjoy a morning smoke of Archet pipeweed. As he smoked, Veryadan leaned against the railing of the Inn’s porch. He drew his cloak about him to keep off the chill of the early morning breeze. Osric and Aidwain had also gathered a ways down from him he noted.

Tarondo would soon be out with the others, he thought. Once the Elf had laid out his plans of who would be in which group, they would be off . . .

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain returned to the Inn , and handed over his horse to be stabled.As he was returning to the Inn ,he saw Osric and immdiately turned towards him ,but even before he could reach him , Osric loudy called out,"I went for a ride dis'morning and saw you at the armourer's shoppe, and I noticed you bought a sword. Are you, then, a swordsman yourself?" He carressed the hilt of his own long sword that was hanging at his hip as he waited for an answer.

Aidwain stunned by the question replied " Ah ! No ,indeed not I know a few basics of this art but I am no master,I just bought the sword so I could have it hand if need there be to fight in close combat ,I prefer my trusty bow and arrows in normal circumstances",he said patting his bow .

To Aidwain it seemed Osric was disappointed by his answer so he further said," I have learned that Tarondo is a sword fighter,and a very good one I can say perhaps you can meet to sharpen your skills before we face the real enemies".

Osric laughed," Indeed I hope to learn a few skills from him,aren't we going to leave tommorow ? ". " Yes ,but I think that we are going to be arranged in seprate groups to scout the different incidents that Veryadan discovered from the locals",replied Aidwain,"Of what breed is your horse ,for I ahve heard that the Rohirrim have the finest horses in West ,is that true ??"...

[Alaksoron]

"The Rohirrim horses are, indeed, the finest horses in the West, and I might say even in the known world." Osric Falkur said with a smile, but then his face grew serious. "Let us return to my question. I know that Tarondo is a swordsman, but I'd sooner think he would learn from me than I him. I am a blademaster, and a blademaster's sword is not something worn lightly." He paused, and drew his sword. "I could teach you to use the sword, if you like."

The blue-silver of the blade flashed in the sudden sunlight, for Osric had polished it only that morning, and it gleamed. It was a magnificent sword, indeed. The pommel was a silver wolfhead, highly detailed, with diamond eyes. The hilt was dark ebony, with a red-enameled serpent entwined over the guard. Taking it by the blade, dull edge on the inside of his palm, he extended it.

As Aidwain reached out to grasp the hilt, Falkur said "That is the proper way to hand a sword. There is your fist lesson for you, just to start." He flashed one of his rare smiles, and Aidwain knew he spoke teasingly.

As Aidwain hefted the sword, he noticed how remarkably light it was, how perfectly balanced. "That's Elven craftmanship," Osric spoke into his thoughts. "I call it Azar. Sindarin for lightning-blade." He said, sounding quite scholarly.

[Nuranar]

Luinien's dark head appeared at the door. "Ah! there you are, Veryadan." The Ranger admitted his presence. "Would you mind joining us in the meeting room? You too," she continued, turning to Aidwain and Osric. "Unless you're too busy, of course," she continued, a dangerous glint in her eye. Aidwain and a silenced Osric followed her and Veryadan into the inn.

Silrûth and the Northern Rangers were already in the room. Tarondo pointed to the map. "The Whittleworth farm is here near Staddle, on the east side of Bree-hill. Fen Shepherdspurse will show Silrûth and I the way there." Silrûth nodded, a small, satisfied smile on her lips. "Veryadan, you and Aidwain and Osric go here" - he pointed to a spot just east of the Midgewater Marshes - "where the shepherd was killed."

"That was a week ago," Osric spoke up. "Will there be anything to see after that long?"

"That's what we are to discover," Veryadan said coolly.

Tarondo continued, "Luinien, Thoronmir, and Menecar, you go on past Amon Sûl - that is Weathertop - to where the merchants were attacked."

"Will we meet up after we finish?" Aidwain asked.

"Yes, at Weathertop. It's three or four days' gourney from here, and we need to allow time for investigation. So we will meet no later than six days from now. If you have not even sent word by then, the rest of us will assume that you have run into trouble." He grinned suddenly. "So please be there if you possibly can. I hope that is clear?"

A few murmurs, then Menecar spoke. "What you have said is very clear. But I want to know for certain exactly what we are to be looking for."

"The King has sent us to find out what is happening," Luinien answered. That means we need to discover who is behind it. And we do that by going to the scene, studying the ground, looking for footprints, and so forth."

"All the while using our heads and thinking and fitting the pieces together," Veryadan said.

"And then we decide what to do about it." Tarondo stood up. "Fen Shepherdspurse is waiting in the common room. I suggest you saddle your horses. We can travel together as far as the road to Staddle."

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain and Osric were chatting about swordsmanship and Luinien's dark head appeared at the door. "Ah! there you are, Veryadan." The Ranger admitted his presence. "Would you mind joining us in the meeting room? You too," she continued, turning to Aidwain and Osric. "Unless you're too busy, of course," she continued, a dangerous glint in her eye. Aidwain and a silenced Osric followed her and Veryadan into the inn.

There Aidwain saw that everybody else were already there ,he went beside Tarondo who was sorting everyone into groups, " Veryadan, you and Aidwain and Osric go here" - he pointed to a spot just east of the Midgewater Marshes -"where the shepherd was killed."

' Ah! Midgewater Marshes of all the places to scout I have to go to the marshes',Aidwain thought. After the discussion they were supposed to meet in the common room. Aidwain went to his room and picked up the water skins he had purchased and some spare clothes threw them into his backpack which also contained some bread.

Picking up his backpack he went down into the common room,here he found Silruth was already ready . "So shall we saddle our horses or are you keeping an eye on him ? ",he asked gesturing towards Fen. "Indeed not ,we should saddle our horses Tarondo will bring him . "

They both went outside and saddled their horses,meanwhile all the company came outside with Fen walking beside Tarondo,they all saddled their own horses,checked their belongings and trotted along the lane . "At least we are off now ",thought Aidwain....

[Esgallhugwen]

Sitting on the window sill as the sky slowly brightened with the coming sun, Silrûth breathed in the fresh cool air before it was warmed by the dawn. She smiled to herself knowing she should savour the moment, chances such as this would come far and few between on the journey they were about to undertake.

Reluctantly snapping out of her reverie, she entered her room through the window and gathered up her belongings. She quickly dressed and headed out the door, down the stairs and out of the Inn.

Her silver white mare, Falma, greeted her warmly, "come, we must fetch some supplies before the day breaks and we are off".

Luckily for the two they weren't too early as the shops were open, even when no one was really about. First to the Smithy to get my sword sharpened, she pulled her sword out examining it with her keen Elvish eyes, yes one side was beginning to wear slightly.

~*~*~*~*~*

After she made her rounds and gathered all the supplies she needed she found herself once more inside the Inn, for her last time. Thoronmir was found walking towards her, "we will be having one last meeting before we depart". The walked side by side then single file as they entered the meeting room.

They seated themselves similarly to last night, around the small oak table. Murmurings began before everyone arrived but it did not take long for the others to be in attendance.

"The Whittleworth farm is here near Staddle, on the east side of Bree-hill. Fen Shepherdspurse will show Silrûth and I the way there." A small smile played on Silrûth's lips satisfied she would help to keep an eye on the shady Fen Sheperdspurse.

Each group had been organized, and each knew their purpose. Silrûth was waiting by the door for her compatriot Aidwain, "So shall we saddle our horses or are you keeping an eye on him ? ",he asked gesturing towards Fen.

She shook her head "Indeed not ,we should saddle our horses, Tarondo will bring him. "

With their saddle bags laiden with supplies they harnessed and saddled their horses along with the others. Fen was brought out by Tarondo a most displeased look was on the old man's face.

Silrûth reigned in her horse next to Aidwain's as the company rode off, Tarondo was in front of them with Fen on a dusty grey pony. The company trotted down the lane and soon left Bree all together.

[Meneltarmacil]

A mumak trampled over Valamir. Targon's head was chopped off by an Easterling chieftan's axe. A troll's war club knocked Halbarad to the ground.

Thoronmir woke from his nightmare of the Pelennor Fields and the deaths of his friends. He got himself together and went downstairs, where some of the others had gathered.

"Good morning," Menecar said. "Sleep okay?"

"Um, yes," Thoronmir made no mention of his dream.

"We'll be having a meeting here in about half an hour," Tarondo said. "Make sure you're here by then."

"I'll be here," the ranger said. He walked up to the bar. "How about some coffee?"

"Sure thing, Thorondor," Butterbur said.

"Ummm..." Thoronmir started to say.

"What?" Butterbur asked, clueless as usual.

"Never mind." Thoronmir got his coffee and didn't say any more. He went outside. The day was quite sunny with only a few small clouds. He walked out to the stable to feed his horse, Awyrgan, who was happy to see him, then bought supplies for the long journey ahead of them. On the way back to the Inn, he ran into Silrûth, who was also on her way to the Inn.

"We will be having one last meeting before we depart," he reminded her. They entered the Inn together.

************************************************** ***************

"So, we're going to check out where this shepherd was killed?" Menecar asked his old friend.

"Yes," Thoronmir said. "Right near Weathertop, and a very ugly sight if travelers' tales are accurate. That's right about where my scouting party disappeared when I sent them to investigate."

"Do you think some of your scouts might still be alive?" asked Luinen.

"I highly doubt it," Thoronmir replied, knowing the ugly truth. "These guys don't seem to like taking prisoners. Anyway, we must be cautious while searching for clues. On the journey, it would be best if we keep up a watch at night. Nobody should ever go off alone. If someone disappears, don't run off after them or you'll likely get killed. Do we have enough supplies for the road?"

[Envinyatar]

Fen Sheperdspurse

Fen had had plenty of time to slip away from the Inn and speak with the Orc chieftain after he’d given his information. The companions had taken a couple of days to make their decisions on the other two places of attack to be investigated. Once done with that, they needed to replenish their provisions. Fen had hung about long enough to confirm they would meet at Weathertop. Late at night, then, he had stolen away, saying he was going to fetch his own horse so as not to slow down the search party.

What small amount of information he had, he passed along to the Orcs. He’d been disappointed, expecting a little reward. But the Orc had leered at him, saying if the information proved true he would be paid well. ‘Just tell me something,’ Fen said, as the Orc turned to go. ‘What do you have planned? Should I be afeard for my own skin?’ ‘Let’s just say this,’ the Orc, said laughing. ‘Once your party gets near the top of Weathertop, I’d say you want to turn tail and run.’

The pony he’d fetched for his purposes came from one of the farmhouses he’d slunk by on his way back to the Inn. A raggedy old grey gelding, but good legs by the feel of them, Fen thought. ‘And we’ll be needing them, my friend,’ he whispered to the pony as he led him away from the ramshackle barn.

-----

The morning of departure had come. Fen walked out of the Inn with Tarondo, a bit disgruntled at having some female Elf to contend with. Elves gave him the shivers anyway, and she, with her cool eyes, unnerved him even more. With little ceremony, the group mounted up. Fen prodded his steed with his bony knees and trailed after Tarondo. He drew back even further as the group left Bree, leaving the others to chatter on. He snorted, looking at them.

Cats with sharp claws and long teeth waiting for you, my little chattery birds! he thought to himself with some satisfaction. His fingers twitched against his reins, already counting his monies . . .

---

Arrival at the Whittleworth Farm . . .

A half day of steady riding brought the companions to the outskirts of Staddle on the southern edge of Chetwood. The three smaller groups then went their separate ways. Fen and his Elven companions would head north just a bit to where the Whittleworth farm was located. The others he recalled were heading further east – one group just beyond the Midgewater Marshes and one the other side of Weathertop. Tarondo reminded the other two groups they would meet at Weathertop in five days time, then each group went their separate way.

‘If we keep riding, we can be at the farm by the middle of the night,’ commented Fen as Tarondo took the lead with Silruth following last. She said she was keeping a lookout for trouble, but Fen had the sneaking suspicion it was him she meant to keep and eye on. ‘Now if I was you,’ Fen went on as he brought his horse alongside Tarondo’s, ‘I wouldn’t want to be riding into the Whittleworth farm in the dark.’ He shook his head and shuddered a little as if he were thinking of the awful events of that previous night. ‘I know a place we can’t shelter for the night, safe like. Then in the bright light of day you can see them grisly things what I was telling you about.’

It was late evening when they cam to the sheltered camp area. Tarondo and Siruth split the watch and the night passed uneventfully. A quick morning meal eaten cold in the saddle the next day and they were off toward the farm. It was well past noon when they cleared the little rise and looked down on the scene of carnage. No one had dared go to the secluded little place since the killings. The bodies lay strewn where they’d fallen. The reek of death washed up the little hill, borne on the afternoon breeze. And here and there, hopping among the fallen were the busy crows and the ravens. They cawed loudly as the three riders approached, declaring their ravenous sovereignty.

[Envinyatar]

Saurreg's post

Andas Loudewater was humming an old melody to himself as he approached the farmstead riding upon his latest acquisition – a brown little pack mule. He had sauntered upon the live animal market at the town square on the way home and suddenly decided to take a look. It wasn’t long till he set his eyes on the said crossbred and fell for it’s dark black liquid eyes that seemed to convey ”Buy me Andas, buy me! I’m worth your entire month’s earning and more!” This was what the farmer did, much to the delighted surprise of the mule owner who knew that the value of the animal was far less than the amount of guineas he was receiving. But Loudewater did not mind, not one bit. He wanted an animal from the market square (which incidentally could have been a pair of sleepy salamanders further down the stalls) that day and he was pretty sure that he would not be leaving town without a buy. Besides what was money to him anyway?

Andas Loudewater was a new man. He was a happy man who wanted to go on a trip. He was also a new man who named his animals.

Meet “Killer”, Loudewater’s steed extraordinaire.

The mid-morning was blazing as the farmer arrived at his destination. He got off the mule, gave it an affectionate pat between the long furry ears before marching briskly into the cottage. He stepped onto the porch, swung the door open with aplomb and promptly hollered,

“HONEY I’M HOME!”

His enthusiastic introduction was greeted initially by the silence of the main room, but the inevitable was ensured. And it came from the solar,

“ANDAS LOUDEWATER! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! WHY WEREN’T YOU HOME LAST NIGHT?!”

The joy. It tickles your heart and keeps your body warm, like the gentle embrace of a loved one. The joy, it is a key that unlocks the door and let the bright rays of the sun in. Nourishing all with indescribable delight and hope.

“I WAS OUT DRINKING! I SLEPT IN TOWN!” Replied the farmer as he headed up the stairs towards the bedroom in brisk light steps.

He entered the bedroom, pulled his muddied boots and stripped off his soiled garments, tossing them carelessly onto the floorboards. He then reached for a large wicker case, flipped open the top and pulled out a white linen shirt, another brown tunic and a pair of trousers and put them on.

The now-familiar disembodied voice boomed,

“AND WHO SAID YOU COULD SPEND THE NIGHT OUTSIDE?! THERE WERE CHORES TO BE DONE THIS MORNING ANDAS! YOU HAVE RESPONSIBILITIES!”

The joy, it was louder than rolling thunder yet softer than a lover’s whisper. It was the uncontrollable laughter of innocent children at play but also the measured tones of a sagely storyteller.

Loudewater ignored the outburst and continued to put on his clothes. He took a sniff at the new tunic and decided that it needed further smoking.

There was the sound of a furry of steps and Helga appeared before the doorway of the bedroom, eyes blazing with unbraided anger. But that soon gave way to shock as she espied the guilty pair of boots and the crumbled heap of clothes.

“My… My floor,” She stammered without taking her beady little eyes off the obnoxious footwear, “Andas, what… what have you done to my nice clean floor?”

“Oh those! I was changing and I had to take them off. You can’t expect me to take off my trousers with those oversized things on could jah?” Loudewater replied nonchalantly as he struggled to buckle his leather belt.

He then picked up the offensive pair of scalawags, put them on again and headed out the door, sidestepping his wife who was still in a mystified state of disbelieving. Heading down the flight of stairs, he entered the kitchen and proceeded to raid the cupboard.

“Andas! How dare you! You… you…”

Helga was threatening her husband as she entered the kitchen but stopped mid sentence when she saw what he was doing. Loudewater was whistling to himself as he wrapped a large piece of dried spiced beef in fine muslin, he had already consigned a loaf of rye bread and generous wedge of aged cheddar to a similar fate. Beside them stood a large wooden flask filled with cheap ale.

“I love the smell of spiced beef in the morning,” he drawled teasingly to his wife, eyes sparkling with mischief, “it smells… it smells like success!”

The deed done, he then reached for a large sheepskin fanny pack and stuffed the mummified foodstuff into it. A couple of wind-dried (but still good) apples plucked from the tree in the backcourt were tossed in for a good measure. Loudewater then buckled the large bulging pouch onto his belt and grabbed the flask by its shoulder strap.

“Well, all packed and done. Time to go!” He proclaimed as he headed back towards the main hall, not even giving Helga the briefest of glances.

“Go? Go where?”

“Why, a trip of course! I’m heading east on the main road.”

“But why Andas? You can’t just go! You’ve got chores. The sheepfold needs fixing and the roof leaked last night, you have to thatch it!”

“That can wait dear. It won’t rain anytime now and you’ll just have to keep an eye out for ‘em sheep from time to time. But for now, TRIP!”

Andas affixed the sheath of his trusty old dagger onto the straining leather belt and grabbed the cope by the hood before opening the front door.

“But what about last month’s earnings from those wool shavings and the cabbages? Are you still holding on to the money purse? And what about me?” Inquired Helga, nonplussed and voice quivering. The fire had died in her eyes and was replaced by the dullness of doubt and fear.

“Not to worry dear,” Replied Loudewater confidently as he beckoned Helga to join him at the door which, she did so hesitantly, “I have invested it in this fine animal that will earn us great dividends in the near future! Helga, meet Killer!”

Loudewater pointed at the little brown mule which had somehow found its way into the garden vegetable garden and was helping himself to young immature greens. Killer took in Mrs. Loudewater with his dark liquid globes and whined appreciatively (at least that was what Loudewater thought). Helga just stood solidified, lower jaw hanging by their hinges.

“Well, gotta to go now, ‘tis a good day for riding.”

Loudewater stepped off the porch, went to Killer and led him out of the patch by the reins. As he led the mule onto the dirt road, the farmer cocked his head and deliberated.

He turned around and gazed at Helga with eyes that momentarily shone with compassion, love and surprise instead of the maniacal glint the dominated the entire morning. His voice wavier wavered and choked with emotion as he said,

“By God woman, you look… beautiful. By God…”

Loudewater stared at Helga for a while before turning towards Killer, mounting him and delivering the twin taps to its sides with the back of his heels that sent the animal trotting down the road, head bobbing up and down.

Loudewater’s thoughts were still on Helga. Mouthing over and over again,

“By God... by God…”

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

Once they’d left their companions, Veryadan with Aidwain and Osric followed along the Great East Road until they’d passed the southern tip of the Midgewater Marshes. It was a two day journey, riding at a quick pace, but one comfortable enough to keep the horses unwearied.

Veryadan had only been to the Marshes once before, and that encounter had not left a pleasant memory. His scouting group had had to search for something along the banks as he recalled. Many’s the time his foot had slipped on the soft mud sending him knee deep into the watery muck. And the biting midges . . . everywhere . . . each and every one seeming to love the taste of his blood.

It was late evening of the second day when they turned northward along the marsh’s edge. Veryadan was already swearing into the collar of his cape as the swarms of little bugs bedeviled himself and his horse. He was thankful when Aidwain volunteered to ride ahead and find a place, away from the watery hole for them to camp that night. They had agreed they would then set out in the early morning to look for the place the sheepherder and his dog had been killed and the flock taken.

[Saurreg]

The ride from his farm to the eastern edge of Bree had taken Loudewater an entire day’s time. The sun was setting and the farmer was still on the road riding on the small little mule that seemed to be buckling under his master’s weight. Not that Loudewater was very heavy, but the little beast of burden was too young and too small. It hadn’t occurred to Loudewater that he might have been procuring an unsuitable animal for his plan that morning at the market square, but then again he hasn’t been thinking sensibly at all since the previous night at the Prancing Pony’s.

The evening air grew cooler as the sun waned and Loudewater wished for a warm place beside a fire. He knew how to make fire out in the wild but was not in the mood to do so. In fact the entire novelty of the trip did not seem to be as grand as when it was first conceived and Loudewater found himself yearning for a thatched roof over his head.

Nothing to worry about, he thought to himself, Whittleworth’s just ahead, around the bend where the Bree Road ends and the Great East Road begins.

The Great East Road, where it ends before the red mountains that touches the sky…

As Loudewater neared the bend around the road, he anticipated the sight of a plume of grey smoke rising above the top of the trees and further on, the sight of a thatched roof and finally Whittleworth Cottage itself. He heard that old Whittleworth had made quite a sizable earning from his prized wool shavings and knowing the fellow livestock breeder well, Loudewater was sure that he would reward himself and his family with good provisions for the next few days to come. Loudewater just hoped that Mrs. Whittleworth would not mind an additional mouth at the dinner table that night.

Filled with eager anticipation, the farmer gave encouraging twin taps to the side of Killer so that he would trot faster.

*************

There was no smoke coming from behind the beeches and firs.

At first Loudewater thought that the sky had turned so dark that he couldn’t see the distinctive sign of a homely place in the distant. But as he neared where he thought Whittleworth Farm was, a forboding feeling clumped his chest. As unreasonable as it was, Loudewater felt that something was amiss. Something had happened.

The farmer rode on still and reached the spot where the skyline of the thatched roof and its brick chimney could be seen, but it wasn’t there. Onward he rode and yet he could not make out where the cottage and its adjacent farm buildings where.

Perhaps I have misjudged the location of the place, I haven’t been to Whittleworth’s for quite awhile. the farmer assured himself mentally. But even then, the doubt in his heart grew and he knew fear would follow The cry of large black crows was unnervingly deafening in the quietness of the night air.

He was nearing the spot where he thought the cottage itself stood and yet nothing distinctively familiar caught his wide-opened, darting eyes. It would seem that the farm had simply vanished into thin air.

And then Andas Loudewater saw it…

The cottage had collapsed and the entire roof was flattened as if some immense palm had cruelly pressed it down, overturning the side walls and crushing the rooms within. There were bits and pieces of shattered wood and broken bricks scattered throughout the vicinity. The barn was in better shape, but then from a distant, Loudewater could see that its front doors were missing.

And then there was the smell, a sickly stench that permeated in the air around the destruction. It was a stench Loudewater’s as a lifestock breeder was all too aware of. The smell of death and decay.

The hideous cawing of the crows was near unbearable. Loudewater could only imagine too well why they were here and what they were feasting on. A particularly large scavenger perched on a piece of exposed timber that was once a beam of the cottage, eyed the farmer with its lifeless dark eyes and sent a chill down his spine.


All doubt had dissipated with the discovery of the remnants of the farm. Fear had taken its place in Loudewater’s mind and it overwhelmed him. The panic stricken farmer kicked hard at the sides of the startled mule which broke into a wild gallop pass what was left of Whittleworth’s and onto the Great East Road.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain,Osric and Verydan had went there own way from Saddle,making their way to the Midgewater Marshes,they traveled along the Great East Road,until they came to the Marshes,as they had expected the marshes were smelly and full of Midges who seemed to relish the taste of human and elven blood.

It was late evening of the second day when they turned northward along the marshes edge. Aidwain and his horse 'Snowmount' were almost eaten out by the Midges,and Aidwain saw that his companions too were not too happy with the those pesky creatures.It was late in the evening that they thought of making camp away from the watery hole of the marshes.

Aidwain trotted along the edge of the marshes to find a dry place for them to make a camp, about half a mile towards the east he found a sufficiently dry place with a less number of Midges hovering around,but there he also found some footprints which were not clearly visible due to the dryness of the place,he immdiately rushed back to his companions to report this discovery.

" Oy ! Veryadan come and have a look here,I seem to have found some footprints,and a place to rest .",he shouted.
Veryadan and Osric trotted alongside him as Aidwain led them to the footprints,here Veryadan leapt off his horse and rushed towards the spot and knelt to low to survey the evidence .....

[Envinyatar]

After a quick look at the footprints, the three companions led their horses to the site Aidwain had found for their camp. A windblown, old pine its branches twisted toward the east from the buffeting wind served as a place to tie them. In the waning light, Veryadan and Osric returned once again with Aidwain to where he had found the footprints. Careful to keep to the perimeter of the smudgy impressions, they crouched down to inspect them.

‘Best we wait til morning for a full search of the area,’ said Veryadan, as Aidwain pointed out how the prints trailed further north. ‘The ones here looks as if whoever it was came together here, milled around a bit, then headed off north.’ Aidwain had spied something and motioned for the other two to draw near. ‘Interesting!’ said Veryadan. ‘Look how many of prints are of a uniform size – some clad in boots, some barefoot. But these you’ve found, Aidwain, are huge. And deep. Some thing or things large and heavy passed through here.’

The sun, by this time, just hung barely on the rim of the western horizon. The three companions returned to their makeshift camp for a meal. Around a smudgy fire they huddled in their blankets, the drifting smoke forcing back some, but not all, of the persistent midges.

[Alaksoron]

Osric was grateful for the fire's warmth as he made his meal. When he was finished he drew his sword and produced a whetstone from a pocket of his cloak and set to sharpening. The blade would already shave the hair from his arm, but, as anyone who has ever owned a sword knows, it can never be sharp enough. Kim had told him on more than one occasion that he was obsessive, but he didn't care. A depressive gloom set upon Osric at the memory of his wife, now buried on a plot of their little farm. And he thought of his young son, strapping lad with a quick mind, whom was now staying with Osric's brother in Edoras.

Osric checked himself as he realized he was staring blankly ahead. Brightening, he asked "Anyone want an apple?" Aidwain nodded, but Veryadan said no. Shrugging, he reached into his bags and produced two appples, one for Aidwain and one for himself. He juggled them briefly before tossing one to Aidwain. He bit into his own apple, not caring that the juice ran down his chin. He loved apples!

He watched his companions heads swivel toward him as he jerked to his feet with a vehement curse that came out quite strangled. He lifted his left hand to stare in incredulity at the blood dripping from his left palm where the midge had bitten.

A moment's pause, Osric standing with his mouth agape, and the others broke into hysterical laughter. Veryadan was clutching his sides, and Aidwain was rolling on the ground. Blushing, Osric laughed with them.

[Nuranar]

As the nauseous stench surrounded them, Tarondo swallowed hard and set his jaw. He swung down to the ground. "Fen, you stay up here with the horses while Silrûth and I look around. Don't move or you could destroy some signs." The man nodded vigorously, a sickly smile pasted on his greenish face. Tarondo glanced at his companion. Silrûth was pale but collected, and her eyes met his reassuringly.

Tarondo strode swiftly down the wagon road. He looked to make sure, but saw no signs that anyone had passed that way for several days. That was as he had expected; wherever the culprits had come from, the road from Staddle was their least likely route.

The farmyard itself was of hard-packed dirt and showed next to no sign. It was past midsummer, as well, and there had been no rain for a week. Nevertheless Tarondo carefully quartered every inch of the ground, searching for the tiny indications of the unusual. A small divot in the dirt, its edges clean and sharp, showed where something pointed had been driven in. A dark-colored smear stained the ground near one of the bodies.

Silrûth called him over to the house. "Look at how this whole corner is destroyed. It seems as if it was smashed at one blow. And over here," she continued, pointing to a pile of splintered timbers. "There are two men under there. Two men, crushed to death. The house itself has been ransacked but very little taken, from what I can tell. I cannot find any money, although there is a hidden nook in the floor that is empty."

Tarondo gazed unseeingly at the wreckage, thinking. Silrûth nudged him. "Have you found anything?"

"Very little." He turned back to the farmyard. "Come on, we need to finish here." Silrûth followed silently.

Fen was called down the hill and, for a fee, set to work digging the graves in an untrodden corner across from the house. One by one the bodies were recovered and wrapped in their own blankets. Altogether, thirteen men and one woman had died that night. Some were still in their nightshirts, some in trousers, a few more or less fully dressed.

Both Elves had been in many fights and were well acquainted with the many guises of death. But the sheer brutality of these deaths was nightmarish. The bodies were crushed and mangled with inhuman ferocity. A few had split skulls and a few were dismembered, while the rest had been battered and smashed.

Having found another shovel and a pick, both Elves assisted with the gravedigging. Except for the harsh cries of the ravens, disturbed but not dispersed, a heavy stillness lay all that long afternoon. Fen worked in disgruntled sulkiness, muttering words he did not dare voice before Silrûth. The grim-faced Elf worked with relentless energy, as if executing vengeance on those responsible. Tarondo dug steadily, thinking all the while.

The sun was still above the eastern hills when they finished. The farmyard, though strewn with wreckage, no longer resembled a ghastly unroofed charnel house. After a drink from the well, Tarondo set off around the perimeter of the farmyard. Where the ground was softer and vegetation grew, he was certain of finding tracks. He had an inkling of the force behind the devastation, and if he was right, it would certainly have left traces.

[Envinyatar]

Fen Shepherdspurse

The smell of death was unbearable. Fen bent his back to the shovel and buried the dead as he was bidden, grumbling all the while to himself that the coins he’d received could not cover the labor he felt forced to do. Finally finished, he threw the shovel down, wiping the greasy grime from his brow with an already stained shirtsleeve.

Fen left the Elves to their talk of further tasks, saying he would see to the horses. Gathering them from the oak tree where they’d been tethered, he took the horses as far as he could from the grisly scene, as much wanting to be away from it himself as to get them away from the lingering, disquieting stench. The two Elven mounts eyed him with a certain sense of superiority, or so he surmised, as he tied them to another tree’s branch on the far perimeter of the farm. ‘It’s not that I’ve no feelings,’ he rasped at them. ‘And my hand had no doing in the killings.’ One of them snorted at him, shaking his great head as if to disagree. Fen wiped his hands, grimy from grave digging, against his vest and backed away from the beasts. ‘Man’s got to look out for himself,’ he mumbled leading his rag-tag grey away from the tree.

Looking back toward the farm, he noted the two Elves had disappeared from view. ‘Investigating,’ he snorted at his own mount. ‘Fat lot of good that’ll do,’ he laughed quietly, wondering if those Elven ears heard as good as he’d been told. ‘Investigate all they want,’ he wheezed, pulling himself up onto the back of his mount. ‘The Boss and his boys’ll take care of ‘em - same’s they took care of old Whittleworth and his get.’

He kicked his horse lightly in the flanks, heading north east to where the Orcs could be found. He’d stuck around long enough to hear when the parties planned to meet at Weathertop. The Boss would want to know . . .

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

The scavengers had not left much of note to be seen when the three companions set out to have a look about the scene. Parts of the bodies from the shepherd and his dog were found scattered here and there, bones already cleaned of muscle and sinew by beak and tooth. ‘Interesting, though,’ remarked Veryadan as he held two gnawed pieces of the shepherd’s long thighbone up for inspection to Aidwain who was crouched down near him. ‘I can think of no animal large enough in these parts to have snapped the bone in two like this. Something with tremendous strength did this gruesome work.’

The Ranger frowned as he turned the cleanly fractured bone in his hands. ‘It couldn’t be . . .,’ he began. ‘Aidwain, have you ever been around the Troll lairs in the Angle? Seen the bones of big animals they’ve killed, broken neatly in two, the marrow sucked from them?’ He shook his head. ‘But there are no Trolls here, as I recall.’

‘There are those footprints I first found,’ Aidwain offered.

‘Too big even for a giant of a man,’ Veryadan agreed. He shook his head again. ‘Even if it were Trolls, I’ve never met one bright enough to plan and pull off raids as these seem to be doing.’

Aidwain pointed out that there was the matter of the other, smaller prints – booted and barefooted. ‘I’m certain those would be Orcs – saw enough of their trails in The War,’ the Elf went on.

Veryadan nodded at this. ‘Ugly, misshapen things - filled with shadow. But there were a number of them I had the misfortune to encounter who were as cunning as any man. Knew how to lay a plan and spring it.’

The day was growing toward evening. The two companions walked back toward their meager camp. Osric had gone off on his own; they were curious as to what he had found.

‘What I really would like to know is how big a group we’re dealing with,’ said Veryadan, as they reached the campsite. ‘Did your Elven eyes pick up any hint of this? The prints were too overrun by those of the scavengers for me to make any sense of them.’

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Arrald stood stock-still and raised his head into the air. Taking huge draughts in through his nose he sought to smell further and further afield. He closed his eyes to blot out the annoying lights and concentrated all of his attention on what came to his nose. Dim stood off to one side picking his teeth with a splinter. They had finished the last of the plunder from the farm and were on the hunt for more. Dim got the morsel free from between his teeth and pulled it out to inspect it before swallowing it. He dropped the splinter and scratched his head. “Oy, Arrald,” he called out. “Got wind of anything yet?”

Arrald opened his eyes and looked at his brother, and they were full of a dangerous cunning. Dim chuckled at the sight, for he knew this look of his brother’s and it meant fun of an especial kind. “I’ve smelt something I’ve not in a long time, my brother,” and Arrald’s face split into a hideous grin. “Can you smell it?”

Dim closed his eyes and smelt, but all he could find were wood smells and rock smells and the scent of rodents. His mouth watered at that, but he doubted he was smelling what his brother wanted him to. He opened his eyes and Arrald could tell from his expression that Dim was still clueless.

“It’s an old smell, brother,” Arrald explained. “One as I’ve not smelt in many’s the long year. It’s the smell of music and laughing and ‘orrible lights. The last time we smelt it, there was good sport though…”

The answer clawed its way through Dim’s mind. “Elves!” he chortled.

“Aye, Elves, my brother.”

“But where?” Dim cast about as though to find them in the instant.

“Not too far, but not too near either.” Arrald thought for a time. The night advanced. “I know!” he bellowed, awakening Dim. “We should head for that there great big hill with the view of all abouts. We can see where those Elves are from up there!”

“Oh, that’s a good plan,” said Dim. “But what if we run into the Elves before they run into us?”

That was a poser for Arrald. Tackling Elves who were unprepared for them was one thing, but being tackled unprepared was quite another. Arrald thought some more. The night advanced some more. “I know!” he bellowed, once more awakening Dim. “Let’s get them other two, Grimm and Broga. They’re good in a fight, and can help up with the Elves if we find them before they find us.”

Dim nodded happily at his brother. “Oh, now that’s another good plan!”

[Primrose Bolger]

Broga was hunkered down by the fire. It had burnt down with only a few blue flames licking up now and then. It was the sizzling coals that had him fascinated. He poked at them with a charred stick, watching the small sparks carry up into the night air. ‘Brother!’ he shouted, sending another shower of glittery embers toward the overhanging branches of the trees about the camp. ‘Pretty fireflies! Ain’t they something?’ He stirred the fire again, smiling as Grimm approached.

‘Somethin’ alright,’ growled Grimm, snatching the stick from Broga’s hand. ‘You get any more of them sparks caught in the leaves and we’ll be burnt outta this nice little place we got goin’ here. Be lookin’ for another place to stash our goods. Hate to think what the Orcs’d think if they saw us hauling a coupla bags a coins around.’ He crouched down beside his frowning brother. ‘Might think we been dippin’ into what’s theirs, holdin’ back.’ Broga shook his head slowly. ‘Gotta nice little thing going here,’ Grimm went on, nudging his brother. ‘Let’s not mess it up.’

Crack! . . . snap! . . . twigs breaking . . . varied mutterings from large beings unseen as yet in the darkness . . .

Grimm stood up from the fire, muttering himself. ‘Looks like the neighbors have arrived,’ he whispered to Broga, giving him a hand up. ‘Wonder what they want?’ Broga whispered back. Grimm’s eyes were on the large rock across the little clearing. He could just see two lumbering figures moving into the moonlight.

-o-o-o-o-

The fire had been stirred up and chunks of wood added to it. The four Trolls sat on the large, flat topped rocks they’d rolled near the flames, talking about the talented nose of Arald and what had been sussed out through its olfactory prowess. ‘Elves, eh?’ reflected Grimm, taking a long look at the vaunted honker.

Dim shook his head enthusiastically. ‘So what do ya think, you two,’ he chortled. His meaty fist slapped against the flat of the other hand. ‘Bet you two would like to do a little Elf bashin.’ ‘Come on, now,’ he went on, winking at Broga. ‘You know we’d have fun!’

Broga was starting to nod his head as Dim spoke, a leering smile cracking the leathery planes of his face. Grimm, however, was less eager to latch onto the plan. He stood up, a gruesome frown crackling his brow.

‘Not to rain on your little plan and all. Elf-bashing’s something me ‘n’ my brother happen to excel at . . . BUT.’ The others looked up at him, muttering already at what was coming next. ‘I’m gonna bet,’ he went on, ‘that the chief knows about these Elves and such. He’s got spies out – you seen that maggoty looking creature comes round ever so often. Fen, somethin’ or other.’

‘Yeah . . . and so?’ one of the others asked.

‘And so . . . like I told my brother a little earlier,’ Grimm said, planting his thick hands on his hips. ‘We gotta good thing goin’ here with the Orcs. What say we tell ‘em what your nose tells you? Tell ‘em we want to be in on it if they’re plannin’ something.’ He looked round the lumpish group. ‘Come on now,’ he said starting off toward the Orc camp. ‘Who’s with me?’

A short time later, the four Trolls stomped into the Orc camp demanding to see the chief. ‘Tell him there’s Elves about . . . and nothin’ good’ll come of it if they ain’t seen to!’

In the face of overwhelming trollishness, the scrawny Orc guard fled to deliver the message.

[Nuranar]

Esgallhugwen's post

As the group seperated into three the two Elves and Fen rode abreast, but as they drew further from the others Tarondo took the lead whilst Silrûth took the rear, keeping a lookout for trouble. The day passed soon enough and they made camp for the night, Fen had persuaded them to stay away from Whittleworth at dark, and the Elves were wise enough not to attempt the risk.

In the morning light they packed, eating a cold breakfast while on horseback. By well after noon they had reached their destination.

The stench was overwhelming for one not accustomed to such things, both Tarondo and Silrûth having seen much carnage in war had a better hold of their stomachs then Fen. The black carrion birds were swooping and pecking with ravenous speed, the ground seemed to move with a glistening black current of ebony feathers where the hapless bodies lay.

The two Elves collected themselves and began searching the area while Fen stayed behind watching the horses. Tarondo searched the ground, careful of his step.

Silrûth caught eye of the collapsed house and quickly paced the premises, her keen eyes catching every detail. "Look at how this whole corner is destroyed." she called to Tarondo, "It seems as if it was smashed at one blow. And over here," she turned and pointed next to her making sure not to step on the wood fall.

"There are two men under there. Two men, crushed to death. The house itself has been ransacked but very little taken, from what I can tell. I cannot find any money, although there is a hidden nook in the floor that is empty."

She looked at her companion who seemed to be transfixed in thought, with a gently nudge she eyed him knowingly asking "Have you found anything?"

He shook his head and frowned.

These bodies cannot be left to be shredded by the birds she thought sadly, Tarondo seemed to be thinking the same thing for Fen was soon fetched and was set to work digging graves for the deceased. The Elves pitched in, Silrûth striking the earth with the pick while Tarondo dug away steadily at the loosened soil.

The gruesome work was done with the sun still above the eastern hills. Tarondo set off around the perimeter of the farmyard, where the ground was softer and vegetation grew. Silrûth stayed awhile mouthing a silent Elvish prayer over the fresh graves.

Fen had wandered off back towards the horses.

The golden haired Elf drew near to her companion, he was kneeling down and glaring curiously at some wilted vegetation. It was impacted into the dirt with frayed edges clinging to the sides of the oversized print.

With a displeased sound she knelt down beside him inspecting the track, it looked far too familiar for her liking. She stood looking in the direction of the giant gait, North East, "towards the marshes", Tarondo nodded a sneer on his lips.

She could have sworn there was the faint reek of Troll in the air, she scrunched her nose up in disgust, and began to follow the tracks. After a few moments, Tarondo took her kindly by the arm, "we have no time to linger, the sun is setting soon and we must be back on our way to the others"

Silrûth nodded solemnly. "Yes we must tell the others what we have found"

They were once again among the decimated ruins of Whittleworth, they walked to their horses noticing the absence of Fen. "Seems Master Sheperdspurse has left us", Tarondo's horse snorted in distaste, Falma nodded her head in agreement.

Turning the direction they had come with the sun fading, the horses started at a trot.

"To Weathertop it is then" Silrûth looked over at her partner, "to Weathertop it is" Tarondo replied.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain,Veryadan scanned the place full of bodies of the shepherd and dog ,the bodies seemed to be torn apart by some force which Aidwain thought could only exist in a troll,in the war Aidwain had seen his elven brothers being ripped apart by the same breed within seconds as they tried to kill them .

While Aidwain thought of the war , ‘Interesting, though,’ remarked Veryadan as he held two gnawed pieces of the shepherd’s long thighbone up for inspection to Aidwain who was crouched down near him. ‘I can think of no animal large enough in these parts to have snapped the bone in two like this. Something with tremendous strength did this gruesome work.’

‘It couldn’t be . . .,’ he began. ‘Aidwain, have you ever been around the Troll lairs in the Angle? Seen the bones of big animals they’ve killed, broken neatly in two, the marrow sucked from them?’ He shook his head. ‘But there are no Trolls here, as I recall.’

‘There are those footprints I first found,’ Aidwain offered.

‘Too big even for a giant of a man,’ Veryadan agreed. He shook his head again. ‘Even if it were Trolls, I’ve never met one bright enough to plan and pull off raids as these seem to be doing.’

"The footprints I discovered seemed of orcs to me",replied Aidwain.
"Yes,Indeed ,but What I really would like to know is how big a group we’re dealing with,’ said Veryadan, as they reached the campsite. ‘Did your Elven eyes pick up any hint of this? The prints were too overrun by those of the scavengers for me to make any sense of them.’

The day was growing toward evening. The two companions walked back toward their meager camp. Osric had gone off on his own; they were curious as to what he had found.

"Well I think there must have been trolls as well as orcs in this place,the orc's number I cannot tell but I seem to find that their are four set of prints of trolls.
.I thought your skills as a ranger would be handy in here,but for now we can only say that the orcs and trolls were here and they killed the shepherd and took all his sheep .Let us return to camp for the day wanes and we better not roam alone in this place . Come let us find Osric for I fear for his safety .",replied Aidwain and then leaving the place of murder they returned to camp .....

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

. . . moving toward Weathertop from the marshes; making camp the evening before meeting the other groups atop the hill . . .

Veryadan had taken the last watch for the night. No signs of activity save the occasional passing of some small animal in the darkness were noted by him and he was glad of it. There were only three in this little company, and though they were all skilled warriors, still two blades and a bow would not stand against the numbers of foul creatures they had surmised had recently been in the area.

His companions and he had talked long into the night about what they had found that day and what it might mean. They were concerned about the thought of Orcs and Trolls having banded together to maraud the northwestern reaches of the kingdom. Left unchecked they had fears of the Orcs becoming bandit-lords - laying claim to ‘territory’ and placing sections of the King’s free subjects under their domination and tyranny. It would be a long and tiresome war with many losses if the Orcs were not stopped now while their numbers were small, their organization less developed.

As soon as first light broke to the east, Veryadan stirred the few embers of their little fire and called to his companions who were already stirring from their blankets. Once Aidwain was up, he filled their small pot with water from a nearby creek and set it to boil for tea. ‘We should set out toward Weathertop as soon as we’ve broken our fast,’ the Elf said, kneeling down to roll his blankets and tie them. Veryadan nodded, fetching his pack and handing round a few handfuls of sweet oats for the horses who were trying to make do with the sparse, coarse clumps of grass that grew in this area.

Meal done, fire out, coals scattered, the three took to their mounts and headed south a short ways, then turned east. They were in no hurry; their meeting with the other two groups would not be until tomorrow. It was early evening still when they reached the southern foot of Weathertop at the point nearest the Great East Road. Veryadan looked up toward the plateau. ‘Well, there’s a small track I can see winding it’s way up,’ he said pointing toward a broken line zig-zagging up the hill. Looks like we’ll have to lead the horses up.’

He was just about to dismount when Aidwain spoke up. ‘Amon Sûl, you know, is what we Elves named your Weathertop.’ He laughed as he spoke. ‘And a fitting name it is. Hill of the Wind! Let’s save being blown about for tomorrow. It shouldn’t take that long to climb up.’ The Elf pointed to an area across the road – a small clearing with some trees to shelter under.

Veryadan laughed also, seeing the wisdom of the Elf’s choice of camp. ‘Now all we need is something tasty and hot for dinner! I, for one, am tired of dried meats and fruits. It’s still light out, anyone have an idea?’

[Kransha]

When there was nothing to kill, maim, devour, annihilate, or ‘play with,’ life got very boring for orcs. Bâzzog was pacing, in the center of his camp, probably thinking, though it was hard to tell when one looked at him. He would crouch down; squatting, every now and then, and survey the land to some extent, but all exercises were designed merely to occupy him. Nearby, Búbkûr sat, letting sparkling golden coins, which he had clutched in his hand, drip through his fingers and watching the sunny waterfall fall onto an ever-growing pile arranged in the dirt. Gráthgrob was also squatting, and sketching an illegible series of drawing in the moister dirt with his sharpest claw, that tipped his stubbly forefinger. Kransha, as mute as ever, stood in the distance, looking over the camp in silence, while other orcs busied themselves with counting their respective shares from the spoils of the Whittleworth Farm raid. At last, the steady tedium was disrupted by distant sounds of horse hooves, and the approach of the hunched over, wretched shadow called Fen Sheperdspurse. At his arrival, Búbkûr leapt to his feet, but Bâzzog was unfazed, and only nodded to acknowledge the man’s arrival.

“Bâzzog.” He said quickly, “I bring word of the interlopers.”

“Not ill news, again, is it.” Búbkûr growled, his grimy teeth poking out of his continuously blood-stained mouth. He growled, a deep, throaty noise that swelled and gasped in his throat, and Fen flinched visibly, but did not waver otherwise, and managed to continue, despite the residue of Búbkûr’s unsatisfied sounds. “No, not ill at all.” He said; grinning like a devil, all wrapped up in his villainous cloak, “I know of where they will meet, on the morrow. Upon the hill of Weathertop they will be meeting;” he pointed a slightly quivering finger, bony and gnarled like detestable tree branch, in the direction of the ruined watch-tower of Amon Sûl, “a more than perfect opportunity for you to ‘make their acquaintance,’ yes?” He chuckled under his breath, thinking that the orcs might join in with raucous guffaws, but they did not.

“Roight.” muttered Bâzzog, scratching himself. Fen looked repulsed, but Bâzzog and his cohorts ignored the disgusted look. “Whadda we do, then?” interjected Búbkûr loudly, his boor voice filling the area and shattering the illusion of silence. Bâzzog looked back at him, his beady eyes narrowed in a dank scowl, and he responded in a terse fashion, as was customary for terse orcs. “Kill ‘em.” He said, “Simple enough.” The other orcs did not entirely comprehend, especially the duller lieutenant. “Just…kill ‘em?” Búbkûr looked confused, his thick, jutting brow wiggling in bewilderment, “Just like that?” Bâzzog looked sourly at him, and responded, “Of course ‘just like that.’ Whaddja think we were gonna do.”

Gráthgrob’s voice was heard next, meek at first, but then strangely confident as its volume rose. “Well,” he said, “…we don’t ‘ave ta kill ‘em.” Bâzzog and Búbkûr glowered back at him, both confused and slightly insulted by this questioning of Bâzzog’s authoritative power to have the last word. “What’s ‘at supposed ta mean?” shot back the chief orc angrily, rising swiftly to his feet, his shadow falling over the smaller figure of Gráthgrob, who immediately cowered, but spread his arms and attempted to calm Bâzzog. The chief was half-enraged, but knew Gráthgrob to be a decent, respectable, and intelligent uruk, and moved back, allowing the sniveling orc to waddle forward and make his scheme known. “Maybe,” he began quietly, constantly looking to his captain for approval, “…We just kill some…I mean, there ain’t many of ‘em, right? So, we ambush ‘em at Weathertop, but not all of us; just a few o’ us. That way, we can still ‘ave our fun with ‘em, eh? Let the trolls have their gold. I say, we can take whatever the tarks and the Elfies got.” At this, he spat condemningly, upon the name of the Elves, and was joined by Búbkûr, who did the same.

Bâzzog, though, was busy nodding in agreement, and was joined shortly after by the other orc grunts crowded around, some of whom whispered and murmured to themselves or others. Without a single exchanged word between the whole band, the decision was made. They began to gather closer, and huddle, and speak more loudly, as Bâzzog and Bubkur considered quietly, and Kransha stood mutely by. Búbkûr broke the reign of hushed voices, by speaking with his usual oafish tone. “Wha’ about him?” he said, jerking a clawed thumb at the figure of Fen Sheperdspurse. Fen jumped, slightly ecstatic at the thought of gaining more riches for himself, and could not stop himself from blurting out, “Yes. What of my share?”

Bâzzog smiled evilly. “Ye want yer share, do ye?” He shot a glance at the thin, quiet orc lieutenant nearby. “Kransha?”

Suddenly, the narrow, emaciated arm of the silent orc shot forward at lightning speed, and the orc’s icy fingers, closing like a mighty vice, wrapped around Fen’s scrawny neck and hoisted him speedily off his feet. Confused and horrified, Fen squirmed about as a caught fish might out of water, but to no avail. Kransha’s hold on his needed throat constricted and tightened, though the uruk himself bore a completely unemotional expression on his face, one of utter, incomprehensible bemusement. Behind the hovering man and orc, other orcs, licking their lips ferociously, wormed forward, forming a voracious semicircle just behind Fen. Bâzzog took a step forward, grinning maliciously. Fen had outlived his usefulness – though not entirely. Quietly, he spoke. “We orcs don’t really like sharin’.” He said, sardonic and cold, “But, I think we can manage it, just this once.” He looked past the dangling Bree man, to the orcs under his command, whose eyes were glowing horrifically, and whose mouths were hanging open. “Boys:” he cried, “‘e’s all yours – and don’t ferget ta share.”

The orc threw Fen backward…and he never hit the ground. As he fell, the orcs swarmed over him, growling and roaring.

Giggling sadistically to himself, Bâzzog turned around and, in one sweeping motion, pulled his weapon from its place in his belt, hanging in neglect at his side. He drew it forth, and held it up. “C’mon, you maggots!” he cried, hearing his lieutenants and the other orcs (those who were not currently “busy”) begin to sidle around him, “We’re goin’ ta Weathertop!” The orcs slowly drew all their weapons, many laughing and hooting in mad anticipation. Soon, a mild uproar had sprung up. Bâzzog laughed deeply, and Bubkur joined like a good thrall, laughing stupidly, but also considering the benefits, and the fun to be had, from Grathgrob’s ingenious plan. The uruk troops began to ready themselves, gathering what they required for the hunt ahead, but their murderous jollity was interrupted by a breathless goblin messenger, who dashed into the area, panting furiously, and addressed Bâzzog as soon as he was near him.

“Cap’n.” said the messenger, in between sharp breaths, “The trolls are here. They say Elves are about, and they wanna speak with you.”

“Sha!” cursed Bâzzog, a sentiment seconded by many other orcs in far more obscene ways, “That means they’ll want a piece of the action, they will.” He paused, looking to Gráthgrob, Kransha, and Búbkûr. They did not reply to his gaze, looking, instead, to him for leadership, and a decision, despite the fact that most other uruks in the camp were too wrapped up in the business of preparation to notice what was occurring. Finally, Bâzzog begrudgingly shrugged. Best that we let ‘em tag along” he said, half in defeat, and then considered what might come of such an action. “…They ain’t bad in a fight, fer sure.” Búbkûr nodded heartily.

And so the matter was settled. The trolls, still thinking that they were the ones that had alerted the orcs to the Elves’ presence, and a band of selected orcs under Bâzzog, as well as his chief lieutenants, set off for the hill called Amon Sûl, to wreak havoc on their foes.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain and Veryadan reached their small camp and instantly fell asleep with Veryadan on guard,in the morning they set out for Amun Sul where they were going to meet the rest for the company.They rode at a an easy place stopping for a meal in the afternoon,but it was still early evening when they reached the southern foot of Weathertop at the point nearest the Great East Road. Veryadan looked up toward the plateau. ‘Well, there’s a small track I can see winding it’s way up,’ he said pointing toward a broken line zig-zagging up the hill. Looks like we’ll have to lead the horses up.’

It nearly took an hour or so to set a camp under a bunch of trees .For their night meal they decided to hunt some rabbits instead of having their fruits and dried meats. Aidwain liked the idea for he had not used his bow since they set out from Bree.He crept along the zig-zag path until he came to an opening in the trees ,here he hoped to find some coneys for them ,he slowly crouched and moved in the trees,and waited ,after about twenty minutes he heard a noise in the bushes ,looking in the direction he saw a small rabbit searching for food,slowly he took out a arrow and fitted it to his bow and drawing it he killed the rabbit in a instant.

Pleased with himself Aidwain returned to camp ,but as he moved out of the trees he heard a distinct noise ,not of his own feet but of someone else who as if was running,the elf hastily returned to camp and told this to Veryadan who looked at him gravely and suggested that they set two for watch tonight......

[Envinyatar]

SAVE for any posts needed prior to the battle . . .

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Meneltarmacil's post

"Well, I think this is the spot," Menecar said, coming to where the merchants had been killed.

"Appears that there's not much left." Thoronmir observed. "Whoever killed them has pretty much disposed of the bodies."

"Over here!" Luinen said, pointing at the ground. Several tracks were leading off in the direction of Weathertop.

"Looks like several orcs were here not too long ago," Thoronmir said. "I'd say these tracks are only a few days old at most."

"There are some much larger tracks leading out of this ditch," Menecar added.

"Trolls." Thoronmir looked worried. "They're about the same age as the others. We'd better see if there are any more."

They searched through the area and found many more tracks leading in the same direction.

"Thoronmir, what is it?" asked Luinen. "What's wrong?"

"Shepherdspurse," he answered. "If he got any word out, the time of these tracks would be consistent with the time it would take for them to respond to an andvance notice from him. Meaning our friends are probably going to be in serious trouble..." He looked over toward the line of hills on the horizon, where Weathertop was faintly visible.

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

Nothing had come of the noises the Elf had heard. Though, perhaps it was because they had kept the fire burning and took the watch two together while one caught what sleep he could. The sharp light of early morning brought out the tired angles of their faces after the short seeming night. And no strong mugs of tea could drive away the weariness they felt. There was a certain menace in the air they felt, the Elf especially, making their rationed sleep fitful with vague dreams.

Weathertop loomed up across the roadway. The rising sun caught the top rim of it and spread down the eastern side. ‘A favorable sign, don’t you think,’ commented Veryadan, pointing out the light as it rolled down the hill. Aidwain gave the promontory a critical look. ‘Once we’re up there,’ Veryadan continued, nodding toward the plateau, ‘we can take a look-see about. See if we can spot anything that might have made those noises you heard last night.’ He began securing his bedroll and pack to his horse as did the other two of his companions. They rode to the foot of the hill. Then, dismounting, led their horses, single file, along the narrow, rough track they’d spied angling up the southern face of Weathertop.

Save for the skittering of a few ground squirrels making their rounds among the fallen stones of the tower that had once graced the plateau, the hill top was quiet and empty, save for the constant breezes that blew against them. The three companions stood at the remaining center of the old tower and turned slowly round, surveying the countryside. Nothing amiss registered.

‘Might as well make ourselves comfortable,’ Veryadan spoke, breaking the quiet. ‘We were the closest to the meeting place. It will be a little while before the others arrive.’

They took off their belongings from the horses and tethered their mounts a little ways off, near a rocky outcropping that afforded them some relief from the constant wind. Veryadan made himself comfortable on a low, crumbly wall top that had once been part of the tower. He leaned his back against the sun-warmed stones. Osric had found his own place to sit, some distance away and had taken his blade out, wanting to check for any nicks. Aidwain, too seated himself, on one of the rocks. His bow lay near. And he too was inspecting the sharpness of his arrow heads.

A while passed in these make-do occupations as they waited for the others to arrive. The horses began to whinny a little and stamp their hooves on the rock in a restless manner.

‘I’ll see to that,’ Veryadan said, uncurling himself from his comfortable seat. ‘They didn’t get their oats this morning. Perhaps this is a gentle reminder.’

‘Or maybe one of the other groups has drawn near and they are eager to greet the other horses,’ offered Aidwain looking up from his task.

Veryadan made his way to the horses, calling out to them in a soothing voice . . .

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Psst!’ Broga crooked a thick finger at his brother, motioning for him to come nearer. ‘I hear ‘em movin’ about up there.’ The two brothers, with their basalt colored, scaly skin blend in quite well with the rocky face of the hill on the north side. Helpful too was the fact that a small ledge jutted out for a short way along the hill side, blocking the view of anyone looking down from the top.

‘Quiet!’ hissed Grimm. ‘One of them sharp-eared Elves is up there. This is supposed to be a surprise.’ Broga placed his finger over his pursed lips and nodded his head.

The chief had gone over his plan a number of times with those Orcs and Trolls who were to make the first wave of attack. Grimm and his brother would climb up to the northwest end while four Orcs would make their way to the opposite end. The Trolls would arrive first and take care of the horses, distracting the Men and Elf, while the four Orcs would sweep in and surprise them from behind. The other two Trolls and several more Orc groups would add reinforcement as the other groups of men and Elves arrived.

Grimm motioned for his brother to start on up. ‘You sure there’s just the three of them up there?’ Broga asked one last time. ‘Yes, you lackwit! We scouted the area below last night, remember. It was just them three across the road as we could find.’ Broga’s brow furrowed. ‘And they was eatin’ them rabbits, wasn’t they?’ Grim sighed quietly and nodded his head yes. ‘You just take care of their horses, run ‘em off, have a little fun with ‘em. Just watch out for that Elf and his bow.’ It was Broga’s turn now to nod his head. He rubbed his right shoulder with his hand, remembering a particularly painful encounter with a number of Elves and their sharp, hurtful arrows.

Broga peeked over the top of the hill seeking to find where the horses had been put. He and Grimm inched a little westward then heaved themselves up over the rim of the plateau, just a little way from their objective. Broga grinned as the horses reared up and pawed the air wildly, neighing their disgust and fear at the approach of the Trolls. To Grimm’s great delight, a Ranger had stopped dead in his tracks as the two heaved themselves to their feet and lumbered with club and hammer toward the three wild-eyed horses.

‘Trolls!’ they heard the man shout, noting his two companions scrambling to their feet.

‘Get them oatburners, brother!’ Grimm told his brother, pointing his thumb toward the horses. He thumped his great hammer into the hard-hided palm of his hand. ‘I’m gonna have me some fun with one of them Duneydain boys!’

Osric and Aidwain were rushing to the aid of Veryadan, sword and bow at the ready. Grimm swatted an arrow away from the Elf’s bow and laughed loudly as he advance on the trio, hammer flailing.

From behind the three companions came the harsh sound of Orcish battle cries. The four Orcs had crested the hill and were rushing to battle.

[Alaksoron]

Osric sat against a portion of wall that afforded some makeshft shelter from the wind. He was checking his swordblade. It was a fine Elven make, beautiful yet deadly. His mind drifted to Pelennor Fields, where Alaksoron had lay dying, a Haradrim arrow in his chest. Despite all his skill with medicine, Osric had been unable to help his captain that had quickly become his friend. It had been a triply barbed arrow, jagged and strong enough to break bones. The kind that never came back out.

Alaksoron had been the captain of his Rohirrim regiment. Alaksoron had been a great Elf-friend, and as a result received an Elven sword as a gift for an act of valor. As Alaksoron had lain gasping, Osric crouching helpless beside him, the battle raging around them, he had pressed his fine sword into Osric's hand. He had said nothing, but that had been enough. As Alaksoron breathed his last, Osric Falkur had returned to the battle with renewed vigor, an Elven blade in his hand.

He sat apart from the others, and his thoughts passed to the events of the previous day. He was aware subconsciously of Veryadan getting up to check on the horses. He himself had found nothing yesterday, which irritated him, but the other two had said trolls. Trolls were one of the few things that Osric was afraid of. A troll could easily rip the sturdiest man to shreds. He had seen that, at Pelennor Fields. Idly he wondered why the creatures which possessed obvious advantages in size, which possessed such savage strength, also had the dullest minds.

And it was the word which Osric feared most which jolted him from his thoughts. "Trolls!" Veryadan yelled.

He was up and running before he had time to think, lucky that his sword had already been in his hand. Aidwain was running too, bow in hand, and outpacing him with his long legs. Osric froze when he saw the Trolls, sudden fear gripping him. He heard a savage whoop from behind him, and turned to see four orcs advancing. Here was an enemy he was not so reluctant to encounter.

There was a knife in Osric's free hand quicker than a man could blink, and it was back out of his hand just as quickly. Blood blossomed in an Orc's throat as Osric's knife struck home. He brandished his sword, hoping that Aidwain could keep the trolls off of Veryadan with his arrows. On came the Orcs.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain sat against a wall of the great tower of Amun Sul,which was now in ruins,he took out some of his arrows and sharpened them with the sharpening stone which Osric had bought,he had sense of foreboding that some one was watching them,he jad not forgot the noises he had heard last night.

In the meanwhile Veryadan had gone to feed the horses ,who were whinning,and suddenely out of nowhere he heard Veryadan shout " Trolls !! " ,without thinking Aidwain immdieately rushed to his feet and fixing an arrow to his bow he shot at one of the trolls,but he swatted the arrow away from the Elf’s bow and laughed loudly as he advance on the trio, hammer flailing.

Out of his eyes corner he could see that four orcs had come from the other side and Osric was fighting with them with his sword and knife,but Aidwain was shooting arrow after arrow at the troll ,but it seemed that they had no effect on the creature,but the trolls were now fighting with Veryadan who already was injured but taking out his sword defended himself,Aidwain could not think of anything to do but fire more arrows on the trolls .......

[Primrose Bolger]

The foul Elf’s arrows were irritating Broga no end. Several of them had nicked the horses he was after and sent them rearing and slashing at him as they’d been driven to the edge of the hill. He’d managed to swing his club at one of the beasts, knocking the horse across his broad chest. Breath knocked from him, the horse struggled with his footing. His back hooves scrabbled against the loose rock at the edge of the hill but could find no purchase. With a scream, the horse pitched over the lip of the plateau. The two others, seeing the Troll was distracted, whinnied loudly and tore off around him on each side.

Grimm, in the meantime had landed a few blows near the Ranger, but the man was fast on his feet. And that sword of his – Grimm had forgotten how hard those blades could bite. Already he’d several slices on his legs and forearms that were dripping with blood. And the Elven archer’s arrows, bit into the tender folds between the scales on his hide, like a swarm of irritating gnats. ‘Brother,’ he yelled. ‘Give us a hand!’

Broga left off his attempts at wrangling and lumbered over to Grimm’s side. He could see that one of the Orcs had already been done in by the other man with the sword. Two of the three Orcs were pressing in on the man, harrying him with their own jagged blades. The third Orc had zig-zagged around and was angling toward the Ranger.

The two Trolls began moving toward the Elf swinging at him with club and hammer . . .

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan could see he’d gotten a number of good blows in at the Troll. The creature was bleeding both from the cuts from his blade and from the places where the arrows had imbedded. Only one of the Troll’s hammer blows had come near him. It had glanced off his left arm as he’d jumped away from it, leaving the arm numb from the elbow down, but still intact – no bones broken.

He saw the horses running wildly away from the second Troll and heard the loud sickening thuds and the scream as one of them plunged over the side. The Trolls had joined forces, then, their new objective seeming to be Aidwain. Veryadan turned, intending to stand together with his companion. Running quickly round the horse marauding Troll, he aimed a blow at the back of the creature’s knee. As the Troll raised his arm to deliver a blow with his club, Veryadan brought the point of his blade up, intending to bury it in the vulnerable area between the scales that protected the creature’s armpit. He dodged in quickly toward the Troll, the tip of his blade pushing in against the tough hide.

The searing pain came as a surprise. Veryadan’s breath came in gasps as he sought to master it. The lone Orc had circled round him, and arcing his jagged blade in a two handed grip cut the Ranger deeply on his flank. Aidwain had by this time brought down the Orc with a deeply driven arrow. Veryadan’s sword slipped from his grasp as he clutched his bleeding side. He staggered back from the Troll whose leering face now looked down on him with a sort of feral glee. The foul creature swept his club round about, catching Veryadan hard on his upper arm. The force of the brutal blow threw the Ranger a short ways away, his body landing in a crumpled, bloodied heap on the rock strewn ground.

[Alaksoron]

Peripherally Osric was aware of Veryadan crumpling from a blow by that massive troll warclub. He knew he would have to take some real action now. Even with an excellent Elven bow, Aidwain could never handle a pair of trolls alone. Falkur wanted badly to help the others, but the Orcs he was facing were no clumsy fighters. Even he, with his unrivaled sword skill, was having a hard time of it.

One of the cursed jagged blades had already bitten into his left knuckle, and his coat was splattered with blood, almost none of it his. He scored a blow on one of the Uruks across the shoulder, and the wicked orc-sword dropped from his hand. He turned to face the other, which was attempting to circle around behind him. He lunged forward and slashed with all his strength.

Falkur's slender blade landed across the neck where the armor was weak, cutting deep. With a bloody gurgle, the ugly creature fell. Osric felt a sharp pain in his calf, and turned to see the other Orc, already wounded, slashing with a kopis. He feinted a slash at the Orc's shoulder, and he fell for it. A quick thrust at the stomach, the blade driven clean through, and it was all over.

Osric turned and limped toward Aidwain, realizing his sword would do him no more good against the trolls than it had Veryadan. He pulled his own bow from his shoulders and fitted an arrow to the string.

[Nuranar]

After the discovery of both Orc and Troll tracks, they had covered the miles back to Weathertop as swiftly as they could. As they neared the rendezvous, the cries and bellowing from the hilltop only confirmed Luinien’s fears. “Follow me. Quickly!” Scarcely slowing her speed, she guided her mount up a narrow track on the steep eastern side of the hill.

When the track degenerated into a scramble over rocks, Luinien turned aside and slid down. Not staying to tether her horse, she snatched her bow and clambered nimbly to the top. Menecar and Thoronmir were right on her heels, swords drawn.

Even as she crested the hill’s edge Osric slew the Orcs he was fighting. Without seeing her, he turned and ran to Aidwain’s aid. The Elf stood alone, facing two Trolls. Luinien ran forward to a slight elevation and stopped, fitting an arrow to her bow. As the two Rangers stormed past her with fierce battle-cries, she released. With a roar, one of the huge creatures dropped its club and grasped its arm. As she drew another arrow Luinien saw Menecar dash in to the attack, while Osric and Thoronmir converged on the other...

[Saurreg]

Loudewater was still badly shaken by his “ordeal” at what was Whittleworth Farm as well as what he thought had come to pass at the part of the Great East Road where a huge beech had fallen. Chancing upon two places that have seen gruesome death on the same day was proving to be too traumatizing for the farmer. His shaking hands were clutching the leather reins of the mule so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his face was paler than usual. Large black mosquitoes that had followed Killer as they passed the marshes where the tree fell buzzed around them still, but Loudewater was impervious to them all. Too shocked to think coherently, he was in a semi-dazed state of numbness.

It was only when killer halted abruptly in his steps and nearly threw the in-alert farmer onto the road before him, did Loudewater break out from his daze and capture what was before him. Killer was reluctant to proceed further and the wide-eyed animal was thrashing this way and that in great argitating, snorting loudly and whinning in alarm and tension.

“Woooh! Wooh boy!” Commanded loudewater in what was the deepest and most reassuring voice he could master. But the frightened animal refused to budge and continued to shake its head in furious agitation.

Finally Loudewater brought the nervous beast into control by bibery with an apple he had taken along. He surveyed his surroundings to get his bearings right and it was only then did he realize that to his left, rising above the emerald green grass covered hill was the old fortress that people called “Weathertop”

The derelict ruin had been abandoned long before Bree was settled but that have not stopped tales of haunting spirits or some other demonic entities from adding to its already sinister reputation. The latest offering from gossipers and yarn-weavers was that Weathertop was now the bastion where brigands and other undesirable riffrafts resided.

Weathertop was supposed to be abandoned, but Loudewater could hear the clanging of metals and hideous cries from throats that do not sound human. Fear rose again from the dark recesses of the farmer’s being and engulfed him, but this time the Imp of Perversion that had visited him the night at the Prancing Pony’s returned with a new side-kick ; the Fairy of Unreasonable Curiosity. The combined influence of the said two overwhelmed the fear in Loudewater and the farmer felt an irresistible urge to see for himself what was happening up there in the ruins.

He looked around and judging what was the least steep of the hill slope, he nudged Killer onto it. But panic gripped the beast again and it refused to budge any further even when Loudewater continued to press at its girth with his boots. Frustrated, the farmer got off clumsily and tied the reins to the branch of a fallen log and made his way up by foot, head giddy with excitement and heart pounding nervously.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had released about a dozen arrows on the troll to no immediate effect ,but he could see that the arrows were infuriating the troll,at the same time Veryadan had cut him from several sides ,Osric was battling the four orcs alone .

But now he could see that one of the orcs had steadily made his way behind Veryadan,even before Aidwain could draw his bow to kill the creature it had slashed at Veryadan's arm,but the next instant it fell from Aidwain's arrow,but now one of the trolls gave a huge blow to Veryadan with his club who flew backwards uncounsicious.

The two trolls leaving their attempts to kill the ranger turned on Aidwain ,rushing towards him with Hammer and club,he released another arrow to the trolls neck but to no effect ,Aidwain thougth this was the last sight he would see the two trolls rushing towards him,but suddenly out of nowhere a whistling arrow hit the troll and the club fell from his hand , Aidwain sprang backwards dodging the falling hammer of the other troll and now he could see that at last his companions had come Lunien standing on the hill's edge was shooting arrow after arrow at the trolls and Thoromir and Menecar were rushing towards them with swords drawn ,in the meanwhile Osric too had come to his aid.

Without waiting another second he drew his arrow and aimed at one of the trolls eye,the arrow flew and hit it's mark,the troll howled in pain ,seeing that the troll's were injured he rushed to see whether Veryadan was alive ......

[Kransha]

“They’re all dead!” cried Búbkûr, “all of ‘em.”

His eyesight was not particularly good, but the blackened hue and shadowy, bulky appearance of the orcs on Weathertop was easily distinguishable, in contrast to the Elves, men, and monstrous trolls. Squinting and blinking, Búbkûr peered up at the ruins that marked the summit of the earthen lump of rock as it jutted from the plains below. He could see that the initial force of six uruks had been easily slain, though they had done some damage. Búbkûr, as usual, was suffering from a belligerent mood, and wished to be involved, personally in the battle. He was hungry for blood, an unsavory lust that came upon him often, and was practically salivating at the possibility of staining his jagged hook hand with Elvish blood. In Gundabad, it had become increasingly harder to find such an admirable living quarry as Elves, since those seldom ventured deep into the Misty Mountains. Of late, Búbkûr had only had access to wretched Bree men like the fool Fen Sheperdspurse, and roaming hobbits far from their accustomed element. Eager, with a thin line of saliva seeping from his crooked lips, Búbkûr glanced at his commander, who stood nearby, gazing at the battle.

“Doesn’t matter.” Said Bâzzog astutely, “We’ll send more.” He said this with a great deal of nonchalance, which was not particularly common for him. It surprised Búbkûr, and Gráthgrob as well, who sat not far off, contemplating battle stratagems with the assistance of a knobby stick and a patch of grassless dirt, that Bâzzog, the ruthless chieftain of uruks, had not already sent in his whole, massive force to overwhelm the few meager remnants of resistance against him. Instead, he was being incredibly coy and reserved with his tactics. But, he was not utterly altered. Slightly irate because of this conservatism, Búbkûr ventured a frustrated query to his commander. “How many this time?” he said, “The whole bunch?”

“Eight.” Bâzzog replied, turning on his heel, “Eight more.” He indicated a number of orcs, who leapt up merrily, with sadistic grins slapped onto their grotesque faces. Bâzzog then gestured to Búbkûr and Kransha, who had been carefully examining the hill above and scoping out the situation warily. “Búbkûr,” the uruk chief said then, pointing a thick stump of a finger and the tapered claw at its end toward Amon Sûl, “you lead this group. Kransha,” he shot a dank look at his gangly lieutenant, who turned dutifully to face him and nodded before he had even been issued a command, though Bâzzog proclaimed the order anyway. “Go with ‘em,” he growled, and then paused, smiling like a hungry wolf; “…Make sure you leave some for me, yes?”

Kransha nodded again, more promptly than before, and slid a red-tipped bolt nimbly from the quiver dangling at his side. He pushed it against the hard wood of his bow and nocked the arrow, holding it up as if he were about to fire. But, instead of taking careful aim and loosing the shaft, he broke into a dead sprint towards Weathertop. Búbkûr, after a grimacing glare from Bâzzog that incited him, rushed after Kransha, lumbering slowly in comparison to the swiftness and speed of the other orc. Behind him, the other six orcs, an assortment of large brutes, surly and muscular in appearance, began to run, until the group had arrived at the bottom of Weathertop’s slope.

It did not take long for the orcs to scale the hill and engage their foes in battle

[Saurreg]

The short climb up the hill was proving to be more exerting than Loudewater had initially anticipated. The hill was steeper than it looked and the wet grass and moss caused the clumsy farmer to trip. Cursing and panting, the farmer slowly labored his way onwards where the furious din of fighting got louder with every heavily planted step. Loudewater was about to give up and head back down when he reached a high elevation and saw what was transpiring on the opposite side of the hill between the woods and the hill clearing.

It was a skirmish among armed combatants, but not just a struggle of ferocious men. Loudewater saw the huge colossal trolls first, each as black as soot and clad in skins of dead animals. One of the monstrosities was bellowing in anger and pain, and cupping his left eye with an immense paw while thrashing his scaly arms wildly about, not caring what he smashed. The other was lumbering in a feral gait towards his target – a small lithe figure whilst brandishing an impossibly huge cruel club.

There were other combatants about also, some man-sized and many others a little more squat. Regardless of stature, all were busy crashing into one another and striking out to kill. Some of the stocky ones seemed to have detected Loudewater’s presence by smell from the way they abruptly stopped and looked his way.

The sight of two of the two huge fell creatures gave rose to primal fear that grasped farmer’s heart and crushed it. The din of battle and furry of motion was all too much to bear. Loudewater lost all sense of control and did what every self-respecting Loudewater men since eons have done when confronted by their worst fears.

He screamed.

It wasn’t a curt manly scream of frustration or agony, but rather an impossibly high-pitched scream that would make a world-class falsetto blush had it not being ear-piercingly shrill and deafening.

The emotional response took the breath right out of loudewater and he had to stoop to catch it. The sudden stop in noise caught his attention and he looked forward only to see that every combatant had stopped fighting and were staring at him dumb folded. Loudewater could have sworn that some of the stocky ones were rolling about on the ground, cupping their ears and withering in silent agony.

Realizing the peril he was in, the farmer did what he could only do in such circumstances.

He screamed again.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“SSSHHHHH!” Arrald hissed at Dim through clenched teeth. “We’re supposed to be sneaking up on them Elvses,” he said grimly. “Like that leader orcky told us, wait till the pointy-ears are too busy to notice, and then…” he smacked his club into his open palm and chuckled evilly.

Dim’s eyes lit with an unhealthy glow and his head ducked up and down. In a strangled whisper he said what he had been saying all the way up the Hill, “Oh, my brother, this is going to be such fun. I can’t wait to have at that She-Elf!” Dim had a particular tooth for Elves, particularly of the female variety. He swore that they tasted sweeter.

The two brothers moved with uncommon stealth; but still, had it not been for the battle, which was now raging at a fever pitch, their approach would have been noticed, for they could not help but kick stones and crack twigs as they went. That, and their bestial breathing and unwholesome sniggering, meant they were less than ghostly. Still, whether by stealth or by good luck they were almost upon the She-Elf before she noticed them. She was loosing arrow after arrow upon Broga and Grimm, and while Arrald quite enjoyed the sight of their misery, he knew that there wouldn’t be any booty if these interlopers were allowed to get the better of the trolls. The orcs were milling about now, doing about as much good as orcs ever did – as usual, it was going to be up to the trolls to turn the tide.

Arrald raised his club above his head, preparing to bash the she-Elf, but by some sound or feeling she sensed his presence and whirled about. Her eyes went wide with shock and horror, but still she was quick to bring her bow to bear. Dim lunged at her with his claws forcing her to dance away, losing her aim. Arrald roared with triumph as he brought his club down upon her, hard.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater was spent after screaming his lungs off for the second time and the appearance of two more bellowing and thrashing trolls did not help at all. The farmer's knees went soft and he fell onto the ground like an unstrung marionette.

"This isn't happening! This isn't happening!" Muttered the shut-eyed farmer to himself as he crawled aimlessly (and rather comically) on all fours in a small concentric circle where he fell.

I'm not here! I'm not here at all! This is all just my imagination. When I open my eyes I'll be at home sitting on my overstuffed couch infront of the fireplace. Nothing but me, couch and fire. Maybe Helga...

Helga nagging...

Oh my God! Oh my God! This isn't happening! This isn't happening!

A high-pitched dying shriek jolted Loudewater out of his stunned confusion and back into a grim reality. The battle raged on like an undeniable flood and the harsh sounds of death and suffering seemed to get louder with the tick of each second.

Andas Loudewater dropped onto his elbows, buried his face in the ground and covered his head with his hands and cried,

"God... PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!"

He was totally oblivious to the fact that an orc that had seen him earlier was now scampering towards him in great speed, marking him out as an easy prey amidst the lot of skilled elven and human fighters...

[Alaksoron]

Osric loosed arrow after arrow at the trolls, but all it seemed to do was agitate them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Luinien springing up the hill with her bow and taking aim at one of the trolls. Thoronmir and Menecar came roaring up behind her, swords in hand. Silently, Osric gave thanks to heaven for their timely appearance.

With surprise, and no small amount of satisfaction, he noticed that Luinien seemed to have wounded one of the hideous creatures. It was howling and clutching it's face across the left eye. Smiling, he slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword. He'd had little confidence in his sword when it had been just he and Aidwain, but he was inspired by the valor of Menecar and Thoronmir. His bow didn't seem to be doing much good, anyway. Perhaps three blades could give a troll pause.

He rushed one of the trolls alongside Thoronmir, though a bit slower for he was still limping. He hacked at the trolls thigh, and froze when he heard a shrill, inhuman scream from behind him. His head swiveled in the direction it seemed to be coming from, at first thinking perhaps Luinien had been wounded......

Osric's eyes went wide when he saw a squat man crouching on the edge of Weathertop, panting heavily. Osric was still more amazed when the man raised his head and screamed again. But there was no time to think. The trolls dismissed the pathetic figure and continued their attack. A large Orc charged the small man.

The orc fell as one of Osric's knives struck home in the center of his back. Falkur had honed the knives to a razor edge, and they penetrated leather armor like butter.

[Nuranar]

As Luinien evaded the second Troll’s vicious claws, she flung aside her bow, useless in close quarters. Even as her hand opened the first one brought down his club with a deafening roar. Her sudden movement had thrown off its timing, so instead of crushing her head, the blow grazed her shoulder and flung her to the ground. She cried out as her arm collapsed under her.

Quickly her other hand found the hilt of her dirk. As the Troll advanced, raising its club once more, she half rose and lunged across the ground. Diving between its tree-like legs, she stabbed viciously through the scales to the tendon above its heel.

Wrenching the blade free, Luinien staggered to her feet as the second Troll turned towards its howling companion. Trembling, she stood waiting for their attack to renew, left arm hanging numb. She was hemmed in against the hill’s edge, a slender dirk blade her only protection.

Suddenly a harsh clamor arose to her right. Her skin crawled as saw a squad of Orcs charging over the slope; focused on the main body of the battle, none glanced her way. Luinien made no move until the last crested the hill. Then all at once she dropped the dirk and drew her knife.

The Orc gave one bubbling shriek as the knife struck his throat, then fell headlong. Swiftly Luinien wrenched the sword from its grasp.

The first Troll was charging her, the second limping and bellowing behind. A hard light burned in her eyes as she faced them. With a fierce cry she flourished the black Orc-blade and advanced to meet them.

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir and the others had ridden as fast as they could to Weathertop, but they were already too late. Veryadan was seriously wounded, and two trolls and several orcs were converging on Aidwain and Osric. Thoronmir slew several orcs with his sword, giving Osric some relief.

"Thank heaven you showed up. We were almost dead!" Osric shouted.

"We figured you could use some help," Thoronmir said.

"AAIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!"

Thoronmir and Osric turned. A man was standing at the edge of the battle, completely unprotected.

"Hang on!" the ranger shouted. "I'm coming!" Thoronmir charged up toward the man and the orcs that were coming for him as Osric hit one of them with a throwing knife. Thoronmir tackled one from behind and sliced a second orc's head off with his sword. He got up and addressed the newcomer.

"Go back! Now! I'll cover you!" He blocked another orc's attack with his long knife and beat it off with his sword. "Get out of there!"

The orc continued to battle, and Thoronmir knew this was no ordinary orc soldier. He was very sturdily built and his hand had been chopped off and replaced with a hook. The orc swung at Thoronmir with his hook. Thoronmir barely managed to dodge as the orc's hook tore off part of his cloak. The ranger raised his sword and dealt the orc another blow.

[Alaksoron]

Osric heard Luinien yelp and turned his head just in time to see eight Orcs crest the hill and charge into the fray. Luinien, her left arm hanging limp, slashed the last Orc's throat with her knife and wrenched the nasty orc-sword from his grip as he fell. Brandishing the heavy, curved blade she turned to face two trolls.

Falkur charged the oncoming Orcs, sword in his right hand and a knife in his left. With a wild battle yell he collided with the first Orc in line, slamming his shoulder hard into the creature's midriff and simultaneously driving his knife into it's stomach. Osric flung the creature from him, abandoning his knife. The massive Orc toppled and died.

Falkur slashed with his sword as soon as he had room to swing. He buried the blade deep in an Orc's head right across the temples, and drove his left elbow straight into the face of another. It didn't seem to faze him much. He brought his knee up and slammed it into the Orc's stomach, also to no avail. Abruptly there was another knife in Osric's hand. He drove it hard into the creature's throat. It gasped and brought up blood, then finally was dead.

Whirling, he realized there were no more orcs to fight. The rest had charged the small man at the corner, and were now being engaged by Thoronmir. Osric rushed, or as much as he could rush limping, to Luinien's aid. She was having trouble wielding that clumsy orc-sword, and with one arm useless, she was easy prey for a pair of trolls.

Lunging, Osric hacked at a massive, soot-black arm with his sword and opened up a shallow gash, but no more.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had bent down to see whether Veryadan was alive,and to his relief he had found his heart beating when he placed his hand on his chest,but Veryadan was seriously injured his left side was bleeding and he was uncounsicious.But before he could even get up there was a fresh set of orcs attacking them ,he also saw that another two trolls had appeared and were engaging Lunien .

Aidwain straightened but then he suddenly relaised he had only one arrow left,without thinking he took out the sword which he had bought from the armourer in Bree and rushed to the aid of Lunien .She had already killed an orc and was brandishing an orc sword but Aidwain knew that at best she could only parry some of the troll blows.

But suddenly out of nowhere he heard a scream ,he looked in the direction and he saw that it was one of the Bree men he had seen in the Inn and the man screamed again ,but suddenly realising his errand he rushed towards Lunien ,she already was injured one arm useless,he quickly scaled the cliff and saw Lunien advacing upon the trolls,Aidwain quickly cirlcled and came from behind one of the trolls he raised his sword and with all his strength he drew it deep in the knee of one of trolls .But the only effect it had was that the troll now advanced upon Aidwain ,the troll swung his huge warclub and Aidwain sprung back just in time ,now Aidwain dived and again slashed his sword at the same bleeding knee ,but this time he felt a sudden pain in his left ankle ,he realised that the trolls club had struck,Aidwain could at best now stand up with his broken limb,but the troll too could only limp but this time Aidwain felt sure that his end was near when ....

[Nuranar]

When fighting trolls, speed and agility is key. Useless though her arm was, Luinien had lost none of her balance or nimbleness. She lead the trolls on a lumbering dance, dodging around and between and occasionally crashing them into each other. Without the advantage of surprise, the trolls could not hope to catch her.

Quickness be as it might, it still takes time to wear down brute strength. Luinien's own strength was draining. The viciously serrated orc sword had scored jaggedly through troll scales numerous times, inflicting jagged wounds her dirk could not have equaled. But the blade was unwieldly and unbalanced, and Luinien knew she was only playing for time.

Suddenly Osric was at her side, hacking at one of the trolls. Beyond him Aidwain appeared and drew off the other. Luinien fell back for a moment, gasping; then as Osric's troll lunged at him she sidestepped and slashed at the massive leg. The sword ripped a ragged, shallow cut, but as the troll's blow went wide Osric's blade slipped inside and gashed its belly. With a roar the creature stumbled back, kept staggering away. It had had enough.

In the respite Luinien scanned the hilltop. On the far side Thoronmir was dueling fiercely with a hook-handed Orc; near him Menecar was keeping off two more. There was a cowering pile of clothes huddled off to one side, surrounded by bodies of Orcs. Veryadan was lying motionless near a heap of rubble.

Even as she looked she sprinted back to where she had dropped her dirk. Abandoning the vile orc sword, useful though it had been, she grabbed her accustomed weapon. "Hurry! We need to help Aidwain!" she cried to Osric, who was still menacing off the retreating troll.

The other Elf was on his feet - barely. His troll was slow and bleeding, but even as she ran to his assistance its heavy club began to descend.

Out of nowhere a golden-feathered arrow pierced the creature's forearm. For a second it stared stupidly. Then dropping the club, it took off after its companion, bellowing in pain and surprise.

Silrûth appeared over the crest of the hill, Tarondo right behind her. As she sent more arrows after the retreating pair, he dashed to the aid of the Rangers, who were decidedly getting the worst of it against the Orcs.

[Kransha]

The attack began well, despite the number of uruks that was brought down at first. Búbkûr and Kransha, with eight orcs immediately behind, swarmed as locusts onto the field and clashed noisily against their enemies. The eight orcs practically fell onto the hill, and spread out, as the troll reinforcements arrived and engaged the enemy as well.

It was a man who slew the first orc. He was blond, perhaps of Rohirrim descent, or one directly, though orcs did not care for genealogical quibbling. The man was armed with a dizzying array of ranged knives, sharp as the teeth of dragons, which he had at the ready. His soaring blades closed the meager distance between the man and his targets easily, piercing the back of an orc who had thrashed and bashed his way to the front of the squad, aiming his burly self towards a small, miserable form, curled up in a pathetic position at the edge of the hill. Writhing and grabbing at his inaccessible back just before he went pallid and stiffened, the orc, still in mid-motion, was thrown forward by the impact and rolled to a limp and lifeless halt on the ground. No sooner had he fallen when a second hulking orc leapt over the crumpled body and galloped, whooping and hollering darkly, towards a supple she-elf who had just severed combat with one of the trolls. The orc, fancying himself a master strategist, dodged and weaved about as he drew nearer, ready to pounce on his lithe prey, but the female spun with great, but expected, Elven agility, and drove the tip of her sleek knife through the orcs throat, killing it instantly. The wave’s second casualty fell, twitching fitfully, to the earth, and the fair Elven maid easily extracted the orc’s crude weapon from its chilling grasp.

The third orc to fall, along with the fourth, was taken by a dark-haired man, certainly a tark by orc standards. The man tore forward as the line of orcs, now consisting of only six beings, closed around him and his righteous brethren. He jumped and fell upon an orc, tackling the beast. The orc rolled and twisted away from the man and clambered frantically forward while the man, instead of finishing him off, turned to a second orc and, with a fervent blow, severed his bobbing head from his lanky shoulders. The orc’s headless body fell onto its knees, dropping the spiked club clasped in its useless fingers, and slumped, while the head rolled idly behind. The orc who’d been tackled, weakened but not slain, made his way towards the fair-haired Rohirrim. But, before he reached his quarry, the Rohirrim ran straight into him. There was a brief tussle, and the orc fell beneath the Rohirrim’s blade. The man then hurried doggedly onward, and, in a matter of moments, took out the two remaining uruk grunts. As he completed this grim task, the Rohirrim turned and swiveled swiftly on his feet, flying back at a great speed towards the trolls, who were now besieged.

Only Búbkûr and Kransha remained now. Both soon busied themselves. The Rangers and Elves became immediately preoccupied by the trolls, though some were still beleaguered by the duo of uruks. Búbkûr, searching, anticipating a kill and lusting for blood, at last found suitable prey in the form of the skilled tark. His brazen hook-hand flailing madly above, he plowed into single combat with the man. Grinning like a fiendish madman, Búbkûr swung his blade, and the cleaving falchion in his left hand, at the man, but managed only to rend the fellow’s clothes. Angry and inwardly steaming, the orc forced the man backward, towards the hill crest, berating him with further attacks, but the man soon got a swift strike in, in between the massive arcs made by Búbkûr’s fearsome arsenal of weaponry. The blow penetrated Búbkûr’s defenses, the tip of a broad blade slicing at his arm and cutting a thin gash, which oozed coal-black blood that began to well up, streaming down the length of Búbkûr’s left arm. Growling and gnashing his teeth, eyes ablaze with murderous fire, Búbkûr surged forward again, and began to stab with his hook hand, raking at the man. At last, he made contact, his hook looping over his enemy’s shoulder and, as he pulled back his muscled arm, impaling it. The hook pierced through the back of the Ranger’s shoulder, and the man cried out, and Búbkûr was instantly filled with the pompous belief that he had already won, but his fantasy was cruelly disrupted when, instead of melting into a quivering mass of fear-stricken man flesh, the Ranger whipped his own blade around, lopping a chunk from Búbkûr’s leg. With a dejected groan, Búbkûr pulled his hook hand from its place and began to stagger backward, fending the man off feebly as he fled.

As all this was occurring, Kransha, one eye carefully closed to further hone his aim, was searching the flattened roof of Amon Sûl for a target. An arrow was nocked to his bow, and vibrating minutely, as if it to was anticipating an impending kill. Kransha, though, held out little hope. He was not a creature who wasted perfectly good killing utensils, and did not plan on firing unless he knew he could hit a target. So, he waited, pacing along the edge of the hill, uninvolved in the struggle directly. He blinked, scanning the area, and raised his bow several times to fire, but lowered it again each time after he lost site of each target. In the muddled fray, he was able to get a good look at each combatant, and took a mental note of all faces, appearances, and the average battle prowess of most, until he had a rough idea, bottled up in his head, of the capabilities of his enemies. Once he resumed searching for a target, he finally discovered one who was not moving to speedily to be locked onto. It was a man with an unsteady, weaker build, and looked more like a farmer or a vendor than a warrior. He seemed to have no idea what he was doing, making him the ideal target. Licking his pursed lips, the orcs raised his bow and gently tugged the bowstring backwards, until it was pulled taught, and…

A cry rent the air, destroying Kransha’s concentration. “Retreat! Retreat!” It cried. It was Búbkûr.

Scowling, Kransha lowered his bow again, having lost his target again, and sprinted swiftly after Búbkûr, who was already retreating down the side of the hill.

[Saurreg]

There was the furious sound of pounding feet and it got closer to Loudewater with every passing moment. The farmer was suddenly acutely aware of it despite having his face on the ground and both hands covering his head. He was also intuitively aware of whom or rather what those footsteps belonged to. It was the insight that only those who are about to die possessed. And death was coming to claim Loudewater with every step, closer and closer.

Loudewater drew his limbs closed and braced himself for the inevitable, his body shaking like a leaf. His end was near and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing left to do but resign himself to fate.

The seconds ticked and the suspense become increasingly unbearable. Loudewater felt like screaming out again in anger and frustration all at once. But fear kept him in his cowering position.

"Hang on! I'm coming!"

The voice was loud and clear and it rose beyond the din of battle and reached the farmer's ears. It was the voice of a man, measured and strong. A man without fear.

The rhythmic pounding footsteps of doom came to an abrupt halt and there was the sound of feet scuffling about on moist grass followed by a whish the sounded like a bladed weapon swinging through the air.

Loudewater took his dirt-caked face off the ground and mustered enough courage to look up. Standing before him was a very tall man with an ichor dripping sword in his hands. He turned and regarded Loudewater with authoritive grey eyes that displayed both compassion and strength. Loudewater's mouth dropped open in surprise when he recognized the face.

It was one of the strangers from the Prancying Pony. The one he thought he had seen somewhere before when he was a child playing near the woods.

The man spoke again calmly but with great urgency,

Go back! Now! I'll cover you!"

But before he could finish, another being stepped into Loudewater's line of sight and started attacking the ranger. The newcomer was not a man...

"Get out of here!" Cried the ranger as he parried the powerful blows coming at him.

Loudewater nodded sheepishly and tried to get onto his wobbly feet. But the grisly sight of a severed orc's head on the ground not far from where the farmer was sent him tumbling back onto the ground again in horror.

[Alaksoron]

For a few dazed moments Osric stood perspiring heavily, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood was dripping from his left hand and flowing quite freely from his calf. The battle replayed in his mind, and Osric realized it hadn't been as long as it seemed. In the heat of the battle he had no time to think about pain, but now he felt as if he had run a marathon.

Wistfully Osric looked down at his fine coat, splattered in orcblood and grime. Wiping his swordblade with a handkerchief he produced from his back pocket, he bent over to retrieve his knives. Thrusting his sword back into it's scabbard, he began to wipe them too. Looking over at Tarondo, who was now bending over Veryadan, he asked "Is he alive?" Osric braced himself for the answer.

Osric let out a sigh of relief as Tarondo nodded the affirmative. "But" Osric winced as Tarondo continued "He is severely injured." A pause, and Tarondo raised his voice so all could hear. "He needs medicine. Is there any here skilled in the use of herbs?"

Osric was quick to offer his own limited skills. Retrieving his knives, he headed down the hill and into the woods to search for the right herbs. And since with orcs about none of them wandered alone, Aidwain accompanied him.

Falkur gathered the plants needed fairly quickly, taking care not to over-encumber himself with more than was neccesary. As he and Aidwain were nearly back to the base of the hill, Osric knelt beside a small shrub with red-tipped leaves. He slipped a pair of leather gloves over his hands before plucking some and stuffing them in a pouch.

Osric proferred the pouch to Aidwain "Rub these on your arrow-tips. They are extremely poisonous. Poison arrows are always a great asset to have." Aidwain took the pouch - reluctantly it seemed - and they began the ascent back to the summit of Weathertop.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain was nearly finished by the troll when a whistling arrow well aimed at his arm stopped him ,Aidwain had felt sure that this would be his last battle when the troll had charged at him with his warclub ,but then Silruth and Tarondo their last companions had arrived ,Silruth had shot at the arm of the troll and saved him ,seeing that they were outnumbered the trolls and orcs had fled from the field.

Aidwain was totally exhausted ,all is arrows were gone and he had for the first time fought in close combat with a troll,his ankle was broken and he could barely stand ,Veryadan was uncounsicious and was bleeding ,Osric had several slashes ,Lunien's left arm was bruised ,Thoromir and Menecar were bleeding only Silruth and Tarondo were unhurt.

"Thank you for saving my life ",Aidwain spoke to Silruth as she came towards him,"Ah not at all you will have to repay my favour sooner than you think,come show me where you are hurt . ".Silruth tied a cloth to his broken leg .After the battle Aidwain collected his arrows scattered on the battlefield ,he only found ten of them .

Aidwain and Osric then went in search of some herbs for Veryadan who was seriously injured there Osric proferred the pouch ,full of red herbs to Aidwain, "Rub these on your arrow-tips. They are extremely poisonous. Poison arrows are always a great asset to have." Aidwain took the pouch reluctantly it as he never had used poison arrows before and they began the ascent back to the summit of Weathertop.....

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Retreat! Retreat!’ Grimm heard Búbkûr’s cry from atop the hill. ‘Smart ‘un, that,’ he snorted at his brother. Broga was leaning on Grimm’s arm with his right hand as they picked their way down the rocky track on the northern side of Weathertop. His left eye had stopped bleeding. Grimm had yanked the arrow from it. No use being careful he’d said, the eye’s gone. Despite the pain, Broga was already thinking how much more gruesome, that is Troll-handsome, he was going to be now. Should they ever manage to find any females of their own persuasion, he was sure now to be on par with his brother.

As if reading his thoughts, Grimm pinched the half-blind Troll hard on the arm. ‘Pay attention with what sight you got, brother. Fall off the hill now and you’ll not live to go dancing in the Shaws again.’

‘Underestimated the little worms, we did,’ Grimm went on, helping Broga across a particularly slippery, pebbly place. ‘That Orc chief has a lot of little grunts under him,’ returned Broga. ‘Why didn’t he just send all of us in to crush them? That’s what I want to know.’

The two Trolls picked up there speed once down on level ground, heading toward where the Orc encampment lay. ‘Don’t know why he didn’t,’ puffed Grimm as they thumped along. ‘But I know what I’d do now.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Broga, slowing the pace. The jarring of their quick steps was beginning to make his eye throb all the more.

‘We got to cut them off from getting back to the man town. Too easy for them to get plenty of angry farmers and the like to come after us. We got easy pickin’ around here. We don’t want ‘em knowing who’s doing it.’ Grimm scratched his chest as he thought this out. Nodding vigorously as his thoughts took shape. ‘So what should we do, you ask,’ he went on in a satisfied way. Broga looked at him with his one good eye and opened his mouth to remind his brother that, no, he hadn’t actually asked. Grimm, however, ignored his brother’s protests and went on. ‘You know,’ he said, giving a ghastly grin. ‘We got cousins back east. In the Shaws. Let’s see if old Chiefy’ll want to herd them that way. We can torture ‘em as we go. N’ stomp ‘em good once we had our fun.’

A wicked light shone in Broga’s lone eye. ‘I want to stick one of them Elf’s arrows in his own eye,’ he rasped out. ‘See how he likes it. Nasty Elf!’

‘Well, then, let’s go tell His Orc-high'n'mightyness what we’re thinking. We’ll need to get back soon and cut them off from heading back to the town. Part of us can do that, the rest can force ‘em to the Shaws.’

[Alaksoron]

Osric worked quickly administering medicinal herbs to Veryadan, but he couldn't do much. He managed to seal up the wounds and relieve the pain some, but he was no magic healer. Veryadan would heal, but it would take time.

"That's all I can do for him." Osric said. He brought a waterskin to Veryadan's lips. "You need rest." Turning to Luinien, he said "Let's have a look at that arm. You too, Aidwain. Bring me your ankle."

Again Osric could do little more than bandage and relieve pain, but the Elves were grateful. Producing another pouch from behind his belt that was full of the same red leaves he had given Aidwain, he proferred it to Silruth. "These are very poisonous. You may wish to rub them on your arrow tips."

It seemed to Osric that Silruth also was reluctant to take the poison leaves. It was understandable that Elves, or anyone for that matter, would not want to use poisoned arrows. They were a nasty weapon. But under these circumstances, facing trolls and who-knows-how-many-orcs with most members of their party injured in some way, it might be their only chance. A terrible thought, that.

[Esgallhugwen]

As they neared Weathertop a harsh din was raised of screams, clashing metal and the sound of ominous thudding that could only mean one thing.

"Trolls" Silrûth uttered harshley under her breath, she drove her horse hard over the hill, bow aimed and ready for whatever scene there was to behold. Her closest target was a Troll, his large scaly form looming over Aidwain.

With bowstring taught she let the arrow fly, a glimmering golden streak drove into the flesh of the Troll's arm and he went lumbering off in pain and confusion. A hail of arrows was sent after them, as fast as her skill could allow.

~*~*~*~*~*

She sat beside Aidwain on the hill, having grudgingly taken the poison leaves, she disliked using such devices to gain an upper hand in battle, but Trolls she despised even more. The leaves had a light fragrance when she rubbed them on her golden arrows, being careful not to get the toxic substance on her hands, she crushed them between a rock and the sharp metal edges.

Silrûth's face was a stern display of compassion, concentration and rage and for all her beauty and frail seeming features she was certainly more than able to seriously opppose her enemies. She placed her arrows carefully back into her quiver.

"And what are we to do now, now that we know what was behind these attacks as some of us may have feared. Many of us are wounded, shall we return back to Bree? Gather supplies, then begin the journey to Gondor where we report to King Elessar, or do we wait and find out more about these assailents?" Her tone was gentle, but her eyes may have betrayed her had they not been downcast tending to Aidwain's injured ankle.

She was sorely angry at what the Trolls and orcs had done to her companions, especially Aidwain who she knew the best.

[rutslegolas]

As Aidwain and Osric returned ,Aidwain went an sat beside Silruth while Osric went to look after Veryadan ,Silruth and Aidwain both took the poisoned leaves though reluctantly and rubbed them on each of their arrows .

"And what are we to do now, now that we know what was behind these attacks as some of us may have feared. Many of us are wounded, shall we return back to Bree? Gather supplies, then begin the journey to Gondor where we report to King Elessar, or do we wait and find out more about these assailents?" ,Silruth asked .

"I know not whether we proceed to Gondor or Bree ,that matter rests in Tarondo's hand ,but if I were asked I would say we go back to Rivendell ,it is the shortest route from Amun Sul. ",replied " Ah now it feels much better ,Thank You ",he said patting his broken ankle.

"By the way what were you doing fighting those trolls in single combat ,and where did you get that sword ?",Silruth asked with mild astonishment.
"Ah this I bought this from a armourer at Bree,it proved handy did'nt it ?,besides Lunien could not have taken two trolls at the same time ."

In the meanwhile Tarondo and Lunien came towards them .....

[Saurreg]

Loudewater got up slowly eyeing the grotesque orc's had that laid a few feet from him, it yellow glassy eyes staring defiantly at him. A shudder went down the farmer's spine. That could have easily been his fate.

Loudewater approached the ranger who had saved his life warily. The huge man's shoulders were rising up and down with each ragged breath after his hard fought fight with the last great orc. Another younger looking man stood not far from the first and from the looks of it, he too had been fighting hard. Loudewater stepped closer gingerly before stopping two arm's length away from his saviour.

"Erm... " he began hesitantly , "You, you saved my life back there mister. I guess that puts me in your debt. Sir."

Not sure what to do next, the farmer introduced himself,

"I am Andas, Andas Loudewater. Very pleased to meet your acquaintance sir."

From the edge of his eyes, Loudewater could see two figures coming into view. They were the fair folks he had seen back at the tavern - the shorter female and the very tall male.

Loudewater wondered what their intentions were...

[Nuranar]

Tarondo looked bleakly around the hilltop in the weak light of a clouded afternoon. Orc bodies were scattered all about. Only their slight movements distinguished his companions from the slain, as they sat grim and silent. This place is far too exposed, he thought. He had been talking to the groups, about their prior investigations as well as about the battle. Apparently there had been one attack, then another in support of the first. We need to move off. He felt a sudden chill. It is far cooler up here than at the Whittleworth Farm - he shoved the ghastly memory away with an effort.

His eyes searched, found his sister, leaning against a stone, weary eyes gazing into the distance. Her bow was cradled in her good arm, while her left hung in a sling. "Luinien," he said, joining her. "Did you see someplace to camp out there, close by?" He pointed out to the east.

She thought a moment, eyes narrowed as she called up the memories. "Yes, I noticed a nest of boulders just beyond the foot of the hill. It is isolated and hard to approach without being seen."

Tarondo nodded approvingly. "That is good. Come on," he called, louder. "Time to leave before we are attacked again. You come too, Loudewater," he said to the erstwhile farmer. As the companions stirred with the sluggish movements of tiredness, he helped Luinien to her feet. "How is your shoulder?"

She smiled wanly. "It hurts, but I can feel my arm now. I'm not going to keep it in the sling much longer or it will get too stiff."

"How close did that club come?" His eyes were very intent. She had not told him much.

Luinien met his gaze for an instant. "Close," she said with an arch look, and turned away to join Silrûth. The pair made a piquant contrast: one strong and fair, the other lithe and dark.

--------------------------------------

Veryadan's wounds were by far the most serious. They secured him with the uptmost care onto Luinien's mount, and the sure-footed mare carried him gently down the hill to their new position. Now the Ranger lay unmoving, wrapped in blankets, while Menecar built a fire to heat water. The horses of Veryadan, Osric, and Aidwain had bolted when the trolls first attacked, but the rest of their mounts were still safe.

"We need to get Veryadan to shelter," Tarondo said. "He needs healing and care that we cannot give in the wild. Bree is the closest, but we need to know where our enemies are before we try to take him there."

"If we make a run for it we may get through," Osric volunteered, but Tarondo shook his head.

"We're not going to risk his life on that possibility. Don't be fooled, Osric. They only surprised us because they were watching us, and they are most certainly watching us now. If we left now they would know it. And if they ambushed us along the road, Veryadan would have no chance."

"I agree," Menecar said. A few others murmured in assent.

Aidwain spoke up, "Bree is not the only place to find shelter, and for healing, where is better than Rivendell?"

Thoronmir shook his head. "Much too far," he said.

Tarondo held up his hand. "Let us discover our enemies before we decide our route. Silrûth, would you please scout the road behind us?" The Elf rose without a word. Luinien looked meaningly at Tarondo and picked up her bow, but he shot her a stern glance and continued. "Menecar, take the road to the west, if you would. I want to know if there are any orcs or trolls within a mile of either road." The Ranger nodded, and the pair faded into the dim late-afternoon haze.

Thoronmir and Osric began attending to Veryadan, cleaning his wound with the hot water. Aidwain nursed his ankle and kept an eye on Loudewater. Tarondo turned to his sister and found a decided glare fixed on him. Refusing to rise to the bait, he decided not to be the first to open the subject.

She could not wait very long. "Why wouldn't you let me go on scout?" she said in a fierce, low voice. "I'm quieter than Menecar, and I know the land better. Besides" -

"Besides, you're hurt," he interrupted. Continuing over her protest, "I know that you're very slightly wounded, certainly no more than Menecar. And a scout shouldn't need to fight. But that is no assurance that you wouldn't have to. We know there's an enemy out there." Luinien pursed her lips sulkily, but the resentment was fading out of her face.

"Most importantly, since Veryadan is hurt I need to discuss the situation with you. I have considered the reports, but I would like to hear your thoughts."

"It seems clear that orcs and trolls are behind what has been happening," she started at once, then thought for a bit. "I would say the trolls were the primary force in the violence," she resume, more slowly. "The crude brutality we saw is more their characteristic than the orcs'. But although they could carry out such acts on their own, I doubt they would have the persistence for a lengthy campaign. Even less do they have the intelligence to conceal their presence, even if they thought of it." She paused again. "Since it seems clear that the trolls are working with the orcs, I would guess that the planning and intelligence belong to the orcs."

Tarondo had been watching her with a gratified smile. "That is exactly what I concluded," he said. Luinien looked at him, startled, then blushed with pleasure. "But why would the orcs be organizing the trolls in the first place?"

"Love of destruction?" she hazarded.

Her brother shook his head, dissatisfied. "They would do such a thing once, themselves, on a whim; or perhaps to avenge a loss or a grudge. But an entire campaign? There must be a more unifying motive behind it."

"Perhaps someone is getting a big head."

"Perhaps." Tarondo mused. Unbidden his mind fled back to the Whittleworth's, but this time he remembered something. Abruptly he turned to his sister. "Silrûth went inside that farmhouse, and she found a small hiding place in there that was empty. What could have been in there?"

"Trolls like valuable things... like gold... and then they cache it..."

"And what one hides, another can find." Tarondo nodded. The pieces were falling into place.

His eyes fell upon Andas Loudewater, sitting at the far side of the circle. Instead of being terror-striken, he now looked sheepish and uncertain. He had been looking at Tarondo, but looked away quickly when the Elf's gaze met his. Tarondo remembered him from the Prancing Pony, and he had talked to Thoronmir.

"Loudewater." The man rose reluctantly at the command in the other's voice. He walked across to Tarondo and stood uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I..."

"Look at me."

Loudewater's eyes ventured back to him timidly. "I, um, I heard you came to do something about the killing 'round here. And, uh, I kinda thought I could help. So I followed you to Weathertop. On Killer." He gestured vaguely at the little brown mule without looking away.

Tarondo looked intently at him. He saw apprehension in the man's eyes, embarrassment and a little fear. But more than that, there was a genuine concern that supported his halting words. And not a vestige of concealment. He glanced at Luinien.

Luinien nodded slightly, and Tarondo turned back to the farmer. "Well, Andas, it seems that you will be staying with us regardless. With those orcs and trolls out there, I would estimate your chances on your own to be nil." He smiled slightly to take the menace out of his words.

The farmer stammered out his thanks and sat down hesitantly when Tarondo gestured. Soon, his shyness forgotten, he was telling the Elf all about Helga and his life back in Bree-land. Luinien excused herself to help with a meal, listening all the while.

[Envinyatar]

Esgallhugwen's post - Silrûth

The tall Elf stood smoothly without a word at Tarondo's command to scout the road that lay behind them. She took her horse quietly by the reins and led her down the east slope of the hill.

Falma's hooves treaded surprisingly soft against the earth as if she knew their need of stealth. Making their way down the path Silrûth strained her ears for any slight sound that could mean the enemy.

The horse stopped abrubtly ears flattened against her head. Knowing what it meant Silrûth dismounted, "now I don't want you running off" she tapped her finger on Falma's soft muzzle, the mare perked up her ears before plastering them back to her head.

Silrûth crept along warily, and with her skills focused on guile and swift movements she was unaware of how long it took her to reach the orc camp. A small mound of boulders and shrubs was close by and she used it to her advantage.

I musn't get too close in case they pick up my scent, but luck was with her the wind was blowing into her face away from the camp. Tentatively and carefully she peered from around the corner of a boulder.

There they were, laughing and hacking up a storm in their vile tongue, the Elf could not help but sneer in disgust, a voice spoke out in her head.

Do not over stay your welcome, they are moving can you not see it?

It was true they were beginning to stir and grunt and with that last thought Silrûth hastily made her way back to her mount. Taking up the reins, she nudged her horse lightly in the flanks with heels.

[Envinyatar]

At the little camp . . .

Veryadan swam in darkness and in pain. He could hear someone moaning in the distance, the voice was familiar. It might have been his own . . . yes, it was his own, though strangely he had no control of it. Hands lifted him up, to a horse. He could feel the movement of the best’s muscles beneath him, sending jolts of pain through his left side. His left arm, in contrast, felt numb. The blow from the Troll’s weapon swam up out of his memory. Hands bore him down from the horse after an eternity, or so it seemed. And he was at last laid down, and made somewhat more comfortable. Someone had moistened his mouth with a trickle of water; there were the flutterings of hands laying something cool against his wound and binding it securely. He drifted off once again.

It was very late in the day by the time he came round; the darkness of mind exchanged for the darkness of night. He could make out the pinpoint stars against the black sky and the flicker of the small cook-fire nearby. The soft clip-clop of hooves drew near; then, the quick light footsteps as the rider dismounted and passed by him. He could just hear the low conversation. It was Silruth, come back he gathered from a scouting mission, giving report to Tarondo and the others. There was no safe passage back to Bree from what she had found. The Orcs and Trolls, licking their wounds for now, were blocking the way west. The company would have to move east, toward Rivendell. Silruth nodded her head toward where Veryadan lay, his eyes closed. Lowering her voice a little more, she asked if he would be able to make the trip. Tarondo was about to answer when the Ranger’s voice rasped out.

‘Don’t plan my funeral yet, you two! I don’t intend to die from these trifling wounds.’ He attempted to sit up and gasped as the pain tore through his left side. Someone had packed the long gash and bound him round the trunk with strips of cloth. He fingered the dressing, noting that it was wet, sticky in places, as the blood seeped through. ‘Bring me a little tea, if you will. My throat is parched.’ Luinien had come to his side by then, assisting him to a seated position. Veryadan pressed his right hand against the wound, splinting it as he moved. ‘I heard we were cut off from Bree – the Trolls and Orcs. We’ll have to head toward Rivendell, don’t you think. There is no other choice. It will take us at least a week of long days’ riding.’ He took the mug of tea and sipped at it, holding it in his right hand. The feeling was just returning to his left arm and he could just barely wriggle the fingers of that hand. As far as he could tell, the limb did not feel broken.

Veryadan leaned his head back against the packs and blankets piled behind him. Someone had put a little poppy in the tea, masked it with honey. He just now recognised the underlying, cloying taste. The pain from sitting up was receding, but so was his grasp on consciousness. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, through closing eyes. ‘We need to make haste. We are too few. Tomorrow . . . go . . .’

He sighed as hands laid him down once again and the blanket was pulled over him. ‘So tired,’ he mumbled, slipping into welcome rest once again.

[Alaksoron]

Osric had just finished poisoning his own arrows and was sharpening his sword when Veryadan sat up. Osric watched him carefully, as he tried to sit up and failed, as Luinien helped him rise to a seated position. Or more truthfully Osric watched the bandage he had made. Veryadan talked for a moment, but Luinien put some poppy in his tea and presently fell back asleep.

Osric sheathed his word, waited for a moment untl he was sure Veryadan was asleep, and gently checked the bandaging. Tarondo smiled, bemused, as he did so. Satisfied, Osric rose, bending his neck so his head wouldn't brush the top of their makeshift shelter. He headed for the exit.

"Where are you going?" Tarondo demanded. "It will be dark soon." Osric replied levelly. "I am going to find my horse." Tarondo gently explained that there was almost no chance that his horse would return, even if he hadn't been eaten by the Orcs. Tarondo sounded sympathetic.

Osric listened patiently, then returned as evenly as he could manage, though his gaze probably gave away some irritation. "Shadow is a trained warhorse. I know he is alive. You will see." Osric was gone before Tarondo could say anymore.

Osric was out a grand total of perhaps a quarter hour. He returned, a satisfied, triumphant grin on his face. Shadow was trotting behind him. Even he looked giddy. Osric walked right past them to where the other horse's were and tethered his horse.

[Nuranar]

When Osric turned around Tarondo was standing before him, not a foot away. "Come here," he said crisply, and walked past the horses out into the dark. Osric hesitated for a moment, then followed.

Tarondo led the way around the edge of a towering boulder away from camp. "When we met in Rohan you asked to join our errand for the King. You said that you were greatly indebted to him and wished to be of service. Our errand is now in grave danger, and instead of assisting, you are further imperiling it." His voice was low-pitched but sharp, his words biting.

Osric flushed angrily, opened his mouth, but Tarondo would not give him an opening.

"By leaving camp on an errand for yourself, you endangered everyone left behind. You would not have troubled even to tell anyone, if I had not stopped you.

"You were thinking only of yourself and what you wanted. Did you not even consider finding the horse of Aidwain, which fled with yours? What about Veryadan? That man may die. He, above any of us, needs a horse.

"I want you to understand this very clearly: I am leading this errand. As the leader, I am responsible for ensuring that we work together. If everyone does as he pleases, those orcs and trolls will wipe us out.

"Thus far you have been a valued companion. But I expect you, as I expect everyone else, to follow my decisions. Tonight you did not. It must never happen again."

Osric met his gaze belligerently, tauntingly. But Tarondo did not look away, and soon Osric's eyes fell.

"Go back to the fire." The cold command in his voice left Osric no escape. He stalked back, sullen and silent.

Tarondo stood alone, back in the darkness beyond the boulder. Luinien stepped out of the shadows and moved to his side. "He's not happy."

Tarondo grimaced and shook his head. "Of course he's not. I would have preferred to leave him alone. But after the position he put me in, I had no choice. Veryadan's life - all of our lives - are worth far more than his self-love."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Luinien said softly. The brother and sister stood silent, side by side in the windless night, listening, thinking.

Luinien gave a sudden low laugh. "It just occurred to me," she said in reply to Tarondo's inquiry, "that Osric didn't bother to offer me any poison for my arrows. I wonder why?" Again her laugh rippled out through the night.


Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir sat with the others as they discussed what to do. Thoronmir was not seriously injured; the orc's hook had pierced the skin but hadn't affected the deeper areas a whole lot. It had been treated with healing herbs and then bandaged, and Thoronmir was definitely going to be fine.

However, the others were not as lucky. Veryadan in particular was severely injured in the battle and could die if he wasn't taken somewhere where he could get help soon. The party had decided to set out for Rivendell, which Thoronmir had reasoned was too far away, but the road to Bree was probably cut off behind them. They would have to try for it anyhow, regardless of distance.

Thoronimir had been talking to the man he had saved earlier, Andas Loudewater. They'd gotten to know each other fairly well by this point. Andas had told him about his home life, how his wife had always yelled at him until he had left on this journey. Thoronmir in turn talked of his life, the battles he had fought, and how he had become the leader of a sizable group of Rangers in the Hills of Evendim. It seems that he'd encountered Loudewater several years ago, when the Ranger had been on a patrol and had caught Loudewater as a child playing much farther away from home than he was supposed to be.

Osric later left to find his horse against Tarondo's orders, and Thoronmir noticed the Elf calling him away so the two could speak privately. As the Ranger was poisoning the last of his arrows, Osric returned with a dour expression on his face, Thoronmir could tell the man had been reprimanded rather harshly. He decided not to ask Osric about it and went to sleep for the night. They would have to leave the next morning.

[Envinyatar]

It was Aidwain who took the last watch before morning. The campfire had burned down to a few smoldering coals and the others were all drowsing in the small camp when Veryadan called softly to the Elf. ‘The sun is nearly up, I see,’ he said raising himself slowly onto one elbow. ‘There is enough light, I think, for you to look for our horses.’ He grimaced a little as a painful spasm gripped his side. ‘The first two Trolls panicked them, as I recall. And they went running back down the track up which we came.’ He pushed himself up further, leaning his back against the flat face of a large rock. ‘I think if you find yours, mine will be near. He’s the sort who likes to stick with his companions.’

Aidwain woke Silruth, saying he would be back directly. The horses, he thought, had probably gone back to their previous camp, across the road a short ways, among the shelter of the trees. Tarondo had awoken by then and took the watch himself, sending the other two Elves on their errand.

It was an hour later when they returned, leading Veryadan’s horse back between their two. They had indeed been down by the old camp, near the little creek where the low growing bushes along the streamside still had a few wizened berries clinging to them.

The companions were all up when they returned. The fire had been put out, a cold meal taken in haste. Veryadan’s bandage had been reinforced, a binding made tight about it to allow him to sit upright on his horse. Aidwain had dismounted from his own horse and given Veryadan a leg up, so that he might mount more easily. By the time Veryadan had settled himself in his saddle, a fine bead of sweat had broken out along his upper lip and his face had turned quite pale. A new fellow, whom Veryadan had not met, rode up alongside him. Andas, he introduced himself as, Andas Loudewater of Bree. The man’s lengthy introduction of himself kept the Ranger’s mind focused on the unfolding of the story and off the discomfort whenever the horse’s gait jostled him.

+^+^+^+^+

The company kept to the East Road as they made their way toward the Last Bridge. It was wide enough for them to ride several abreast of each other, and the view to each side of the way was for the most part unobstructed. Enough so, that they could keep a wary watch for any enemy who might pursue them. With several short rest breaks on each day’s journey, and a late afternoon stop time, affording a long night’s rest, Veryadan was able to muster the strength to keep going each day.

It was on the second day, when they had just entered that part of the road that made its way between the low wooded, rolling hills to the south and the flat plains to the north with their scattered thickets of oaks and maples that they had the sense of some menace following closely along behind them. The watches were doubled that night as they made their camp and settled in for an uneasy rest.

[Primrose Bolger]

Broga sported a makeshift eyepatch over his left eye – an old piece of leather from one of the pouches they’d gotten when they’d raided the Whittleworth’s for gold. A piece of thin cording, appropriated from one of the Orcs packs, served to secure it round his lumpish head. Walking about in the dark, he’d discovered was difficult with only one eye. Distances were hard to tell, and several times he’d stepped down hard in a depression that was deeper than he’d thought or banged his toes on a rock that was higher. Grimm, of course, had hissed at him to keep quiet; they were supposed to be sneaking up on the camp.

They lumbered toward the little camp, trying to stay upwind from the horses. And trying also to make as little noise as possible. That is, until they drew near the picketed beasts.

‘Is it time now?’ asked Broga knife in hand. ‘Cut the rope, eh?’ he whispered as they arrived at the tree to which one end of the picket line was tied.

‘Wait til that fellow marches by with his bow. And keep real quiet til you can’t see him no more,’ Grimm returned. The two Trolls retreated a bit and hunkered down behind a rocky outcropping, their eyes peeking over the top at the horses. The sentry came and went. Broga and his brother crept nearer the line. The wind shifted for a moment, and the horses, nervous from their previous encounter with the Trolls, began moving restlessly at the dreaded scent.

Broga cut the line with an upward thrust of his blade. Snatching the large iron pot he’d placed on his head like a helmet, he beat upon it with the metal pommel of his knife, making a deafening racket. Added to that was the loud yelling Grimm had started. Both brothers ran after the horses as they fled, herding them in the direction of the other pair of siblings.

At a sign from Grimm, Broga broke off his horse chasing and headed back to the pre-arranged rendezvous with the Orcs. From their vantage point among the trees, the unwholesome alliance watched as the men and Elves struggled up from sleep and attempted to deal with the escaping equines.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

As the horses rumbled into the distance Arrald limped through the dark toward the camp of his enemies. His wounds still smarted terribly from the battle and his puny eyes blazed with hatred at the thought of the she-elf. He longed to feel her crumple beneath his club. . .

Behind him Dim stumbled in the dark, but Arrald was too focused on the task at hand to shush him, so Dim shushed himself. Arrald stopped and waited by a large rock. He rubbed it gently and chuckled to himself. "Yas," he drawled with small-minded glee. "This ought to do just nicely; just nicely indeed!"

"What will do, brother?"

Arrald wiped a drop of saliva from the corner of his mouth. "It will do to crush the limbs of a pretty little Elven maiden, me lad," he chuckled. "Those there horses as Broga and Grim have scared away are important to these invaders. Without them, see, they have no hope of getting away from us. So they needs to go after them."

Dim nodded. Then said, "I don't understand."

Arrald sighed quietly, wishing for the patience to deal with his slow witted brother. "Well," he began, "when they come running past this here rock, we're going to push it down this bank toward them. There are all those other nice rocks and boulders and dead logs, and we should be able to start quite a nice little avalanche. I should think that at least one or two of the invaders will have a very nasty surprise when they run down this way. . ."

Dim nodded once more. "Now I understand brother. I'll help you push it all down on them, smack!" and he clapped his hammy hands together in token of what would happen to their quarry.

"Yes, yes, that's good, but rememeber -- if that Elfy-girlie goes after the horses wih the rest be sure to watch for my signal. . .I'll want to make sure that this here boulder falls right on her pretty little head!"

[Nuranar]

Tarondo awoke instantly when the racket broke out, hardly needing the terrified whinnies of the horses to know what had happened. As he buckled on his sword, a movement across the encampment caught his eye. "Hold it!" he snapped at Menecar, about to pursue the stampede. "What is it?" he demanded of Luinien, who came dashing up from watch on the far side.

"Trolls," she gasped. "They cut the picket line and stampeded them off to the east. Thoronmir says no one's out there right now."

"We need to get them back!" Menecar insisted, worry creasing his brow.

"We will. You come with me, you and" - he glanced around the circle - "Silrûth. Everyone else stay here. Do not leave until morning, but don't wait for us, either. This could be an ambush, or we may need to go a long ways. We can find you. Luinien is in charge until I return."

Without another word he strode away from the fire, Menecar and Silrûth behind him. Luinien broke the silence first. "Aidwain, will you take the rest of my watch? I'll wait up until morning and perhaps scout around a little. The rest of you had better go back to sleep until your watches."

Aidwain left, and slowly the camp settled down again. Luinien sat, wrapped in thought, by the dying embers of the fire. Finally she rose and went out into the night.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Menecar volunteered to follow the horses straight along the path they took, while Silrûth and Tarondo shadowed him on either side. They slipped silently through the rocks and trees some distance from the path, keeping up with his brisk walk.

Tarondo, on the north side, had actually outdistanced the Ranger some fifty yards when he heard a rumbly murmur directly ahead. Instantly he froze, then crept noiselessly toward the sound. Soon he discerned words as the voices carried more clearly. And they were definitely Troll voices.

"Are they here yet?"

"No. Be quiet."

One second passed.

"Why don't they hurry up?"

"I told you" - interrupted by the first.

"Somebody's coming!"

"Where?" Tarondo thought he could see a darker shape move up ahead, straining down the dark path for a glimpse of the approaching Ranger.

"There's only one, brother. Is it her?"

"Naw!" the second growled, disappointedly. "It's too big. But let's get it anyway. Come here. Now... heave!" Grunts and groans from ahead. Tarondo had heard enough.

He stood up and dashed to the road, running to cut off the Ranger before he reached the danger point. "Menecar!" he shouted. "Menecar, stop! Off the road!" Behind and to his left, hoarse Troll-bellows heralded the rush and crunch of the boulder as it left its bed. "Silrûth, get back! There are Trolls, starting a rockslide!" In a flurry of dead leaves he slid down onto the path, directly in front of Menecar. Grabbing the Ranger, he hurried away from the road, angling back to the west. Behind them a growing roar heralded the approach of the slide...

[Kransha]

“C’mon. Lemme kill ‘im.” whined Búbkûr, a grimace maligning his already grotesque features. He was tired of listening to the rumble of commotion that issued from the trees beyond his reach. The trolls were doing their duty, of course, but that did not mean that he had to be pleased with the progress of the ridiculous plan underway. It was not his style, this hit-and-run harrasment of the enemy. He preferred head-on engagement, simple, blunt, crude, barbaric combat.

“Show some patience, will ye?” Gráthgrob snapped back, irked and cross, “This is a gradual process, one that takes time.” He was, as always, the voice of cold, ruthless orcish reason, which was not exactly to Búbkûr’s liking. The other orcs, though, worshipped his oversized brain, a fact that severely nauseated Búbkûr. He had never wished for intelligence, or the gratuitous gift of pretty speech. His own tongue was a fine tongue, and a tongue that suited him fine. Knowing big words and how to properly use them did not impress Búbkûr, and he thought it ought not to impress any other orc. As the orcs nearby, squatting, sitting, kneeling, and reclining on the forested earth, nodded in agreement, Gráthgrob continued. D’ya want to have fun with the fools, or just plain kill ‘em?” He was pushing his luck, assuredly, but Búbkûr was in no mood to get physical, or overly emotional about his opinions. Bâzzog had doubtless placed his affiliation with Gráthgrob, and thus, inadvertently, defeated anything the Búbkûr could think up.

“I’m quite partial to killin’ ‘em, actually.” The other orc retorted, wittily, for him. He grinned in an oafish manner, looking away to conceal the expression, as he considered the cleverness of his comment, but his moment of mental glory was severed and abruptly beheaded by a quieting growl and words from his commander, Bâzzog, who was peering darkly through the gnarled, low-hanging tree branches at the opposing camp far off. “Quiet!” he roared, though stifling his thunderous bass voice and is rippling, throaty undulation, “Ye want to wake the very dead with yer voice, glob? You’ll rouse the Elves and the tarks, that you will.”

This annoyed Bubkur further, but he thought back to the trite specifics of his wishes. His eagerness was fueled primarily by anger, and a want for vengeance. He’d never been as vilely injured by any man as he had been by that foul ranger. In fact, the most grievous incident and wound he’d experienced did not come from a Dúnadan, thus making the injury he’d been dealt all the greater to his easily inflatable ego. He was, within, filled from his bulky head to his talon-tipped toes with mad, incendiary rage at the nameless Ranger. This had been long considered since the skirmish at Weathertop, and afforded Búbkûr no little amount of grief and anguish, though only the kind of fiery, molten grief that an orc can experience.

“They’ll be up anyway, soon ‘nuff,” the lieutenant grumbled, sitting again, “…Jus’ lemme kill the one tark: the one who gave me this.” He indicated, coldly, the wound he’d been issued in the last combat, which now bore a ragged, tattered cloth bound across it tightly, stifling the flow of black, near-acidic fluid. “Lemme fill my hook up with his flesh and then ye can do what ye want.” He clawed and raked the air in illustration, but Bâzzog waved him down again. “Ye can have ‘im later,” he responded, unemotional and void of real feeling, “when the time is right.”

“It’s the bloody right time now! Sha!” Búbkûr cursed loudly, springing to his feet and sweeping his rusty hook hand in a simple arc, “If we don’t get to ‘em, the bloody ologs’ll kill ‘em!” Bâzzog turned, nearly swatting at him in his rage, and the mere look in his eye stabbed through Búbkûr, and the orc crumbled back into his seat feebly. “Worm!” Bâzzog spat, “The trolls couldn’t kill a paralyzed ox. They’ll just soften up the goodies for us, they will.” Búbkûr was, obviously, subdued by the statement, but he was determined to resist another defeat, and so, after his captain had glumly turned, he struggled to his feet, with a meeker air, and waddled over to the gangly orc bowman, Kransha, who stood erect in his usual place, somewhat distanced from the clump of orcs at this fringe of camp. Kransha’s calculating eyes were occupied, but a couple of rude pokes in the arm alerted him. Búbkûr, thinking of a vague, but workable possibility, posed a question to the seemingly mute uruk.

“Kransha, you figure you can hit one if’n ya get in a tree or somethin’?”

Eventually, Kransha nodded.

“See?” Búbkûr exclaimed, turning and yelling excitedly to Bâzzog, “‘E could hit ‘em! ‘E could kill ‘em as easy as those trolls! We oughtto jus’ let ‘im stun ‘em, or wound ‘em, or somethin’ and we can have ‘em all to ourselves!” Bâzzog spun again, moving, despite his rugged bulk, like a shadowy wraith borne on the winds, and flitted right up to Búbkûr, to within an inch of his flat face. Shocked, Búbkûr staggered and slipped into the dust with a heavy thud. “Pushdug,” the orc captain rasped, “o’ course ‘e can hit ‘em. But, if ‘e does it, we can’t ‘ave no fun. Now then, sit down and shut up. When they cross the Big Bridge, we can hit ‘em. Then ye’ll get yer chance. Ye can have all the tarks if ye really want. Kransha and I’ll handle the Elves. If all goes well, the trolls’ll get killed in the fray, and we can get back to Bree-land.”

Búbkûr nodded dumbly, questioning his own action, and scooted back into his place. After the outburst, the camp seemed dejected, and many eyes fixed on Bâzzog, each pair set before a different thought, a different contemplation. Some might have even been entertaining the possibility that Búbkûr had the right idea. Their voices dwindled, like the withering light in there eyes, and they turned their minds and words to other things, speaking in morose, conspiratorial whispers. But, Bâzzog did not seem content with their inaction. Suddenly, his dank grimness turned to a sickly merriment, and he swiveled and trounced forward and back, past his troops. “Don’t be down, lads.” He said, a smile twisted onto his face, and gleaming teeth peeking out of his mouth, “T’night’s a good night, with a sky of red, the kind that Gundabad was under. We’re in luck, boys, I assure ye. Let’s ‘ave a song fer the night, fer they’ll be blood in the mornin’.”

[Primrose Bolger]

While the fun of the night’s adventures was not to be denied, especially not to His Malevolance, Bâzzog, Grimm and Broga were growing restless. And hungry, very hungry. There had been no raids in the past few days, no lovely sheep, or goat, or stray creature of the four legged or two legged persuasion to roast on a spit or boil up for stew or just gnaw on raw. Broga had hoped to drag one of the Elves off as a prize from their last encounter, but he’d been denied this toothsome delight; his poor reward being a poke in the eye with an Elven arrow, instead.

‘I wants food . . . great hunks of meat . . . not anymore of these Orcish, dried-up travel-meats,’ grumbled Broga from under cover of the trees. Grimm’s belly rumbled loudly in the night, drawing snickers from several of the Orcs standing near. Snickers turned to squeals as Grimm grabbed up one of the creatures, grinning wolfishly at it. ‘I’m so hungry, brother,’ he crooned to Broga, ‘I could even eat one of these nasty tasting bugs!’ He clacked his great, snaggly teeth at the whimpering Orc and heaved it up into the branches of one of the nearby trees. Broga, a wicked gleam in his eye, reached out toward another of the Orcs, all of whom then quickly scattered well out of the grasp of the Trolls.

‘What say we get on down the road, like the Chief wanted,’ Grimm whispered. ‘Find us something fresh to eat.’ Grimm motioned for his brother to follow. Broga’s brow beetled. ‘The Chief?’ Grimm nodded, pulling his brother toward the eastern perimeter of their little stand of trees. ‘Little sneak attack, remember?’ Grimm prompted, his arm linked firmly with his brother’s. ‘The bridge . . . just before the Shaws?’ Broga’s face had gone blank; no flicker of recognition for these plans shown in his eye. He shrugged and followed along beside Grimm. No use in trying to dredge up facts that had leaked from his brain. He trusted his brother - If Grimm said it was the Chief’s plan, then the Chief’s plan it was. And besides . . . the thought of fresh meat caught along the way had set him drooling. Visions of marrow filled stag bones quickened his pace.

The brothers kept well off the road as they ran along. To their left and now just a bit behind them were some Elves and men haring after the spooked horses. The last of the rocks that Arald and Dim had pushed clattered down ineffectively to a resting place behind them. Broga and Grimm could hear the thumping of the other two Trolls as they ran from their ambush site. Arald, it seemed, had been thwarted in his attempts and was bellowing out his frustration. Grimm wondered aloud if those two would manage catch up to them. Four Trolls would mean more than one deer would need to be taken.

He was pondering this question as he ran along, when the jarring sounds of Orc voices rent the night air. Broga shook his head and urged his brother to an even faster pace. ‘Can’t stand what passes for Orcs singing,’ he snorted. ‘Like two polecats tied in a bag, what with all their hissing and yowling like.’ Grimm laughed at his brother’s assessment. ‘And those noises they always throw in at the ends of verses – like some buzzard choking on a day old skunk. No proper rhymin’ at all. Gives me a headache!’

In a low voice, Broga sang out a few lines from an old Troll ditty. Grimm grinned and joined in, the cadence of the verses making their feet fly.

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by . . .

-----
- from The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, ‘The Stone Troll’, J.R.R.Tolkien

[Saurreg]

Somewhere upon white cliffs, a small green tortoise is thinking about flying…

But eight hundred miles and several time zones away, Loudewater was sitting cross-legged and creating chicken scratch with a twig in hand. It all happened too fast for the simple farmer’s mind to fully grasp the development of things. He was starting to think that perhaps tagging along with the Gondor’s finest was perhaps not the highest item in his to-do-list. But when the huge and impossibly stone-faced Tarando stood before him, there was nothing else to do but to agree with all terms under the withering stare of glaring elven eyes.

”Louderwater!”

“s,”

”You will travel with us, do you hear?”

“s,”

“You will do exactly what I say, yes?”

“s,”

“Good. Now take off your pants…”

Of course the above conversation never took place, but the farmer was very sure that if he did not agree to stipulated terms of treaty (or capitulation), the elf was going to put those huge powerful hands around his scrawny throat and squeeze just to see if eyes of Bree farmers’ eyes pop out from their sockets if the applied pressure was about right.

Old stone face wasn’t around. He, the incredibly tall elven amazon (whom Loudewater quickly decided has a “do-not-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-squeeze-till-your-eyes-pop” demeanor) as well as Thoronmir’s younger companion (a pleasant chap) had gone off to find out what happened to some of their mounts.

At least killer had the sense not go bolting around at the slightest spook. Either that or the mule was too dumb.

Loudewater felt eyes upon him and looked up from his doodling.

“Loudewater,” a mellow voice intoned across the fire. It was Thoronmir, the ranger who saved him.

“Yes sir?”, queried Loudewater meekly.

“Firstly, you need not address me as sir. I did not ask you to do so and neither does current circumstances warrant for it. Thoronmir will suffice,”

“Yes sir… erm I meant Thoronmir,”

“And secondly, do not think unkindly of us my friend. I can tell from the way you brood, that you are starting to feel unhappy with the development of events. Tarando wishes that you join us only for your own safety. The roads as you’ve seen for yourself today are no longer safe. Rest assured that once the situation permits, you will be allowed to return home unmolested and unharmed. This I pledge on my honor as a ranger of the king,”

The ranger gave Loudewater a wane smile,

“Trust me my friend.”

Loudewater looked at Thoronmir and could not help but break into a smile of his own. He was struck by the ranger’s sincerity and knew that he wanted to trust the man wholeheartedly.

“Yes… Thoronmir,” Replied the farmer awkwardly, “I apologize if my behavior has been rude and insulting to you and… and your companions. I trust you… friend.”

The ranger smiled again and this time there was genuine warmth.

Loudewater threw the useless piece of twig away and suddenly felt his stomach rumble. The pang of hunger made Loudewater remember that he had not eaten for an entire day. He looked towards Killer’s saddle and was relieved that his bulging fanny pack and flask were still firmly secured. Loudewater got up, made his way to the mule and removed the said attachments. He then returned to the circle around the fire and announced to all those who were still awake,

“I erm… left me house with some provisions to sustain me on the way. Seeing that nobody’s in the mood to gather or hunt, or that it’s even possible under such circumstances, I’ll be more than happy to share.”

The Rohirrm Osric whom Loudewater learned also played a part in saving his life, had returned to the camp. The farmer beckoned the newcomer to join him as he sat down, emptied the contents of his bag and proceeded to pass them around to anyone interested in good nature.

He was tempted to go and shake the very badly wrecked Verdayan awake violently so that he could eat (a wounded man needs to sustain his strength even more, no?).

[Alaksoron]

Osric sat beside Loudewater, in a foul mood. He accepted the food gratefully. Delving into his saddlebags, which he had fortunately brought in before the trolls bolted the horses again, he produced a few flasks of ale and passed them around.

Finishing his meal, Osric took out his whetstone and started sharpening his knives. He made small talk with Andas as he did so. That fool Tarondo had gone prancing off just after attempting to correct Osric, but they were going to have a talk, when he returned.

[Nuranar]

The slide had rumbled to a stop in the rough ground just on the other side of the path. Tarondo and Menecar found Silrûth waiting for them. From the sound of it, the Trolls, foiled by the failure of the rockslide, were not in pursuit. But that was no reason to wait around. Wordlessly the three ran on through the darkness.

The horses were huddled in a hollow scarcely a thousand yards further. Riding their own mounts bareback, they led the rest in a wide circle to the south. The land seemed alive with crashings and creakings, as if all the Trolls of the north were coming down upon them.


The eastern sky was turning grey when they reached camp once more. Not until he dismounted did Tarondo see Thoronmir, standing motionless against the trunk of a twisted tree. "How has it been?" he asked as Silrûth and Menecar rode up. Tiredly the three led the horses toward the erstwhile picket line.

"Not a sound since you left. I made your sister get some sleep, about two hours ago."

"You did? Good for you." Tarondo surveyed the land, shadowed and vague in the beginning light. "Those Trolls are still about, and they're planning. There are orcs, too. Silrûth and I both knew it, although we never saw them. I know the horses are tired, but we need to leave as soon as there's light enough."

Thoronmir looked at him critically. "The horses aren't the only ones that are tired. You need to rest. Come on, I'll call you in an hour."

Experienced campaigners, Menecar and Silrûth were already snatching what sleep that they could. Tarondo smiled ruefully. "You win."


By the time the sun rose above the mountains, the companions were in the saddle and several miles down the road. Stampedes and rockslides? Tarondo thought. We can handle that. If only they don't get any more ideas...

Still ahead of them lay the Last Bridge, their halfway mark. But beyond it, the Trollshaws.

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Here’s our path,’ cried Grimm, motioning the others closer. ‘Can’t hardly see it, brother,’ grunted Broga, who had grown tired of their long hours of running. Two deer only they’d seen and those small does. ‘No time for cooking,’ he’d been told. ‘Got to eat them on the fly. We’re to be ready when the Chief drives the men and Elves to us.’

Arald and Dim peered down the faint and overgrown track the Grimm had spied. Choked with fallen stones and trees it was, but they could tell that at one time it had been much used. It was a wide path, really, though the low growing grasses had crept in upon its edges. Someone or ones, strong of arm and heavy feet had made it. Old trees had been cut or pushed over, and large rocks had been split in two or heaved aside to make the way.

Down the track and through the dense fir trees they lumbered until they came at last to the stone walled foot of a hill. Grimm hurried ahead, halting as he reached a door hanging crookedly ajar on a great metal hinge. ‘This is it,’ said Grimm with a satisfied grin. ‘Now to see if the old buzzard’s home.’

‘Harry!’ the voices called out; one of them yelling into the dark, littered cave, the others bellowing about the camp. ‘Wonder where he’s got to,’ Broga muttered, following Grimm down through a thick wooded slope to a clearing a little ways away. Three Trolls the others could see – one was stooping while the other two stared at him. ‘What’s ‘e bendin’ over for?’ asked Dim, craning his neck to see. Arald inched forward, his great foot stepping on a downed branch. Crack! The snapping sound echoed in the area but Trolls in the clearing did not move. ‘Must be deaf!’ Dim said. He frowned as Broga chuckled. ‘ ‘ere! what’s so funny?’ said Arald wondering if the three Trolls they were spying on were of the hospitable sort.

A great rumbling voice startled the four lurkers from behind. ‘They’re deaf alright, and stone to boot, poor sods. Kilt by some wizard afore the war. Now what are you four doing in my little bailiwick?’

Grimm came forward and made the greetings for the group, reminding Harry of their distant relation. A few questions from Harry resolved the truth of the blood connection for him and he invited the four to share in a large pot of mutton stew he had going at his little place further along near the creek. Rested and well fed, the four Trolls invited Harry to have a bit of fun with them. They spoke of how the Orcs were driving some men and Elves to the bridge and how they had promised to harass the small group from the east while the Orcs pressed them from the west. Grimm looked up to see where old yellow face was in the sky. ‘In fact, if we amble back to the clearing where the Stone Trolls are, we can find ourselves some good places to swoop down on the blighters.’ Harry was none too sure about working with Orcs, but Grimm just shrugged, saying, ‘They get in your way, just mash ‘em.’

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Harry elected to take up a position atop a large rocky formation that stood to one side of the clearing. There were plenty of loose boulders strewn on its surface that he intended to rain down on the foe. The four other Trolls hid in the shadows of the thick stands of fir that ringed the area, spacing them selves about the clearing.

Now all there was, was to wait for the Orcs to drive their quarry to them . .

[Envinyatar]

The third day of riding brought them in sight of the bridge, Veryadan could smell the muddy flats that lay along the length of this part of the Hoarwell. The rains had been more frequent of late in this area, he guessed, since the smell was not as cloying as in high summer when the water ran narrow in its channel. The companions had pulled up just before the bridge. Tarondo had sent a scout ahead to see if there were signs of the enemy that could be made out. There were Orcs, number unknown, who had followed along behind them as they made their way along the road. But they were always just out of site, and the companions had decided not to hunt them at this point but to flee with all haste to the safety of Rivendell.

Veryadan’s eyes took in the areas to the north and south of the road. Forested areas here to the north, but set off a ways from the road edge – still he wondered how many Orcs were watching as they neared the river. To the south were low, rolling hills, less apt to provide places for the enemy to hide, though yet . . .

His right hand reached to where the bandage was secured. What herbs they had used seemed to be doing some good. There had been very little bleeding this last day, though there was some increase if he twisted his torso too much. To fully heal, he knew would require the remedies available from the healers at the Last Homely House. He flexed his left hand and carefully raised the arm up and down. Full feeling had not come back until yesterday, late, and the muscles still felt weak, his grip tenuous.

The scout had come back, saying there had been no sign that he could find, save for the fact that the birds seemed unusually silent in the fir forest that stood beyond the bridge. ‘That, yes,’ thought Veryadan, ‘and the heavy feeling I have as if the darkness beneath the vows is waiting.’ The ranger urged his horse up to where Luinien was stopped. ‘Bind me a little tighter, if you will,’ he said to her, handing a length of clothe one of his caregivers had placed in his pack. Once done, he pulled his boiled leather jerkin back into place and checked the lacings on his vambraces. Loosening the strap that secured his blade, he nodded to Tarondo. ‘Take the lead. Let’s make our way across the bridge, then.’ Osric and Aidwain brought up the rear, weapons ready.

The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves over the stone bridge sounded loud against the waiting silence of the trees. The companions followed the needle strewn path that led under the thick layers of boughs. The last two had barely passed under when stinging arrows flew at them from behind a few of the trees.

‘The Orcs are upon us!’ Veryadan cried, spurring his horse along. ‘Make for the clearing a little ways on,’ one of the other Rangers shouted. ‘We’ll regroup there to make our stand.’

[Kransha]

The twanging of bowstrings resounded and the whistle of arrows, rending the wind and air, resounded through the dank corridors of the fir forest. From the thickets and ample cover of the furry shrubs in the forest, uruk archers rained down an assortment of narrow, jagged bolts onto the company of their opponents. Before, beneath, and beside them rang the clang of hoof against earth as the enemy group’s horses bolted and panicked, though they were soon set under control by their riders. The riders galloped swiftly from the open and into the checkered shadow of the trees, concealing their silhouettes from the orcish archers. But, the archers persevered, firing frantically into the woods. They did not lose their organization, but maintained order, and fired in the direction of the horse’s neighs and maddened whinnies, their arrows puncturing the hanging branches and rustling the higher bushes. Arrows, tipped with liquid red, stabbed harshly into the soft earth and cracked asunder the stones that lay by the wayside with their strength. Many bolts pockmarked the path of the riders, filling up the earth where the tracks of their horses were printed mere moments after they passed by, gallivanting forward at great, hurried speeds.

“Fire! Fire!” Búbkûr’s voice continued to speak, crying out in its raspy, thick tone that burnt the ears of those who heard it with its vileness. Not disposed to ranged weaponry, Búbkûr had busied himself with the exercise of leaping up and down, to and fro, and brandishing his hook profusely, stabbing and hacking in the supposed direction of the enemy. Hotly, he jumped forth from the trees, jabbing forward and back, as the nine orcs crowded around him fired a single, unending volley, a hail of arrows falling from their crude, short-bows. Some, who were not apt with bows, were armed with other weapons that could be shot or thrown. Two had a small supply of crude javelins, short hunks of wood with sharpened tips that fell gracelessly and lacked accuracy, but would be deadly at close range. Two more of Búbkûr’s nine bore crossbows, probably stolen and not of orcish manufacturing, for they were more lithe and comely, though they had been tainted with stains of blood and mud by the orcs who bore them.

Not too far off, on the other side of the trodden path that the enemies were taking, was the troop commanded by Kransha. Bâzzog, who had again not deigned to engage in combat, had split the force of twenty-five uruks that was to corner and lure the opposing force into a trolly trap into two distinct parts. One, consisting of ten orcs, including Bubkur, was the melee unit, technically, whereas a group of orcs who had been trained specially by Kransha had been put under the command of their silent educator. They were providing the more precise, and efficient archery from the cover of the trees. That company numbered fifteen, to Bubkur’s ten, which was a point that made him mildly irate, but did not distract him. He was busy enough thinking about what he would do to that tark-dug who’d dared to hurt him when he got his hands on him.

“Keep them down, boys!” cried Búbkûr, his fervency still fresh and full, “Fire low!” He maneuvered to the side, and his section of the orcish troop moved gradually with him, edging towards the destination they had been assigned. They were drivers, meant to direct the tarks and Elves to a designated locale, one where the trolls, who now lay in wait at the ready, could overcome and subdue them with relative ease. In addition, the orcs would be able to spread their forces and herd the fools right into the area, so they’d be hopelessly surrounded. The very thought of this cruel but satisfying action brought a grim smile to Búbkûr’s wretched face, and he licked his lips, balling his one hand into a tightly clenched fist. With a number of gestures, he pointed his men towards the clearing where the trolls bided their time. He caught obscure glimpses of the other troop of orcs, who were still raining fire down on the orcish quarry.

“Thrakul!” he bellowed in the Black Speech, his voice carrying through and over the dense underbrush to Kransha’s company, and then turned to his own men. “You four,” he said hastily, indicating the two orcs with crossbows, and two with bows, “keep firing. The rest of you, get moving. Drive ‘em to the clearing.” The four remaining, as well as Búbkûr, turned tail and ran, dashing recklessly through the forest, past various woodland obstacles, attempting to head off and herd the Rangers and Elves, and their mighty-voiced mounts. They surged toward the clearing, where slivers of vague light from above penetrated the shade of the forest, and the dusty beams shone down on a trio of figures, who stood stock still, their outlines blazoned against the darkened greens and browns behind them. Búbkûr ignored to still figures, though, and concentrated his weak mind at the task as hand. He crowded his own men, who put up their ranged armaments, save for the two javelineers, who turned their weapons up in their grasping, wrenching arms and waved them as stabbing spears. The orcs poured forth, with the hail from the other orc troop raining on their foes before them.

“Take down the horses!” roared Búbkûr, “Attack!”

The orcs, not mounted, ruptured their ranks and dove at the braying steeds. In the first moments of the direct combat, one of the orcs was kicked full in the face by the iron-hard hooves of a horse, and, bleeding and twitching fitfully, the first casualty rolled limp into the dust beneath a weeping shrub. Only slightly irked, Búbkûr carried on. The company was not yet in the clearing, not yet near enough the trolls. Búbkûr, as his men charged forward, followed by the four archers from behind, still firing without aim, turned his head towards the outcropping and slopes where Kransha’s orcs were perched and cried out, “Find Kransha! Gimbata!” at the faces he saw poking out from between swaying branches, slipping into his own tongue again as the command flew out of him. Moments later, the arrow rain had increased, and the bolts grew in accuracy. In a flash, one horse of the many had gone down, riddled with arrows. As his eyes returned to the fray, Bubkur recognized the rider as that tark who’d injured him.

Before he knew it, his legs were carrying him in huge bounds forward towards the man as he rolled from beneath the empty ruin of his still flailing steed.

At this moment, the second troop burst through the trees, and the battle began in earnest. From behind the Stone Trolls, and the forested objects opposite the orcs, five trolls issued, roaring madly and gleefully as they fell on their prey. The battle moved too swiftly from the trolls to the opened clearing as orc, Ranger, Elf, and Troll clashed at the central point. The arrows abruptly stopped whizzing, and their swift sounds were replaced by the loathsome cackles of orcs as they strove forward. One of Kransha’s troop, a surly fellow with a curvy knife and a shield that looked as if it might be have been a table-top once, tackled the Rohirrim from his horse, and the two wrestled in the dirt as the other orcs closed in, with trolls a-clobbering on the other side of the field. The battle had begun…

And, up on the sloping hill from whence the orcs had come, stood Kransha, searching for a target…

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir urged his horse faster. The orcs had come out of nowhere and were now gaining on them. He had just reached the huge petrified trolls in the clearing when his horse fell to the ground, dead from several arrows. was in serious trouble. His horse had been killed off and was pinning him to the ground, and he was now in the middle of the Stone Trolls facing off against a big orc, the same, in fact, who'd fought him earlier at Weathertop. The orc, violently enraged even by orcish standards, raised a gigantic curved butcher-knife of a sword over his head and swung. It hit the ground right next to Thoronmir, who barely managed to twist away in time. With a lot of effort in a fairly short time, the ranger pulled his long knife loose from under the horse's body and jammed it into the orc's foot, who howled in pain and rage. Thoronmir got out from under the horse during that brief interval and turned to face his attacker, who had just pulled the knife out of his foot. Thoronmir swung at the orc with his sword, but the stroke was blocked by the orc's falchion. Thoronmir tried to duck away, but the orc managed to hit Thoronmir in the side with his hook, knocking the wind out of him. Suddenly, the orc was hit by an arrow as Menecar dashed onto the scene followed by Andas Loudewater. More orcs appeared, and Thoronmir managed to get back his strength, pick his knife back up, and fight. He slew two who were trying to get at Loudewater, using the three stone trolls as cover before turning back toward the huge orc who, if it was even possible, was even angrier than before. Menecar tried to tackle the orc as Thoronmir swung his sword, but at the last second the orc flung Menecar off him and ducked Thoronmir's swing. Thoronmir looked and saw that Menecar had crashed headfirst into one of the stone trolls, probably dead. Thoronmir, in grief and rage, hit the orc so swiftly with his sword that neither one was aware of what had happened. The orc staggered backward, blood oozing out of a gaping wound in his stomach. He ran at Thoronmir in a murderous rage, not knowing anything except that the ranger must be killed at any cost. Thoronmir ducked and rolled to the side out of pure instinct to avoid the orc's rage. The orc, however, couldn't stop his momentum and plunged at full speed into one of the petrified trolls. The weathered stone behemoth rocked back and forth from the impact, then toppled over, crushing the huge orc along with several others of his kind.

Thoronmir got up, turning to fight the still-numerous orcs. Suddenly, he saw one on a nearby hill, taking aim with his bow directly at Andas Loudewater.

"Look out!" the ranger said, pushing the farmer to the side. The arrow from the orc's bow, meant for Loudewater, instead scored a direct hit on Thoronmir's left arm...

[Nuranar]

Tarondo's horse, maddened by the darts of the orcs, had carried him past the clearing where the stone trolls stooped. Hurriedly checking the animal, he wheeled and plunged back into the fracas. Tarondo had rarely fought on horseback before. Although he had a considerable advantage over the dismounted orcs, it took all his skill to control his terrified mount. All his faculties were focused on riding and striking at the orcs that rose up before him.

An orc, trying to even the odds, flung itself forward, wooden spear aimed for the horse. Just in time Tarondo parried, splintering the weapon. Even as he lopped off the orc's head, he heard a dull thud. Glancing up as a flicker of movement caught his eye, he saw one of the statues move. An instant of bewildered disbelief, then Tarondo spurred his horse... But that instant cost him dear. A huge arm, broken on impact, ricocheted off the ground and struck the horse broadside.

The force of the impact threw Tarondo to earth. Rolling over, he grasped for his sword and scrambled to his feet. Abruptly Thoronmir staggered into him, an arrow in his arm. "He's good!" the Ranger gasped. "Up there - he has a bow."

"Let me at him!" growled a rough voice in his ear. Osric stood at his elbow, spattered with orc blood.

Tarondo looked up the hill and saw the dark figure of an orc, looking for another target. Even as Tarondo sprang forward, Osric on his heels, the orc saw him. Tarondo saw the gleam in his eye as he sighted down the arrow for one instant. Even as his mind told his feet to dodge, he knew it was too late.

Just as released the taut string, a Troll-flung boulder sliced the air between them. The next instant something struck Tarondo hard just above the knee. The joint buckled immediately and his momentum slammed him into the hill. Osric rushed past without a glance.

Then the pain hit, biting and clawing, as if the arrowhead were burrowing in with malevolent energy. Clenching his teeth, Tarondo grasped the shaft and wrenched the arrow out. Swiftly he tore cloth from his tunic and bandaged the wound. Even as he stood, leaning on his sword for support, his eyes turned not up the hill but down. Where is Luinien?

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan’s only thought was to cleave his way through to the other side of the clearing. He fought as he could from the saddle of his mount, slashing savagely at the Orcs who darted in with their jagged edged swords. Several had scored glancing blows against his boots and one bowman had driven an arrow into his thigh. He was wearying. The twisting and turning from side to side had torn open the gash in his flank; he could feel the blood beginning to seep from the saturated bandage and run down his side.

Two Orcs went down beneath his blade as they rushed him. Another rushed forward, slashing Veryadan’s horse hard across the chest. The horse reared, finishing off the Orc under his sharp hooves. The Ranger saw a small opening in the ranks of the attackers and kicked his horse hard in the flanks. He’d almost made it to the far side when some large missile hit his left shoulder and knocked him from his mount. He clung to the sword in his right hand as the force of the blow made him skid along the dirt on the clearing floor. He pushed himself to an upright position, just in time to see one of the Trolls bring down his horse with a blow from his large club.

As he bent to rip the horse’s leg from its shoulder, the Troll’s back was to Veryadan. Mustering what strength was left to him, the Ranger charged the Troll, his blade leveled at the back of the creature’s leg. He drove it in, forcing it deep with the weight of his body behind it. The Troll roared at the pain, his leg buckling beneath him. With a blind blow at the man behind him, the Troll sent Veryadan reeling back against the unyielding leg of one of the Stone Trolls, the man’s sword clattering from his hands as his body came to an abrupt stop.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater hit the ground face-first and took a mouthful of dried leaves and dirt. He spun around and discovered that Thoronmir was injured – the shaft and feathered end of an arrow sticking out of his arm. The ranger was learning against a large stone outcrop, face turning deathly white and sweating as he fought hard to catch his breath.

Loudewater scrambled onto his feet and rushed to his injured companion’s side.

“Thoronmir! You are wounded!”

There was nothing much the panicky farmer could do. He could dress little cuts or create slings for broken arms, but to assist one who has been injured by a dart of war was beyond him. Loudewater was gripped by a sense of lost as he looked around for the other riders, hopping that someone had seen the incident and was coming to their aid.

But that was not to be. The ambush was far greater than it was at Weathertop and every single rider was fighting desperately for his or her own life against overwhelming odds. As Loudewater looked about terror-struck, he saw the pathetic corpse of Thoronmir’s young companion – Menecar, face down and lying motionless. There was a gapping wound on late ranger’s head where fresh blood poured out profusely surrounding the body in a crimson pool.

Through the din of clashing blades and demonic war howls, Loudewater’s hearing picked out deep grunting that was getting louder and louder. He looked in the direction where the sound was coming from and saw to his horror that a huge orc was bounding towards him and Thoronmir. The beastly humanoid was getting closer and closer with every movement of its greatly muscled limbs and the deadly glare of its feral yellow eyes filled him with a sense of dread.

Loudewater shrieked in terror as he back stepped clumsily and crushed into the wounded Thoronmir who grunted in pain. Loudewater turned back and saw the brave ranger grimacing in pain as he valiantly attempted to step forwards and engage this new foe.

It came to him uninvited and unexpected when Lenny taunted him…

The orc came closer and as he did, it raised a huge black scimitar and roared triumphantly,

It came to him on the morning after and infused him with great happiness and hope…

There were new orcs who had found their nerves under this new leader and there were also advancing, with less confidence but nevertheless, still advancing.

It deserted him at Weathertop and left him witless and timidly again…

“Loudewater! Get behind me!” Thoronmir commanded as he mustered his strength to overcome the poisonous barb. The orcs were getting closer, some were flanking out to the sides. Loudewater and Thoronmir were like fish caught in a closing net.

And now it’s back with a vengeance…

“NO!” Loudewater roared in a voice that was not his own. Pushing the injured ranger back, he leapt and placed himself before the orc and its intended prey.

The great beast came to a clattering halt and faced the farmer hesitantly. This was an unusual prey. A prey whose eye’s known shone mad with a maniacal fire.

“Get back you brute! Or… or face the fiery of Andas Loudewater, man of Bree!” stammered the farmer excitedly as he drew his dagger out from its sheath. The blade, Loudewater noted with some satisfaction, seemed to glimmer with the faint quicksilver.

“Luurrggwarger… luurrgwarger?” repeated the mystified huge orc silently. It body suddenly convulsed uncontrollably. Suddenly, it threw its mane covered head back and howled with hysterical laughter. It was laughing at Loudewater’s name. The rest of the lesser orcs joined in. They started chanting his name in jest.

The hood of Loudewater’s cope covered the eyes of his lowered head. The dagger hilt held so tightly that the farmer’s hand was trembling.

“Do you think that’s funny brute? Do you think my name is funny, beast? DO YAH, YOU PIECE OF DEAD MEAT! ARRAGGHH!!!!!”

Loudewater leapt forwards faster than he ever recalled moving before. By sheer inertia and surprise he crashed into the huge orc and knocked it over. With uncanny reflexes, he actually got the better of the orc and sat on its barrelled chest in a schoolboy pin. The thrashing orc tried to push the farmer off him, but adrenaline gave Loudewater a burst of strength and he continued to pin the orc under him. Sensing that it’s doom was near, the great orc did what its kind could only do under such circumstances.

It whimpered.

But fate has dealt the orc a cruel deck. For here was not Loudewater, the gentle farmer from Bree. This was Loudewater the angel of death. This was Loudewater struggling with a bad bout of midlife crisis.

“Whimper? You brute?” asked Loudewater sardonically in an unusually calm and quiet voice,

“It doesn’t matter, because today is a very good day to die. Remember this day well beast, FOR IT HAS BEEN YOUR LAST!”

With that last shout, Loudewater raised his dagger high and with all the fiery and strength he could muster, plunged it into the face of the beast. The immense blow split the bulbous nose of the creature in half and drove through the skull, crushing dense bone with unusual strength. Bearing resistance to the tip of the dagger suddenly reduced and the farmer found himself being able to drive his blade further in with ease. All the while, the orc’s body thrashed in its death throes about like a marionette whose strings were being jerked about. The dying body went into uncontrollable spasms and started defecating as it lost control of its bowel functions. Strong paws grasped at anything they could get a hold off and found Loudewater’s thighs and even then their strength faded and finally went limp.

As loudewater finally wrenched the dagger from the puncture he created, a jet of black ichor emitted from the cavity of the skull splashed onto Loudewater’s face, covering him in orcish life essence. Loudewater licked at the hot steaming liquid and smiled. He relished the taste.

Like hydraulic pistons, the arms of Loudewater continued to pull and plunge his dagger into the smashed head of the orc. Loudewater laughed as he continued the mutilation.

[Esgallhugwen]

The unsettling silence was broken by the swift wailing of arrows. Their horses grew mad with horror as they raced into the trees.

As a flurry of devilish orc arrows was loosed upon them the enemy set upon them in raging fury. Already the battle was being lost, as horses fell alongside their brave noble riders.

Falma reared breaking the neck of a slimy black rampaging orc. It didn't halt them for a moment, heaving grunts were heard before rocks and boulders were seen flying through the air.

As her companions were tossed about like play things of a reckless child she was nearly un-horsed by a creature howling with glee. Her sword quickly saw to the problem dismembering the head from the body.

Still another came flying at her, black sword in hand, her horse shrieking desperately trying to kick at it. A fleeting thougt of using her bow was extinguished, too close its too close, she frantically swiped at the orc with her blade, taking a slice out of his arm.

Though it cried out and backed away in pain, the orc seemed all the more enticed to take the Elf down. Yet again the orc came at her brandishing his curved sword, this time he wasn't so fortunate, the Elf cut the sword from his arm the hand still clinging to it; Falma in a rage picked up the nasty tasting orc with her mouth and whipped him into the air trampling him when he came wailing back to the ground.

Silrûth raced about her hair flying out behind her like a golden banner, frantically trying to find her companions through the debri and shouting. Two Stone Trolls had fallen and she could only fear the worst for her friends when Aidwain leapt by still on his horse.

She could not help but smile at his fortune.

Silrûth thought she heard the clear call of Luinen's voice, her attentions were turned to Tarondo who was galloping back to get Thoronmir. Her and Aidwain quickly turned their horses onto the enemy and engaged them as best they could.

With every stroke another orc was forcefully brought down by the skilled Elves, with every stroke they were slowly brought closer to escape.

[Alaksoron]

The whistling of arrows broke the eerie silence of the clearing. Osric's sword was in his hand in an instant, parrying arrows as he urged his mount forward with the rest of the group. He had just time to see Thoronmir's mount crumple beneath him, pincushioned, before a large orc with a curving dagger and a shield the size of a table tackled Osric from Shadow's back. Osric hit the ground with the incredible weight of the Orc atop him, knocking the wind out of him. They wrestled on the ground for a moment before one of Osric's knives found it's home in the foul creature's soft underbelly.

Throwing the creature off of him easily, Osric scrambled to his feet. An impossibly huge orc wielding an S-shaped sword the size of a door loomed up before him, snarling. Osric drove his sword through the heart and the tip come out his back. Drawing his sword out, he swiftly decapitated another Orc. Osric found himself beside Tarando and Thoronmir, who had an arrow in his arm. "He's good, up there with the bow." Thoronmir gestured to a tall Orc atop the hill. Without a word, Tarando and Osric set off at a run.

One of the Orc's arrows struck Tarando, knocking him down, but Osric was focused on his prey. He ran forward, faster than he had ever run before, intent on killing the Orc which wreaked such havoc. There was a sharp pain as one of the arrows crashed into Osric's leg just below the knee. Roaring in agony, Osric staggered the last few yards to stand before his enemy. With one clean slash he split the bow in half with his sword. Summoning his strength, he drove his fist into the Orc's face.

[Kransha]

Kransha wasn’t exactly used to pain. It had been a long time, perhaps too long, since the flames of physical distress had burned him. With a muted grunt, he swayed and lurched backward, feeling, and hearing, a sickly crunch of bone when a white-knuckled fist bashed his jaw. His jowls contorted irately as the orc staggered, and he let go of the shattered remnants of his bow, drawing both clawed hands to his face. Blood, sable and viscous, coursed over the backs of his hands, wound rivers down his arms, and dripped onto the trampled grass below, but Kransha sucked in the unwholesome substance and looked up just in time to see another fist coming at him, with the fire of a Man of Éothéod unwavering behind it. But, the orc, despite his wound, his loss of armament, and his severe disorientation, was ready for the blow as it came.

His bloodstained hand shot forward and up, the unclipped talons jutting from his bony fingers curling, vicious as the teeth of a wolf and closing. As the closed fist surged, Kransha’s cold digits closed, locking around the hand of the Rohirrim. Their came a stifled cry from the man, that would’ve have been a full-fledged scream of pain from any man who had not been trained as a warrior. Groaning as the fingers constricted, The Rohirrim fell to his knees, weakened by the wound to his leg and the hold on his hand. Kransha, his bloody mouth worming its way into an ignoble grin, wrenched the hand and arm back, twisting it about, but the Rohirrim did not react this time. Kransha’s meager tuft of an eyebrow arched curiously, but did not realize the reason for this lack of response until it was almost too late. From beneath the hunched over form, an arm bearing a sword shot out, thrusting swiftly at the orc’s chest. Kransha barely had the quickness in him to maneuver sideways and grab the wrist of the offending arm, pulling to aside to deject the blade. The Rohirrim, ignoring pain in hand and leg, struggled to his feet and pushed forward, forcing Kransha backward along the hillside at gaining speed until the two, still grappling, fell to the earth and rolled down the slope.

The two, caught in a wrestling match on the ground, crashed through shallow brakes as they tumbled onto level terrain. Locked together, they kicked at each other madly, but could not break free of their hold on each other. At last, a swift head-butt from the Rohirrim dislodged Kransha. Losing his grip, the uruk fell from his quarry, and slid into the grass, throwing himself up as soon as his legs would allow. He shook his head fiercely, effacing the numbness that diffused through his half-cracked skull. Thankfully, the orc’s bald cranium was brazen in its hardness, and he quickly recovered. Now, his hands each moved to his flanks, and from the taut belt that was wrapped around his waste he drew two blades, each of different size and type: one a scimitar-like weapon, curved and elegant, in an orcish way, the other a jagged knife, shorter and more vulgar, but just as deadly to the touch. Baring his teeth and clasping the pair of blades, Kransha plunged at the Rohirrim as he got to his feet. The orc’s first attack was blocked with a curt maneuver when the Rohirrim simply arced his blade upward, knocking the two knives away. Unfazed, Kransha swung again, and this time the jagged rungs of his knife latched onto the man’s flailing sword. The man tugged at his weapon, yanking Kransha forward so much that he did not gain the needed momentum to attack efficiently with his other knife. Again, the two found themselves locked, but standing this time. Each pull, each subtle tug carried the two about in circles and loops, but Kransha gained the upper hand and thrust his knife away from the sword of the man of Rohan as he turned again.

The effect of this tactic was both good and bad. The force of it was so great that Kransha lost his hold on his own blade, and the knife was propelled out of his sweat-soaked palm, but it also pulled the Rohirrim’s sword from him. Both weapons flew up and, still melded together as one, skidded to the ground just beneath one of the two remaining stone trolls. The Rohirrim, without hesitation, sprinted towards his needed sword where it lay beneath the troll. Kransha turned and tried to pounce upon him, but there was great strength in him, even as his leg leaked blood onto the grass, and Kransha could not catch up until the two of them had dashed through the battle that raged about them and reached the trolls. The Rohirrim dove and Kransha fell as well upon the lump of earth where the two serpentine weapons lay entangled. Kransha’s knife lanced downward, hoping to impale the wretched man where he landed, but the Rohirrim’s hand grabbed his sword and extricated it from the teeth of Kransha’s dagger, flinging himself sideways so that the iron tongue of the orc found only dirt to slay. Roaring with hellish fury, the orc turned on his knee, pulling up the blade in his position and taking his abandoned one from its bed beneath the troll, but he could not attack. The Rohirrim was already upon him.

Kransha pitched backward as a mad slash lopped at the air a hair’s breadth short of his throat. He found himself backed up against the creased leg and knee of the stone troll, who stood oblivious to all that occurred around him. Seeing, at that time, no other solution, Kransha laced his gangly arm around the solidified limb and swung himself backwards and around, pivoting onto the immobilized creature. He pulled his lightweight form onto the troll’s waist and balanced behind its leg as the sword of the Rohirrim jetted forward. The cold steel did not find Kransha, but it found the stone troll’s leg and speared through it, the very tip bursting out of the other side where Kransha was precariously balanced. The tip found the orc’s flesh, and penetrated, making a shallow stab wound in his stomach. With no more than an annoyed grunt, the orc fell from his perch, but as he lurched upward, he saw the man trying, very unsuccessfully, to remove his sword: it was stuck in the stone troll’s leg. Grinning, Kransha pounced, dismissing the pain from his injury, and struck the Rohirrim full in the face with the hilt of his knife. The man fell back, away from his sword, and the orc took this as his chance. Snaking around the stone troll, he swung his longer scimitar into a downward position and arched it down upon the Rohirrim foe…

But the blow never found its mark.

Kransha’s gaze was averted by a noise as his knife plunged. A troll, huge and galumphing, raucous in his course, suddenly flew between Kransha and his mark. The great, bulky form, danced awkwardly across the land, nearly crushing both combatants beneath it. Kransha did not know where it was going, but he had a feeling it did not know fully either. Either way, the wretched beast forced him to leap back with all his might, so as not to be crushed. As the troll passed, he dragged his terrible weapon behind him lazily, and it bashed against the stone troll who the live one had stumbled past. As the troll continued, reeling and swaying like a drunken man, the inanimate form that hung its side-turned head over Kransha reeled as well, and then its extended arm, already cracked, was marred by a rippling wave of splinters in the rock. The great arm instantly broke from its place at the troll’s shoulder and fell with a resounding thud onto the grass. Barely seconds later, the weakened figure, its foundations all but gone, quivered and sprawled face down on the field with a thunderous crash, sending up a geyser of dust and dirt that shot up, spraying the combatants, and several others nearby, with debris and a smoggy cloud that billowed over the terrain before promptly wafting up and away.

When the dust settled, Kransha looked up to see only one stone troll remaining, of the three that had been there before. He looked around, almost frantic, for his foe, but saw no Rohirrim amongst the crumbled boulders and shards of rock. The Rohirrim might have been crushed by the stone troll colossus, but Kransha doubted it – he knew better. Spitting darkly onto the wreck, he turned away and searched for new quarry, scanning the field, and poking carelessly at the bleeding hole in his stomach.

[Primrose Bolger]

Harry tried to stand. He shoved himself up on one arm and rolled up onto his good leg. He chanced a glance behind him; the puny man who’d stuck him in his knee lay on the ground. Breathing still, unfortunately, he noted, but looking quite the worse for wear. Grunting, Harry pushed himself up on his unaffected limb. ‘Ten steps,’ he thought to himself, ‘and I’ll pound that Tark into worm food. He lurched forward three steps, dragging his wounded leg behind him. The battle swarmed around him . . . and unfortunately in front of him. A group of Orcs, all armed with metal tipped lances, swarmed across his path as he took another step forward. He growled at them, swatting at them with his mighty arm. In a rage, they shook their staves at him, swirling round him closer and closer.

Those behind the Troll prodded him with the sharp tips of their lances, enraging him further. He brought his arm round with a roar, intending to drive them away. But with only one leg to balance on, he toppled over, falling face forward onto the Orcs. Five were caught beneath his massive bulk. Two of them managed to squirm out from under the fallen Troll, but three were crushed. One unseen outcome from this unfortunate encounter between Troll and Orcs was that several of the Orc lances had been plunged deeply into Harry’s innards as he fell on them.

Grimm and Broga were on the other side of the clearing. The Orcs, it seemed, had incapacitated a number of the men and Elves. Let them finish, thought Grimm. ‘Hey brother, what say we let them Orcs have their fun. Was some stew left, weren’t there? Down by the creek.’ He glanced around, looking for Harry. ‘You seen Harry,’ he asked Broga.

An outraged squeak escaped from Broga. He raised his hand, pointing with a stubby finger toward where Harry lay; the Orc lances sticking out from beneath him, along with a hairy Orc foot or two or three. ‘Them Orcs has gone and done him in!’

The two brothers went lumbering toward their downed relative, knocking Orcs from their path as they went. Two especially pugnacious Orcs rattled their swords, bellowing at the Trolls to move out of their way. Broga knocked them both down with his club. Grimm finished them off as he planted his big foot squarely in each of the Orc backs and stepped down hard, crushing them.

‘Come on, Harry,’ urged Grimm when they reached him. ‘These little toothpicks can’t have done you all that bad.’ The two brothers bent down and pulled Harry up, placing his arm across their shoulders.

‘Boys,’ he wheezed, limping along on his one good leg between his two rescuers, ‘I feel just about done for.’

Grimm, getting a firmer grip on Harry as he hoisted him up just a bit more, shushed the wounded Troll. ‘Save your breath. We’ll have you fixed up in no time. Why a cuppa your stew and them holes in your innards’ll be plugged good as new.’

Harry gazed at Grimm, a spark of hope in his glazed eyes. Broga, seeing the streams of blood oozing from Harry’s wounds, pressed his lips together and said nothing.

[Nuranar]

In the initial charge into the clearing, Luinien's mare had displayed an unexpected belligerence, striking down the first orc in her path. But the creature's weapon nicked her at it fell, she bolted into the trees.

It was only the surprise, however, and the mare responded gradually as Luinien reined her in. Suddenly she twisted and ducked under an small branch. Luinien, concentrating wholly on her mount, never had a chance. It struck her right across the body at shoulder height and knocked her clean off the horse.

For some time Luinien lay flat on her back, gasping, staining to get the air back in her heaving lungs. After some time her eyes focused on the branch above her, still quivering slightly. It was a young branch, she saw; young and supple. If it had been any bigger, I might have broken something, she thought. Or have I? She rolled to her side and used her arms to push herself to a sitting position, then grasped a nearby sapling and stood up. So far, so good, she thought shakily.

Her dizzy gaze steadied and Luinien took one step toward the clearing, now a hundred yards behind. For some reason she glanced back. There was her horse, standing only a little beyond the unlucky branch. The mare took a sheepish step towards her as Luinien turned. "I hope you're ashamed of yourself," she told the mare. Ten seconds later she was riding back to the battle.

The clearing was littered with bodies, mostly orc - she was afraid to look closer - and the fragments of two petrified trolls. Even as she rode up three trolls were lumbering away. But there were still two - two? - and a handful of orcs. Silrûth was still mounted, as was Aidwain. A quick glance spied Veryadan and Thoronmir on the ground, clearly wounded.

"Luinien!" Tarondo was leaning against a tree, barely able to stand. "We need to get out of here!"

She quickly rode to him and slid down. "Where are you hurt?" She tried to make him sit down, but he shook her off.

"An arrow in the leg. I will be all right for now." He lurched away from the tree and grasped the saddle. "If I go get the wounded, can you keep the enemy off with your bow?"

She frowned. "You need help, you cannot help them. Stay here with the bow while I get them."

Tarondo looked at the bow, shook his head. "I can get Andas to help me. He is not hurt. And you were born to use that bow. This is your place, and mine is down there." With a sudden effort he hoisted himself into the saddle. Sitting almost sideways, letting his injured leg hang free, he rode swiftly down into the clearing.

Luinien shouted, gaining the other two Elves' attention, and gestured to her brother. As he and Andas labored to get Thoronmir into the saddle, Silrûth and Aidwain threw themselves upon the remaining orcs. When the two remaining trolls prepared to charge the group, Luinien began shooting at them from the top of the hill. Her position was ideal, commanding the entire area. There had stood the orc who shot both Thoronmir and Tarondo. Great archers think alike.

The Elves were being pressed back when finally Tarondo gave a shout. Three horses, one carrying double, broke for the road, followed by Loudewater's little brown mule. Silrûth and Aidwain were retreating slowly across the clearing, still occupying the dwindling orcs.

By now the Trolls, thoroughly enraged at the persistent little archer, were halfway up the hill. Belatedly realizing that she was about to be left behind, Luinien gave a parting shot and took off diagonally down the hill. Cutting through the trees, she reached the path just as Silrûth and Aidwain made a break for it. Aidwain gave a shout and gestured. As he came by she swung up behind him. Looking back, she saw the orcs give chase, but none raised a bow and they soon vanished around a bend in the path.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater rode silently along side the wounded Thoronmir as killer struggled to match the pace of the ranger's greater steed. The farmer was concened for his friend who was still ghastly pale and alittle wobbly. But at least the poison on the arrow was mild and Thoronmir's condition was not deterioting. The ranger caught Loudewater staring at him and gave the latter a tough man's wry smile.

The battle was going very badly for the investigators and their troublesome guest from Bree, but somehow a dispute between the orcs and trolls arose and that together with the spectacular skill at arms of the two warriors - Aidwain and Silrûth made escape possible - but just barely. Loudewater smiled to himself when he recalled how he nearly turned and struck Thoronmir in the face when he forcibly pryed him off the dead orc - his dead orc.

But the novelty had worn off and now the man from Bree rued that he smelt of dead orc. The dark gooey orcish ichor had also coagulated, staining his brown tunic badly. But compared to the rest of the ocmpany, he was in good shape.

Veryadan was the worst off. He had fought magnificently whilst already badly injured and now his injuries had worsen. Osric was riding on the same mount as him, holding the semi-retired leader of the pack in his firm arms and trying to avoid jolting the saddle as much as possible to reduce any potentially fatal discomfort to his ward. Loudewater feared for the worst.

Tarando was also injured but not as severely as Veryadan. Loudewater suspected that his elven constituent helped for the new leader still rode at the front, upright and alert with his sister Luinien by his side. The air of calmness and self-confidence this warrior of the older race exuded was reassuring.

Menecar was dead and chances were, the orcs were having fun with his corpse now. Loudewater shuddered to imagine that he might one day see the same troop of orcs displaying a pole with the dead ranger's head stuck on top of a pole as some sort of a bizzare trophy.

[Envinyatar]

They had ridden toward the Bruinen all the rest of that day, and through the night. It was a desperate flight with horses and riders exhausted from the pace. Sturdy as he was, Andas’ mule was hard put to keep up with the others. Long before the sun had risen the small group had strung out along the road from fatigue and flagging spirits. Should the enemy come upon them now, they would be easily picked off.

Veryadan rode with Osric; the strength of the man from Rohan’s arms had kept him upright and the sound of the man’s voice speaking low to him as he fought his way back to consciousness swept back the grey veil that had overwhelmed his senses. He was weak, very weak. His thoughts were muzzy as they rode along, and the searing pain where his side had been reopened was so constant now that it, too, proved difficult to think beyond it.

Someone called a halt just as first light broke over the trees that lined the road. The companions gathered, slipping off their mounts gratefully. Their muscles ached from riding; their bellies grumbled as those who had not lost their packs in the battle hauled out dried meat and fruits and skins of water to slake their thirst. It was a small quiet moment that would not last. All too soon, Tarondo was urging them back to their lathered mounts.

Motioning to Luinien, Veryadan gathered his thoughts about him as best he could. Osric had recounted for him the events of the battle. ‘We cannot stand against them another time. The Trolls, I understand, still remain at four, and though we downed a number of the Orcs, still I doubt that was the whole of their host that came against us.’ He drew a ragged breath and jutted his chin toward where the Bruinen lay and Rivendell just beyond it. ‘Send one of the Elves who was not wounded in the last battle to Rivendell for help. Silruth or Aidwain. Their horses are Elven bred and can find the reserves needed to bear their rider in haste.’

Luininen spoke with Tarondo. Aidwain was sent off, his mount’s hooves tearing up the road as he made his way east to the river. ‘Help me up,’ said Veryadan as Osric brought round his horse. The Ranger lurched to his feet, steadied by Osric’s hand. Then, grasping tightly to the horse’s mane, he leveraged himself up once more with a boost up from the other man. ‘We have a good half day ahead of us to reach the ford,’ he heard Osric say as he took his position behind. Veryadan handed him the reins, his own hands holding tight to the edge of the saddle to steady himself. ‘Let us hope we reach the river before darkness falls,’ he heard someone say on a nearby horse as they started off. ‘Let us hope’ the Ranger said quietly to himself, ‘that we reach the river at all.’

[Primrose Bolger]

Harry was dead. Not so much as a bite of stew had passed his lips when he gave a great gurgle, rolled up his eyes, and slumped to his side. ‘Well, that’s it, brother,’ Broga said, giving his cousin a poke with his finger to see if he’d come round at all.

Grimm shook his head. ‘Shouldna happened!’ he rasped out. It was not often that Trolls were bested in battle.

‘Bad luck for our Harry, wasn’t it?’ returned Broga. In Troll fashion he’d already been picking over the few things of interest that the dead Troll had on him – some linked metal chain wrapped about his wrist, shiny once when it was newer; a long sharp knife in a ragged sheath, the handle big enough for a comfortable Troll grip; and there, by the now congealing pot of stew, a lovely metal stirring spoon, heavy, long-handled, serviceable as both weapon and cooking utensil. Broga tucked it in his belt, or rather in Harry’s belt which he’d acquired for himself. He heard Grimm muttering near him and a brief moment of guilt assailed him. ‘Here,’ he said, offering the treasured spoon to his brother. ‘Take it if you like. And quit yer muttering. I didn’t mean to edge you out of what there was. G’wan now. Take it.’ He held out the spoon to Grimm.

‘It ain’t about the spoon,’ Grimm said, pushing it away. ‘And it weren’t bad luck what done Harry in.’ His eyes narrowed and he spit a great gobbet on the ground as if to rid himself of something nasty tasting. ‘It were them Elves and tarks – pokin’ their noses in our business. It’s them what started it. But stone and bone, it was them dumb as sheep Orcs what made the final blow. We was on their side, and they turned on Harry.’ He snorted. ‘They shoulda let us pound them others when we had the chance.’

‘Never liked them Orcs all that much, anyways,’ nodded Broga. ‘Though they was good at finding gold and such.’ The dislike of Elves and Rangers was a given, not requiring a comment.

‘Well, I say we thump ‘em all, brother,’ said Grimm, a feral look lighting his eyes. For emphasis, he drew his hammer from his belt and whacked it down hard on the ground, startling a small group of crows who were beginning to take charge of the downed Troll. The crows rose up in a black cloud, cawing their displeasure. Broga looked up at them then turned to his brother with a questioning look on his face. ‘How we going to do that, Grimm. We been left behind. They all moved on – man, Elf, and Orc.’

‘Run, brother!’ Grimm took off eastward, motioning for Broga to follow along.

The endurance of Trolls is legendary. They ran at a steady pace, their long strides eating up the miles. The men and Elves would head for the shallows that crossed the river on the border of the Elven land. The Orcs, they reckoned, would want to catch them before they stepped foot in that foul Elf place. Too dangerous by half, those hard-eyed Elves and their nasty bows. The Trolls kept north of the road, running through the familiar hills and forested tracks. It was nearing evening when the saw the river through the trees. A wide band of shining silver, the last light of the sun over the tree tops glinting off it. A small thicket of poplar and scrubby bush afforded them a vantage point to the north of the ford. They would see whichever group came first. Plenty of fist sized rocks were scattered about, handy for hurling.

Grimm and Broga hunkered down, their eyes peering through the tangle of leaves. Broga’s thick club was in his right hand, thumping softly against the hard palm of his left . . . waiting . . .

‘You know,’ he whispered, nudging Grimm on the arm. ‘I been doin some thinking while we ran.’ Grimm looked at him in surprise, wondering what his brother had come up with. ‘That north place was big enough. No reason we can’t take over some of it for our own. Let them Orcs do their own work.’

Grimm chuckled low. ‘That’s my brother!’ He rubbed the side of jaw as a thought came to him. ‘Wonder if old Arald and his brother might want to get in on it? We’ll have to see once we get this here over and done with.’

The distant sounds of some group moving through the trees as they approached the wide bank of the river silenced the two Trolls. They waited to see which group would come first . . .

[Meneltarmacil]

They had ridden hard for the last couple of days, and Thoronmir was barely hanging on. The poison was weakening him slowly, although the ranger was trying not to notice it. Menecar, his companion and admirer of many years, was now dead and the grief weakened Thoronmir much more than the poison ever could. Riding Menecar's horse since Thoronmir's own had fallen, it was all the ranger could do to keep going. Andas Loudewater kept talking to Thoronmir whenever the ranger was straying into unconsciousness so as to keep him awake.

They crossed several hills and valleys and passed a number of streams, but no orcs or trolls had appeared. Nevertheless, Thoronmir knew they were out there. After a while, they drew near the Ford of Bruinen and Thoronmir grew more hopeful. Rivendell was not far away. However, Thoronmir could swear he had heard some kind of large crashing noise not too far away...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The last days had become something of a blur to Arrald -- for Dim, they were more of an opaque haze through which he could no longer see without squinting. The fighting had been good, and the running, but the plans and the plots. . .these were all too much for him. Arrald was little better off. He had, at first, tried to keep up with the developments, but it had proven beyond him. All he clung to know was what he'd been told by the orcs who'd been sent to them by that orky chieftan, the Big One now in charge. "Wait here," they'd said, "and crush whoever comes down that road!"

This was easy enough, and so they sat and waited. Arrald could smell Broga and Grimm somewhere about but he didn't care to speak with them. In the last battle, they'd been of little enough use to him when that Elfy girlie had come at him so hard with her nasty arrows, and he wasn't about to forget or forgive that. He rubbed the wounds in his behind and shifted once more to make himself comfortable. No matter what else happened this day, he would crush that Elf. . .

"Brother," Dim said beside him.

"What!" Arrald was brittle with anger and the desire to kill, and in no mood to answer his brother's questions. Dim seemed not to notice.

"I'm not so sure brother that this is going to work out for us."

This caught Arrald's attention. "What do you mean?" He glared at his brother. "We'll rip these nasty creatures to pieces and then we can get out of this cursed Elvish land and go back to our nice cave. Oh, I do hope that the wolves haven't got to that last nice piece of mutton as we stored away in the back."

"It will have gone all rancid now, brother. We'll have to cook it extra long to burn out the rot, and maybe flavour it with sommat from the ground."

Arrald made a face. "You eat nasty plants that grow in the dirt. I'll sticks to mutton. The rot is what gives it flavour after all."

They were silent for a time with the hunger. Dim spoke again. "But like I said, brother, I do hope we can get back to that mutton. I have an odd fear of what's going to happen to us. Twice now we've gone after those invaders and twice we got a bit worse than we gave. If we really go at them a third time like the orcky's say. . .well. . ."

"Well what?" Arrald barked.

"Well, I don't know as we'll be able to enjoy that mutton." Arrald no longer seemed to be listening to his brother. He was staring hard down the Road, his nostrils flaring wide with the scent of approaching prey. "Brother," Dim began again. "If we don't make it back to our cave, I'd just like to say. . ."

"Sssh!" Arrald hissed between his teeth. He pointed toward the Road with his club. "They're coming!"

[Nuranar]

The road ran steadily downhill, but their horses were stumbling with weariness. Tarondo and Luinien both rode on Menecar's big horse. Luinien's mare bore Thoronmir, picking her way delicately down the path to spare the wounded Ranger. Silrûth, inscrutable and implacable, brought up the rear.

Tarondo knew that the enemy was not done yet. As they drew nearer to the Ford without seeing hide nor hair of orc or troll, his certainty grew. The blow would fall just before the Ford.

Red rock walls soared up on either side of them. They were in the cutting, scarcely a mile from the river. Tarondo turned his head slightly, caught Luinien's eye. She nodded. They were ready.

When they rode out of the cutting, there was the river. And running down from the north were orcs, trying to cut them off.

"Ride! Ride now!" Tarondo shouted. "Get across the Ford!" Spurring their horses, they managed a wavering canter. The orcs were mobbing right across the way, but more and more were joining them... Tarondo's eyes followed the stream of them to the left, fixed on the one figure not running. "There's the leader! Can you get him?" he called back to his sister. She shouted something, but he couldn't hear, shook his head. They were virtually on top of the orcs now.

Suddenly the pressure of her hands disappeared from his waist. Even as he turned his head he knew what he would see: Luinien was rolling to her feet, drawing back her bow, aiming at the leader, as he had asked. Just that One glance, then his sword was in his hand and he was plunged into the skirmish.

Luinien could shoot from horseback. She had seen the head orc, calculated the shot, and rejected the chances even before Tarondo had finished speaking. The only way to make it would be from the ground. Some movement to her right meant the orcs had spotted her, but Luinien ignored them and took careful aim.

The orc should had frozen, then fallen with the arrow in its throat. Instead, it made two quick movements: One, a half-step of irritation at a fool who couldn't understand directions, and two, a jerky spin as the arrow drove into the muscle of its arm.

Luinien exclaimed sharply in disgust. As she drew her bow again, a blur thundered by in a cloud of dust - Silrûth on Falma! Luinien shifted position, trying to keep the Elf out of her line of sight. A flicker of motion at the corner of her eye - the orcs! She whirled and released.

The ear-splitting bellow that followed belonged to no orc. Luinien stepped back. "Not again!" she moaned. Two trolls - the same two trolls? - were lumbering toward her, one limping with her arrow in its thigh. She fitted another arrow to the string, alternately rejoicing that she had the foresight to count her arrows and deploring that she had so few. It would take more than six arrows to bring down two trolls.

Luinien hit the first one again, in the same place, trying to cripple it. But they still moved fast. It was like a desperate game: the Elf shooting, then scrambling away, having to keep far enough ahead to aim properly. It was hard enough without trying to work back to the Ford, closer to the rest of her companions. After her last arrow, she would have only her dirk. And what if there were no companions left?

It took three precious arrows to bring the first to the ground. Even then the brute was up again, dragging its leg, falling, but always coming on. She tried for the throat on the second, but twice her shots only pierced shoulder and back muscle. Bow drawn, last arrow, she waited. It charged down on her, raised its club, and she shot. Nearly straight up, into the hollow between the collarbone.

The troll's body stiffened in the midst of its charge. Momentum carried the huge bulk over, and one of the legs sent Luinien sprawling as she tried to get out of the way. Gasping, she looked up into the vicious beady eyes of the second troll, reaching for her. Rolling away, she drew her dirk and slashed at its grasping, rock-hard fist. The troll roared and jerked back, then swiped at her, claws extended.

The huge fingers caught her around the back, flung her aside. Luinien slammed into the uneven end of a flood-deposited boulder, heard - or felt - a snap. The shock of the impact blurred all sensations together...

Menecar's horse had gone down fighting. Tarondo's bad leg had collapsed when he first tried to stand on it, but Osric had covered him. Then the two fought together, back to back. Tarondo had no idea where anyone else was, and he had no chance to look. He did not think anyone had made it over the Ford.

For some reason Luinien's cry, barely audible above the din, penetrated to his consciousness. He shot a sudden agonized glance back up the road; no Luinien, but the looming bulk of the troll was enough.

With a sudden attack he drove through the ring of orcs, hewing down those who did not clear. Tarondo saw the troll sweep his sister onto the rocks. He covered the last few yards at a dead run.

The troll did not want to be any nearer the biting little blade. It found a nice rock and raised it over its head.

Tarondo's sword sliced straight through the tough muscles on the back of its leg. As it fell the troll roared, dropping the stone. It tried to lunge for its new opponent but toppled on its face, hamstrung. As it struggled to raise itself, Tarondo leaped up on its back and stabbed it in the base of the skull.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater got off the gravelly path bruised and sore. The second ambush had unnerved poor Killer so badly that it reared, threw his master of its back and bolted in the direction of the fords in blind terror. Poor simple beast never made it – cruel orcish barbs founded their mark in Killer’s girth and the mule crashed and tumbled into the side hedges with a sickening thud.

Loudewater grimaced with pain as he attempted to get on his feet when a humongous troll killed by Luinien crashed onto the ground not far from where the farmer was, earth shaking tremors sending the loose-limbed farmer sprawling again. Loudewater cursed at himself and at generally anything that came to his mind. The day was turning out to be more interesting than he had hoped for.

Loudewater got up again in even greater pain and was rewarded with the view of a miserable-looking orc standing before him. The orc seemed to be a little smaller and bent with age than those that Loudewater have seen before. It’s grey skin was incredibly wrinkled and spotted with blemishes and molds. Unkempt patches of grayish white hair dotted its head and the thing seemed to be missing teeth – lots of them.

Loudewater never knew that orcs could look so old or rather, could live this long.

The wizened old thing appeared to be mesmerized by the bloodshed and chaos going on around it that it did not notice the farmer from Bree until the moment the latter got up. Shrieking with surprise, it spun to face him brandishing a pathetic looking scimitar that has seen much better days. The beast’s movement was not fluid and it appeared to be extremely hestitant and uncomfortable confronting a foe of another race.

For his part Loudewater was in no mood to fight any way. The novelty of killing died soon after the battle of the Trollshaws and as of then, the dirty and tired farmer simply wanted to make his way to the fabled dwelling of the elves in one piece as soon as possible. A combat was not high on his list of things to do. Nevertheless Loudewater introduced the orc to his own dagger.

Both gladiators stood facing in crouched positions waiting to pounce on the other as soon as one made the wrong move, but as both combatants were so reluctant to fight (one was unused to using its brawn than its brains and the other was just to dogged tired), both simply stood at their spots not moving.

This is ridiculous… Thought Loudewater as he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. The tensed orc yelped and readied itself, mistaking that the farmer was about to make his move. Loudewater could clearly see that his opponent was just as unwilling to fight he was. It seemed that a compromise could be reached. Loudewater tried,

“Hey you!”

The nervous yellow eyes continued to stare in attention.

“Do you understand what I’m saying buddy?”

The orc gave a sharp quick nod of its head which surprised Loudewater. Whoever thought parleying with an orc was possible?

“Look here, you don’t want to fight me and I don’t want to fight you either. So let’s just call it quits. I am going to count to three… Do you understand one, two, three? Good! And we are going to step back slowly and turn away from each other. Understand?”

Intelligent eyes continued to stare at loudewater intently even though the orc nodded his head quickly, almost eagerly even.

“Good, one…” begun Loudewater as he started to countdown. But even then the orc was starting to retreat. It did not really bother Loudewater that his opposite was not adhering to the stipulated terms of agreement – the faster he was rid of it, the better.

“Two…”

Just then the huge troll slain by Tarando crashed onto the ground and its huge wooden club bounced and ricocheted across the battlefield. Young and nimble orcs leapt out of its way as if they were engaged in a game of “dodge that club” and the huge heavy weapon continued its path straight towards the old orc who was so focused on Loudewater that it failed to see it coming. The club smashed into the wretched creature and took it along for the rest of its journey, leaving behind a trail of black orc ichor and bits and pieces of bewildered orc.

Loudewater raised a surprised eyebrow to the unexpected freak occurrence.

[Primrose Bolger]

Look just like ants, don’t they?’ whispered Broga, watching the Orcs pour in to battle the men and Elves. Grimm grunted and rose to his feet, motioning for his brother to follow along. He had spotted a likely looking target – two men on a horse and one looked wounded, from the way the man behind him held him upright with one arm.

The wounded man’s companion spoke a few words in the other’s ear. The wounded man, bending low over his horse’s neck wrapped his fists tightly in the mane. The other man had gotten down from the horse and given the beast a whack on the hindquarters, sending it flying through the melee of blades and clubs, toward the water. On foot, now, the man had drawn his blade and now stood back to back with one of the Elves. Orcs ran, tripping over the fallen of their own number, after the wounded man on the horse.

‘That’s our prize!’ cried Broga. ‘I want that horsey for supper, I do!’ He galumphed after the Orcs, scattering them right and left as he swung his club.

Grimm left his brother to the crunching and crushing of Orc bones and ran after the escaping horse and rider . . .

[Alaksoron]

Osric stood back to back with Tarando, fighting off Orcs and covering each other. A troll lumbered into the battle, and then another, but Osric was quite busy with the Orcs. Tarando dashed off as a troll attacked Luinien, carving his way through the impeding Orcs.

Orc's fell left and right from Osric's blade, and corpses soon began to pile up in a circle around the thin Rohirrim man. Concentrating, he thought of nothing but killing. This was a much larger force than they had encountered before. The sword might as well have been part of his hand.

Osric noticed two more trolls appear. And he noticed something else. Orcs were beginning to avoid him. Good.

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir was in no condition to fight, yet he had to try nevertheless. The ranger rode into battle, but stayed mostly on the outskirts with his bow, firing from a distance at the orcs, whose numbers were too great for the weakened ranger's arrows to do much good, even though he must have slain at least three. As he saw the trolls coming, he knew that this was not going to be good. The orcs had rallied around their leader, who appeared to be wounded but not injured.

Thoronmir would not die without finishing what he had set out to do. He fitted an arrow to his bow and urged Luinen's steed forward. The orcs' arrows flew around him and blades nearly chopped his head off, but Thoronmir kept coming, too fast for the orcs to do enough damage. He released his bow at point-blank range, and knew the arrow had hit the mark. The orcs' leader had taken it and was now gasping for breath. Thoronmir's task was done. Suddenly, though, a large club knocked him out of the saddle onto the ground. He tried to fight, but the world was now swimming around him. He was losing consciousness.

[Kransha]

Gráthgrob was dead, or rather; he had disappeared into the fray, and came out a pile of orc body parts thanks to an ill-aimed troll club. Bâzzog was now doubly injured, with two arrows in him as he charged. He’d fallen, but persevered as a proper; brute of an orc ought to, and continued to saunter, at a less sprightly pace, forward, towards the thinly-spread ranks of the enemy. He was lumbering about, almost drunkenly, with a disorderly entourage bumbling over the earth in front of and behind him. He managed to yank out one of the two offending arrows, but got no farther than that before he was again engaged, this time by a She-elf from afar. In the midst of the muddle of battle, Bâzzog was lost to the orcs, assimilated onto the other side of the field. Many continued to doggedly believe that he would be victorious, but he was too far from his own troops, and was already gravely wounded. He was no match for Elf-kind, not that day. So, it was not a great surprise to anyone when his severed head, mouth hanging limply open and his blackened tongue lolling out, was discovered in a shallow ditch later.

From that point forward, Bâzzog’s personal battles were his own business. Kransha, as usual, was scoping out the field, in disarray, searching for a target, a mark, or anything he could shoot. With both Gráthgrob and Búbkûr dead, the orcs had become confused over time, and some were routing, but the heavy numbers involved were still able to overwhelm the opponents, despite all their hacking and slashing and erroneous combat techniques. Kransha himself, one eye pursed and the other squinting delicately, meandered in a careless fashion, his fingers tightly constricting around the cold wood of his bow and the bolt fitted to it. He tried to hone in on an adequate target, but the plane as it sloped into the river was clouded with battle’s mists. He had managed to salvage a bow from the last skirmish, though it was not as proficient as his last, and he was not yet accustomed to it. He would have to find a close target, one who was not moving too fast, too nimbly, or too erratically. At long last, he found one.

The gangly orc recognized this one. It was the leader, probably, who he’d put an arrow into at the Battle of the Stone Trolls. He could only reckon that the man he saw was the leader, out of his complex figuring over the length of several minor skirmishes. The fellow had a commanding air in him, not one of a grand general, but of a captain of men all the same, and struck Kransha as the sort of man who might lead an expedition of sorts. Squinting further, Kransha leveled the jagged shaft balanced on his hand and nocked to the bow at the unnamed man, searching for precision and the perfect moment, waiting with distinguishable orcish patience for him to be completely vulnerable. Suddenly, the man’s eyes fell upon him, and widened momentarily as he continued to rage through orcish lines. Realizing that he had no time to spare for aim or concentration, Kransha loosed the bolt from his bow. It soared, like an aimless shaft of light, or dark, over orc heads and at the man. But, the enemy leader was quicker than Kransha had assumed, and Kransha’s aim with the new bow was flawed. The shaft nearly fell short, and the man simply had to maneuver lithely to his side and break into a mad dash towards the opposing orc. Kransha now knew he could not fire again, for the time it would take for such a motion could dearly cost him. Somewhat dejected, his dropped his empty bow to the ground and ripped out his two red-stained blades, not hesitating to shoot off from the ground in a head-on sprint.

He charged, and the two collided at a central point between them, frantically flurrying their blades. The force of the first collision threw both combatants back, and they staggered for a fleeting second, before Kransha lunged. As he fell on his prey, the man dodged again, swinging his leg and shoulder about to the side so that the orc pouncing fell instead upon rocky ground. As quickly as his skeletal pair of legs could carry him, Kransha flung himself back as the man’s sword pierced the earth three times in succession, drawing nearer to him each time, but never reaching the orc form, since he leapt out of the sword’s stinging path each time. After the third mighty swing, Kransha stabbed forward, but his blade was knocked aside and retaliated to with another series of flourishing arcs by the enemy sword, one of which cut a swath through Kransha’s shoulder. The orc grunted, a bubble of bracken blood bursting from his lips as thin rivers of reddish-black welled up and ran down over the orc’s chest. Only annoyed, Kransha picked up the pace, his efficient movements turning to a hammering rain of heavy bashes dealt onto the man. The enemy parried, but could not dodge around the assailing orcs, and was forced to take each maneuver on the chin, almost literally. He backed up, towards the river’s immediate banks and past orc, man, and elf alike as they tore about the field.

The battle between the two quickly grew harsher, and both poured a greater well of their energy into it, each sustaining wounds that grew heavier in weight and number as time passed. Kransha was stabbed twice in one arm, and was dealt a great wound to his hip. The muscle burst and blood coursed over his flesh and leg, causing his steady, swift movements to become ragged and disconnected as it became harder for him to stand. One of his arms swung, more disjointed, and his grip on that arm’s weapon was loosened by a foul mixture of sweat that secreted his rough palm and warm blood that now covered his hand. The orc was the very model of bloodshed, a portrait of battle’s wrath as he became himself more erratic and less connected with his usual profound tactics. The man, on the other hand, was bashed about himself a great deal. Bruises and stab wounds soon found a home on him, the brunt of a punch from Kransha’s steely hilt gave the man a great wound on his forehead, which pulsed with painful energies and caused the man to slow his pace as well, his senses swimming and his agility dulling. Still, though, both warriors were equal in their combat.

That situation was abruptly ended when Kransha got the upper hand. One arm’s limpness could be used to an advantageous end, as he discovered. Numbness has distilled in his limb, but it was now unfeeling, and so he had leeway to flail it madly, without fearing for his arm’s safety. Several times, the arm itself struck the man, dealing him bruises, but also several times did the blade, practically hanging from the arm’s stiff fingers, slash across the man’s chest, drawing more thick blood. With a groan of stifled pain, the man collapsed backward; onto the hard ground, clutching at his wounds were they lay and his sword fell ignobly to his side. Kransha, not even able to comprehend the fact that he might, in truth, win, bore up both his blades into his hands, aiming down at the man, and plunged them down, ready to impale the fallen figure and nail him to the ground. Both of his weapons fell simultaneously, shooting downward, but the flesh they yearned for was not found.

The man beneath him, ignoring his wounds, sprung upon his legs and rolled again, pulling himself away from Kransha’s falling weapons. Just as they had before, the pair of long knives dug into the dirt instead of into man-flesh. Kransha did not notice until he heard a vague windy whistling from the patch of earth to his side, letting his grip on both weapons slip away, and his dangling arms, numb and useless through and through, fall to his side. He turned, half in awe, half in confusion, and half in anger, to see the man swinging his sword in a huge arc. The blade flew like a warm summer gust of air on a cold day, and then rested, hovering in mid-air, opposite of where it had begun.

At first, both warriors were breathing hard, standing stock still in their places. A second after that, Kransha’s chest stopped heaving, and then drifted away from the point beneath it. Slowly, the orcs upper half fell away, and all of Kransha above the torso clattered noisily onto the ground. After the passing of a moment, his two legs had crumbled in the opposite direction. The man did not linger over his kill, and quickly leapt over the two halves of the orcish whole, not tarrying to aid those who followed him...

The orcs were now in full disarray...

[Esgallhugwen]

Silrûth had purposely lagged behind in order to prevent the Orcs from gaining too much of an advantage if they were to come from the rear. But that wasn't the case and as they rode on she became all the more suspicious and cautious of the foreboding in her mind.

The red rock walls rose up to meet them she was reminded of the sun before they left Bree, she was reminded of blood.

To the North they came, a filthly current that contrasted too sharply with the glimmering silver river.

With the reflexes only capable in an Elf she nocked an arrow and drove her heels into her horse sending the mare head long into the fray. With a speedy delivery the golden arrow found its resting place in the forehead of an Orc that dared to get too close to Luinen.

Falma's hooves thundered across the ground crushing one or two Orcs not nimble enough to get out of the way. Her target was chosen and she would not relent.

An arrow already stinging him thanks to Luinen, the thick black ooze known as Orc blood was trickling down his dark hairy arm. Quickly taking preference over her bow she grasped the handle of her sword.

Unsheathing it from the leather scabbard she swung fair enough at the squinting black creature only to come up short scalping him instead. The Leader yowled out in anguish clasping at his head, but he soon was overcome with rage snarling and spitting at her.

The black blood was dripping into his ferocious yellow eyes, he knashed his teeth and swore at her in his inaudible tongue. He made a daring slash which barely grazed her leather boot, she took her foot from the stirrup and knocked him in the head with a swift kick to the jaw.

He was sent reeling, but sadly Silrûth's luck was not meant to hold out, an Orc arrow had found its way into Falma's right flank, the horse screamed and reared unexpectantly. Silrûth toppled from her mount, Falma raced off towards the Ford after Veryadan.

She cursed to herself as she steadied her legs preparing for foot combat. The Orc smiled fearlessly, "so the little She-Elfie has gone and lost her horsey", he glared at her the blood tinting his yellow eyes.

They ran at each other simultaneously effectively countering eachothers blows. But as she sliced open his left arm, he struck her just above the hip on the right, Silrûth grunted in pain, the wound was not life threatening but it stung badly.

Her left hand quickly covered the wound trying to stifle the bleeding. For her brief moment of bewilderment had passed a second arrow was now protruding from the orcs rib cage, her eyes widened in disbelief as she caught sight of Thoronmir.

He was soon dislodged from the saddle by the heavy swing of an oncoming Troll. She cried out but was tackled to the ground by the gasping Orc.

He grabbed her by the hair and started to bash her head into the ground, as her vision began to cloud and blur she reached for her boot, and there hidden within it was a cunningly sharp dagger. Silrûth through her dizziness missed his throat and instead penetrated his abdomen.

A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he rolled over onto his side, they both lied there choking for air despite the chaos that swept about them. It was Silrûth who rose first despite her heavy swoon, she wobbled to her feet and gained her balance with the help of her sword.

Unsteadily she suantered over to the heaving Orc and raising her sword, in one swift motion she decapitated him, "too good of a death for you!" she countered before edging off towards where Thoronmir's body lay. Her hope was that a horse would be near by to make a quick escape with Thoronmir's body intact.

Where is the Bree Farmer?

[Saurreg]

Loudewater shoved aside two little orcs and got behind their leader who was about to slay Thoronmir with a skull-crushing blow to the head. Almost without thinking, the farmer drove the tip of his dagger into the base of the orc’s head and twisted it. The orc gave a cry of pain and collapsed dead. But as it fell, the dagger broke and left Loudewater weaponless.

Discarding the useless hilt, Loudewater reached out and grabbed the still body of the ranger and feared the worst, but Thoronmir was still warm and Loudewater could see that he was still breathing weakly. Smiling to himself, Loudewater gently laid the head of the gallant ranger on the ground and borrowed his sword. Drawing the heavy blade out of its scabbard, the farmer turned around and faced the inevitable.

The orcs have regrouped and were encroaching slowly, pointing their sharp weapons menacingly at the odd-looking farmer whilst baring sharp fangs and growling. There was no escape this time– not unless he abandoned Thoronmir, and that was something Andas Loudewater was adamantly set against. He would try and deliver Thoronmir from danger, or die trying.

Just then a silhouette appeared to the left of loudewater’s peripheral, the farmer looked and saw that it was Silrûth, the other female elf. She was also badly injured but still holding her ground defiantly. At least now Loudewater knew he wasn’t alone and he felt his spirits rise a little.

Loudewater shifted his weight and readied himself. Who could have thought that hen-pecked Andas Loudewater from Bree would die fighting orcs, hundread of miles away from home, along side the best fighters of the land.

“If only Helga and Prand could see me now…” He whispered to himself softly.

The enemies drew closer and closer.

[Envinyatar]

There was a fire in his side as he bent over the neck of his mount and clung tightly to the horse’s mane. The wound had completely reopened, he could feel the blood run in thick rivulets down his side. He was dizzy, his thoughts slow. He wound his hands tightly in the mane and focused his mind on a single thought.

Cross the river . . .

His mount flew over the long flat mile that led to the ford. He could hear the sounds of the battle grow dimmer, though he wondered if that were just a trick of his increasingly foggy mind. He groaned as the horse’s hooves struck the uneven ground, jolting him cruelly. The water was near, he could see the silvery band draw closer, the currents splashing against the streambed rocks, sending up small white capped waves and feathery spumes as it beat against the larger rocks.

There was a booming echo that swelled behind him, a rhythmic heavy slapping that trailed in his path. Daring a look behind, Veryadan caught sight of a Troll . . . no two, Trolls hurrying toward the river, hunting, drawing closer with their long strides. Their gazes were on him, great threatening hulking creatures, and he their prey. The horse had already smelled their presence, needing no urging from his rider. His long neck stretched out, nostrils flaring as he galloped into the broad expanse of water; stride impeded only by the height of the river as it hit him well above the knees.

Warily, the Trolls entered the River, their great feet and legs stirring up the waters as they surged forward. With each stride they seemed to gain confidence as they doggedly pursued the Ranger.

The waters grew shallower as the east bank neared. Veryadan felt the quick heave and surge of the horse’s body as it left the river and struggled up onto the stony path. The Ranger clung tighter to the horse’s mane as it climbed the steep bank at the river’s edge. He had made it across the Ford.

At the top of the bank, he halted for a moment, bringing his horse about. Across the river he could still see the Elves, men, and Orcs engaged in the chaotic action of the battle. Closer still were the Trolls which pursued him, they had reached the shallower waters of the east bank. A few more strides and they would be clambering up the bank. Veryadan’s horse was winded; his sides heaving from the exertion of the flight. He could feel the trembling of the creature’s muscles beneath him. Pushing himself up as straight as he could, Veryadan drew his sword, preparing to make once last stand. The faces of the Trolls were now near enough that he could see the leering grins on both their faces.

From behind, the deep cries of some host urged their mounts onward. Veryadan’s heart sank at the prospect of more foe behind. But the looks of surprised dismay, turning to terror, on the faces of the Trolls made him turn his head. And there came Aidwain, spurring his horse toward him, followed by a small company of Elves and Rangers. Fifteen greyed-eyed riders, their weapons already drawn, their faces grim as they looked across the river. One of the Rangers spoke low to Aidwain, who nodded his head in reluctant agreement.

‘Come, Veryadan,’ said the Elf. ‘You are given into my care by your fellow Rangers. Let me lead you to the stone bridge that crosses the upper bend of the river and thereon the short path to The Last Homely House.’ Aidwain reach over to take the reins, but Veryadan waved him away with what strength he could muster. ‘Leave me. I know the way. No foe will pursue me in your wake. Ride to the aid of our other companions.’ He put his hand on the Elf’s arm. ‘The foul Orcs will overwhelm them if you do not reach them soon.’ Aidwain hesitated for a moment, but Veryadan had already begun to urge his mount down the path and away from him.

Aidwain trailed the ten Elves and five Rangers who had already entered to ford and were speeding west across it. The two Trolls who had menaced Veryadan had already run off, their escape taking them down the river to the south and there into the woods that lay along the western bank. No need to pursue them, Aidwain thought. They were running in a panicked manner, away from the battle.

The tide of battle turned as soon as the mounted company of Elves and men burst onto the strand and bore down upon the Orcs . . . blades slashing and deadly arrows finding their marks . .

[Nuranar]

Tarondo's wounds bled freely. The ugly knot on his forehead throbbed with the beating of his heart. Pain shot through him with every move. But as strength drained away, willpower possessed the body. With a terrible, pitiless intent he fought, grim and cold.

There were simply too many orcs. His duel with the orc archer had drawn him apart from his companions. Now the lesser orcs, leaderless and desperate, abandoned order and mobbed them. Parrying, riposting, dodging, lunging at an opening, he had nary a chance to break out. An image of Luinien, crumpled on the rocks where the troll had thrown her, sprang to his mind. He knew not even if she lived.

When the orc in front of him froze in mid-parry, Tarondo lopped its head off. Whirling, he faced the next antagonist, who was - already running? Startled, Tarondo pivoted warily, glanced across the river. Riders! Riders galloping across the Ford, arrows whizzing, blades flashing red in the setting sun. The sudden onset rode down the nearer enemy, while the outliers scattered in terror. Tarondo's heart soared at the sight, and he laughed aloud. Joy's exhilaration sung through his veins.

He ran down to the main body. But the Elves and Rangers knew their work well and needed no help. Swiftly the remaining orcs were dispatched, too slow or too injured to flee. Tarondo halted amid the slain, head whirling. The energy was draining. He could nearly feel it pooling about his feet. The scene seemed distant and dim, lifeless without the bitter struggle of battle. Then he flinched as the pain returned, striking with redoubled force after being forgotten.

Someone grasped his arm, said something, but the words failed to penetrate. Tarondo set his jaw and forcibly cleared the mists in his mind. Still more to be done. No time for palaver. “Most of us are wounded,” he rasped. “Help them to Rivendell, as soon as possible.” Without waiting for an answer he stumbled off to find his sister.

It seemed that she had not moved. He knelt stiffly, dropping his sword, saw the darkly-glimmering dirk ready in her hand. Her serene eyes looked out from a face lined with pain and weariness. “Are we safe?”

“We are safe,” he whispered, stroking her dark hair. “We are safe.”

She sighed, closed her eyes. His eyes slid down her motionless body, saw the right leg twisted beneath the other. “I heard it break,” she said. Tarondo glanced back to her face. Suddenly he saw the rigidness in the calm, saw her will staying the pain that fought to possess her. His mouth twisted in a sudden spasm of grief. Turning away, he called for help.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The moon lit the water when they finally forded the Bruinen. Some of their rescuers had bandaged the most severe wounds, while others quickly made litters for those who could not ride. It was a slow, silent journey, following the path marked by white stones.

When they finally drew up in front of the doors, Elves were waiting to help the weary and the wounded in to care and rest. Tarondo pulled himself together and dismounted. As he clung to the saddle, willing his head to clear, a tall Elf robed in grey stepped forward to meet him. “The Ranger Veryadan arrived here in safety,” she said. “His wounds are grievous, but he will live. We will do all we can for you and your companions. You may rest here as long as you will.”

Tarondo nodded dimly, struggled to form the proper phrases. “Thank you,” he said. “We all thank you for your assistance.” His voice sounded far away, as if it belonged to another person. Someone was standing at the horse's head, ready to take it away. Releasing his grip on the saddle, he stepped back carefully. Slowly he raised his head, as if a great weight was dissipating. He stood motionless, relief washing through him.

Finally he turned to the doors of the house. The darkness seemed to have deepened; perhaps the moon was behind a cloud. The Elf at his side was speaking, but the river had risen and its roar drowned out her words. He took one step into the gloom. It seemed to billow out around him, shrouding him in night and drawing him down into dusky oblivion...

[Envinyatar]

Epilog - a little more than a year after the return to Minas Tirith . . .

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Written this 8th day of Ringarë
Year 21 of this Age of the Kings


A light snow is falling. I can see the small flakes cling desperately, one by one, to the window’s glass. They are brave in their desperateness, but none survive the heat of the brazier that warms the pane even as it passes through it. It is an even battle, I suppose. The snow is undone and the heat in its momentary triumph must be lost itself to the greater cold of winter.

I keep my room warm now; my old scars and broken bones, though healed, protest the cold. Even now, wrapped in a robe of thick northern sheep’s wool, I am forced to hobble slowly like some old man. And with a cane, though the healers say the muscle and bone nicked by the Orc arrow will come round in time. I must say, have grown fond of my cane in a way. Andas sent it from Breeland, with the errand riders who brought back reports from the garrison at Annuminas. Made it himself, he said. The length of it is covered with small carvings of our ‘adventure’ as he terms it – from Weathertop to Minas Tirith. He is a welcome correspondent; seeing his letters makes me chuckle, even before I’ve opened them. His is a unique way of looking at things. His last two letters have made no mention of Helga, and I wonder what is happening in that regard. Best let him get round to it without my prying.

He has seen a few of the other of our companions as they passed through Bree, he’s told me. Osric and Thoronmir, now thankfully healed of all his wounds, ride with the troops the King sent shortly after he’d received our report. The two, with Silruth and Aidwain, had departed from Rivendell in the company of Rangers and Elves, seeking the remnants of those Orcs and Trolls. Now they keep the King’s Peace and a watchful eye on our northern allies. I wish I could write, here, that their only employ was the patrol of untroubled lands. But the shadow, I fear, though diminished in strength still clings to its old ways when and where it can and ever the minds of some men will be bent by the promises it makes.

Often I thank the One that Elessar was brought to the throne, even as I grieve those whose lives were spent to make it so. I only wish that more men were as he; their hearts proof against the darkness.

This will be a short entry, today. I’m finishing up a map of the companion’s journey – from here to Rohan and on to Breeland. The flight to Rivendell and the parting of the company, some back to the western lands, some to Minas Tirith. I’ve made an extra copy for Andas. The first Battle at Amon Sul is marked clearly on it, as is the Battle of Teryggond at the bridge, and the last one at the Ford. I’ve made notes of the man’s bravery in those fights, and signed and marked it with the imprint of my family’s ring. I hope he will be pleased. Errand riders are leaving soon for the northwest; I hope to have it in their hands.

Short, too, is this journal note because I am expecting a much looked for visit from my dear friends this afternoon, Tarondo and Luinien. They have come to celebrate my special day on the morrow.

I am to be wedded . . . 'wedded' . . . a word that for long years would not have entered into my considerations . . .

I know I have written of this earlier, but now I have surrendered my long fought series of skirmishes with my sisters! Almiel and Núneth, having appointed themselves the guardians of my well being since early childhood, have made a match for me. And I must admit they have done well. A gentle lady, with a quiet sense of humor. She has her own interests she announced to me not long after we met; the study of herbs and their histories of use. She wished to make it clear that she would need her own time to pursue this and would I mind. I was delighted, of course. A portion of my time is taken up with my mapmaking, I told her in return. We have spoken of a joint endeavor at some point. A tour of various native haunts of her herbs. She has enjoined me to try my hand at a map for others of her similar interests. I to draw the locations where they might be found with indications of the types of areas; she to illustrate it with the herbs in various stages. It is an interesting consideration. Perhaps we might think of it when winter has passed. It would put a different face on my perspective of the land – a place where things flower and grow in their natural courses; a shift from places of battles and strategic landmarks.

The sun has fallen just below the midday mark. Its pale light now falling at a gentler angle through my window. I’ll finish this now; those other, previous matters are now more urgent. A short note, then, to Andas, and the map will fly north to him. Then I have only to visit the kitchen for somethings tasty to accompany the old bottle of wine set aside for my friends' arrival.

- V –

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Hastily scrawled at the top of a new page . . .

Tomorrow will be another day, but I fear ( no, 'hope' is nearer to the mark) there will be no further entries then or in the following few days if my lady is of like mind as I . . .

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~