The Summons RPG

[piosenniel]

Burzdol’s post

Islist Scorn sat awaiting the next move from his friend, Elleradan, in their game of chess. Suddenly an Elf burst into their tent. The Elf looked very tired as he stumbled in and sat. "Are you Grod Scorn?" the Elf asked, without looking up.

"No, I'm sorry. He's out on a mission, tracking orcs I think. Why?" his son replied.

"Are you his son?" the Elf seemed not to notice his question.

"Yes. Why?" Islist was getting impatient.

"Here, take this." he said handing the Ranger a folded piece of paper.

The ranger started to read:
_____________________________________________

Grod,

I am sending Elven messengers to as many Ranger groups as I can. Aragorn is in trouble, and requests your help. Bring as many men as possible - meet him at Minas Tirith. Come as quickly as you can. This is very rushed, but we don't have much time. The Dark One’s forces are moving closer to ours every second. I have said before that his Eye was on Rivendell, now it's fixed on Gondor. Sadly, if you don't come, Gondor will fall. And much of what is good will fall with it.

Make haste!

Elrond
_____________________________________________

"Let me read that," Elleradan, the other Ranger said, grabbing it. As soon as he had finished, he quickly grabbed paper and quill. The man started to scribble plans, when he finally finished he looked up, satisfied.

The Ranger said, "Islist, here we start out, then to here, across there.......we are going right?"

"Yes! Find men and we'll go."

"Good, so here's the plan."

[piosenniel]

Himaran’s post

Elleraden quickly made revisions to the map. Soon, they had found a route south to Gondor, their ultimate objective. "We had best gather the rangers, and get provisions for the journey."

Islist nodded. "Go and call together any rangers that are at the camp. We march south at dawn."

Sadly, only seven other rangers were left at the camp. When he met him at the tent, Elleraden told Islist of the news. "Well, should we send for other rangers, or do we take only those here?"

[piosenniel]

Maikafanawen's post

Dûrvagor watched the buck make its way carefully towards the stream, its ears pricked for any sound of movement. Hearing none, it dipped its slender neck gracefully and took a drink from the stream. The ranger crept towards it, skillful as a cat, bow and arrow drawn. In a split second he stood and shot the arrow. The twang of the arrow hissed through the air stilling the surroundings.

In that instant the deer morphed into a stunningly beautiful woman with long curly black hair and a slender form. She turned quickly and caught the arrow which turned into a telescope as she held it to her eye. As the tube turned towards Dûrvagor he saw a little boy that resembled the woman before him. He had big blue eyes and dark black hair. The boy was standing barefoot on a ship deck, practicing knots. Then Ravenwyn came over and scooped him up in her arms, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Dûrvagor’s hand went to his own cheek where he suddenly felt her kiss. Then the boy faded and the scene changed.

The ship was docked at the ports at Harlond and Ravenwyn looked sad. The ranger saw a younger version of himself standing with her, saying their goodbyes. He watched solemnly as she walked up the plank onto the ship—it would be three years until he would see her again. And then they would have to decide what to do with their relationship—

The sun peaked the eastern hills, spreading its morning rays over Dûrvagor’s face. The man blinked and sat up. He had fallen asleep in front of the fire—which was now a black patch of burned log—having been too lazy to set up his tent. A group of rangers had just left to track an orc party a bit south of where they were and he had been relieved of duty for a while. He had taken the time to replenish his arrows and mend his cloak and the sole of his right boot.

The day came quickly and he was soon talking with others about things that needed to get done and spent the afternoon hunting. It was a success and he returned to the camp with a fair sized buck and four conies. He was just finishing up his hearty meal when the elf came and entered Islist’s tent. A few minutes later, Elleradan came out calling for the rangers to come hither and listen to what he had to say. His news was troubling, and Dûrvagor had hoped to stay put for a while. However, the honor of aiding Elessar was enough to make him eat his sword. All present volunteered and Islist ventured out, holding a piece of parchment, and addressed them. . .

[piosenniel]

Earendil Halfelven's post

He lay close to the ground, listening. The hoovebeats of a horse came closer. For two days, he had heard the sounds of a rider somewhere out there, but he had never been able to find the rider. Now the rider was coming to him.

Aravir slinked away into the deepening shadows of dusk to await the rider. As the last rays of the sun disappeared, the rider came up over the rise and into Aravir's full view. It was an Elf. The horse was at a slow trot.

He stepped out into the path and called, "Hail, Ellorwen!"

The elf recognized him and smiled while he brought his horse to a stop.

"Hail, Aravir of the Dúnedain. At last, I've found you," he said as he dismounted.

Aravir and Ellorwen shook hands in greeting. Then the elf handed Aravir a message.

"This message comes from Elrond. Aragorn is in need of his kin," the elf said.

"Aragorn!" Aravir replied as he read the message.

To all Dúnedain,
The enemy, Sauron, has arisen again. He has rebuilt his tower in Mordor, and his army makes preparations to assualt Gondor. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is in need of his kin. All Dúnedain that receive this message shall meet near Dol Goldur to make ready to answer Aragorn's call.

Elrond

Aravir folded it back up and returned it to Ellorwen.
"I'm on my way," he said. "May the Valar give you speed on your journey, Ellorwen."

"Thank you, elf friend. May the Valar aid you and the Heir of Isildur in this time of peril." Ellorwen mounted and galloped away.

Aravir looked north towards the Grey mountains. He was in northern Mirkwood on his way into the north on a personal mission. He was going to have to postpone his journey into the Forodwaith. Aragorn needed his help. As the darkness grew deep, he turned southward towards his destiny.
_____________________________________________

It had been two days since Aravir had received the message from Elrond. He had been traveling for two days and two nights and finally he was in sight of the meeting place. He quickened his pace.

[piosenniel]

Helkahothion's post

Bramen was outside his tent, fixing his old boots again. His was slapping the nails in the bottom to support the shoes better as an elf came rushing past. He was curious what his business was here. He finished up his shoe and put it on. It fitted nicely again and he strode over to the tent where the elf had entered.

As he entered, he saw the two boys discussing plans. He left that to them. It was not his cup of tea. He wandered what was going on when he was welcomed inside the tent.

"Come in, we need as many of the rangers as possible." Grod's son beckoned him.
Bramen entered the tent and closed the front behind him. He got the note and read it. Then he re-read it a couple of times and sat down for a while. He looked at the map where all sorts of scribbles where placed. The yellow paper had all kind of small notes and Bramen was surprised to see the cleverness in them. Bramen asked if the route was determent and the boys simultaneously confirmed that bit.

"Good. I will go to my work place and gather some things for down the road. Will you be needing anything?"

[piosenniel]

Nerindel's post

Sorlas sat by the camp fire, Fletching new arrows for his quiver. As he stared at the flames he recounted the events that had brought him here.

It had been a cold night in late september, he and a few other rangers were patroling the boarders of the Shire, when three dark clad riders on black steeds came apon them, knowing what they were and knowing that they were out matched they fled. The Riders persued them east, they some how managed to get to Rivendell and there Elrond told him about the camp in Mirkwood, he wanted to return to the shire, but Elrond assured him that he would be of greater help if he was in Mirkwood.

He was disturbed from his thoughts as his knife slipped and nipped his thumb, he sucked at it for a minute, then went back to Fletching the arrows. He had been here for five months now and he was growing restless, he had heard rumors that the one ring had been found and that the Dark lord searched for it.

Suddenly an exhausted elf stumbled across the camp to Islist's tent. 'I wonder what that is about' he thought to himself as he watched, a few seconds later Elleradan came out of the tent and summoned them to Pack up and join them. ' what could be so urgent that he would summon them at once', he thought to himself as he picked up his fresh arrows and put them into his quiver.He then made his way over to Islist's tent to find out what was going on.

[piosenniel]

GaladrieloftheOlden's post

Herevion lay in a tent near the campfire, stroking his scar delicately with one hardened fingertip, thinking, the warmth coming from nearby almost lulling him into sleep. He could not even remember whether it was night or day, and they felt the same to him in his usual indifferent state. He was merely wondering whether he should leave the camp of Rangers or not, for he, though liking to learn new things, of which there were a-plenty here, wanted to test some of them in action again, for he was young as Rangers go. He pulled his finger from his scar and begna to rub his fingers through the weaving design embossed upon his long silver knife.

Suddenly, he heard voices outside of his tent. He propped himself into a sitting position and then stood up, bending down to get out of the door, for the voices were unmistakably coming in his direction. The messenger outside waved him over. “You have been called to the house of Islist Scorn,” he said, and flicked his hand vaguely in the general direction of it, though Herevion knew very well where the tent lay. He looked at the messenger cooly. “Thank you,” he said, with no emotion showing in his voice but the barest amount of courtesy, and started off towards the larger tent, content not to wonder till he got there.

[piosenniel]

Tarien Ithil's post

The light of midday peeked through the trees.

Rinoas was sitting at the foot of a huge tree. He lit his pipe and took a puff. A perfect ring of smoke sailed into the air and dissolved into nothing.

He heard the other men discussing the journey. An Elf had arrived at the campsite with a piece of rolled parchment.

Aragorn's messenger, thought Rinoas.

[piosenniel]

Arestevana's post

Tarannon II stood with hand on the hilt of the short sword at his waist. His fingers drummed the pommel impatiently. Peering into the leafy darkness of the forest around him, he watched for signs of life. Again he attepted to block out the small noises of the camp several hundred feet away. Unsuccessful, he ventured a few steps forward, trying to shake a growing feeling of uneasiness. He glanced up at the sky, watching a small feather of a cloud skitter across it. He listened to the familiar, if intruding, noises of the camp site...the light steps of his fellow rangers, the crackling of the small fires, small chimes of metal on metal as swordsmen tested their skills. Suddenly the noises changed. A slight decrease in volume, followed by a more substantial increase both in volume and in speed. Tarannon half-turned, hearing voices and movements. He paused, then swung around decisively and headed toward the tents.

Reaching the campsite moments later, Tarannon found it partially disassembled. Listening to the talk around him, he deduced that their assistance in battle was called for. Looking around he caught sight of someone standing at the door to Islist's tent. He looked again. An Elf! Now what's this about? He thought. Edging nearer the tent, he caught a few words from the obviously exhausted messenger. "Lord Aragorn....Pelennor fields....needs your help...." Excitement, a rare if not obsolete emotion in Tarannon, now threatened to overwhelm him. Battle was coming! Battle on the Pelennor fields! He watched as Elleradan joined the messenger at the tent's entrance, the thrill of battle so strong in him that it blocked the man's words, even loud as they were. He did not nedd to hear them to know what they were. Smiling grimly, he reached for his own saddle bags, already packed, and untied his granite-colored stallion. A summons.

[piosenniel]

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[Burzdol]

Islist walked between his horse and his tent, preparing to leave as soon as possible. As he started to add his provision bags, a sound of galloping horses came through the small camp. His father, Grod, and his men were back.

The horses stopped short os Islist's tent. The ranger scanned the horses, his father's was there, but the man himself wasn't. The rangers quickly dismounted and took someone into the hospital tent. He knew who it was, his father. Islist rushed over to see him. Grod lay on a bed, a large sword wound in his left shoulder.

"Father, are you allright? What happened?" Islist asked.

"I'm fine son. Just a little cut on me arm. Nothin' much. So, why you packing?" he said in his usual cheerfu tone.

"Elrond sent a letter, we must go aid the heir, Lord Aragorn. We leave tommorow. I thought you would be able to come after you arrived, guess not."

"Don't worry. As soon as this heals up, I'll bring my party to aid you. You best not waste your time here, you've got to pack. Run along now."

"Heal fast. Goodbye father," with that he left the tent.

He arrived back at his tent and went back to his packing.When he had finished, he walked to the center of the town. As he passed them, he told the members of his party to come with him. Soon they were all there.

Islist jumped on a beer barrel and started, "Every one, we leave at this time tomorow. Actually, meet here at sunset. We shall leave then. Tonight, get every thing packed on your horse, then strip it down. Keep it in a pile inside your tents. Remember how it went on. Tomorow I want you all to rest and say goodbye to the others not coming. You are coming because of your skills and loyalty. We need no other rangers. The ones that have just arrived will come as soon as possible. The time to get more rangers is too great, so we must not try. I expect you all to be on time, and any one who is not is left. Do I make my self clear?"

"Yes sir," they all answered together.

Islist's stern face suddenly turned to a smile and said, "Now, let's celebrate one last night," and he jumped off the barrel, grabbed mugs, and within minutes had every one a mug of dwarven malt beer.

[ May 27, 2003: Message edited by: Burzdol ]

[Arestevana]

Tarannon grabbed a mug and shouted for a toast. After three hearty cheers had been given for the Lord Elessar and for Islist, he drank deeply and set his mug on a vacant stump. Striding over to his campsite, he unpacked his horse and set his things aside to wait until nightfall.

Tarannon wandered over to Bramen's tent and ducked inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. He saw his friend sitting in the corner, diligently polishing an arrow shaft. Tarannon watched the work progress, gaining new appreciation for his friend's work. Though he had made his own arrows for many years, they were nowhere near as fine as this. Bramen paused once to look up questioningly at Tarannon, who merely shrugged. Talking was not his favorite pastime. He watched for several minutes more before, overcome with restlessness, he moved outside.

Struggling to stay his impatience, Tarannon glanced up at the clouds. Storm brewing, he thought. He could not keep from wishing the sun to sink; for darkness to come. He paced around the edge of the camp. Finally he stood still, staring into the fire. This lasted for only seconds, and then he was off again. He moved back to Bramen's tent, hoping his friend could calm him.

[Himaran]

Elleraden grunted in frustration as he attempted to clean the pot covered in a thin film of sauce. No matter how hard he scrubbed, nothing seemed to remove the sticky mass. The door behind him creaked open. "May I assist you?"

Smiling, the ranger lowered the pot into the sink and rubbed the soap over it again. "No thank you Hellen, I can manage. But could you get me another cake of soap? I'm almost out."

Elleraden had spent much of the evening preparing for the journey, before having a final supper at the house of one of his dearest friends. Hellen was a plump elderly woman whom Elleraden had saved from a band of slavers several years before. She had lived at the ranger camp ever since, and had always been on of his most special friends.

Later that evening, after finishing the dishes, Elleraden hurried over to the main hall, not wanting to be late for the meeting. When he arrived, Islist had already begun his speech.

"Every one, we leave at this time tomorow. Actually, meet here at sunset. We shall leave then. Tonight, get every thing packed on your horse, then strip it down. Keep it in a pile inside your tents. Remember how it went on. Tomorow I want you all to rest and say goodbye to the others not coming. You are coming because of your skills and loyalty. We need no other rangers. The ones that have just arrived will come as soon as possible. The time to get more rangers is too great, so we must not try. I expect you all to be on time, and any one who is not is left. Do I make my self clear?"

"Yes sir," they all answered together.

Islist's stern face suddenly turned to a smile and said, "Now, let's celebrate one last night," and he jumped off the barrel, grabbed mugs, and within minutes had every one a mug of dwarven malt beer.

Conversation soon became merry, and stories were told by various rangers. Elleraden took the time to meet the new rangers that were coming with them.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor rummaged through his things, trying without success to find the clean shirt he had recently bought. Having no success he cursed, and rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.

“I could have sworn I—Oh yeah!” He turned suddenly and swept over to the pile of things by his mat and pulled a crisp white shirt from the middle of the pile. He put it on and laced up the front, leaving it open enough to allow circulation. The ranger then rolled up the sleeves and put on a thin darkish gray jerkin, not bothering to clasp it shut. He emerged from his tent, tying up the back of his longish brown hair, just in time to hear Islist tell them to be ready to leave later tonight and have a drink—well more or less.

Dûrvagor cheered along and raised his own tankard up for the King and young Islist. He had caught the humor in being led by Islist, who was a good half of Dûrvagor’s age, but as his friend Rinoas had pointed out, “Probably three times as mature.” It was true, Dûrvagor thought with a bemused smile. Islist’s father had been a born leader and was whom everyone could turn for consolation and advice. Dûrvagor’s parents on the other hand had been born middle-class but had worked their way up through mere eloquence and honey tongued entertainment. Ah, the ranger admired them for that. He too had inherited the talent, but had also inherited the uncanny ability with a sword that had belonged to his grandfather: a simple yet town-famous fencer of Harlond.

The ranger downed his second tankard and decided that was enough. One of their number had begun to tell a story and soon the ranger’s more favorite of pastimes was in place: telling of past “one-times”—the name Dûrvagor had given their stories.

“We should get to packing,” suggested Sorlas. Most of them agreed and moved back to their tents, gathering the few things they would need and arranging them on their horses.

“So, did he say we were leaving tonight or tomorrow?” asked Rinoas, coming over to Dûrvagor as he struggled to untie an especially tight knot on his saddlebag.

“Sunset tomorrow,” answered Dûrvagor, finally loosening the knot. “I think,” he added, not quite sure if he heard Islist right. The ranger shrugged and bent down to pick up his second bag and tie it to his horse’s saddle.

“Do ye really need all that Dûrvagor?” he asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

“Ah, go back yer own horse!” he answered jovially, shoving Rinoas on his way. Dûrvagor turned back to Pernolë: his sorry excuse for a horse. Pernolë wasn’t a bad horse, just a silly one. Tûrvagor had bought him for his son during their last meeting. Pernolë had previously been called Araroch, or ‘noble horse’—he had also been the prized steed of a ritzy city-boy. But Dûrvagor immediately decided the name didn’t fit its owner and re-named him Pernolë, or ‘half-wit’. While the majority of his friends’ horses were clever and battle-trained, his was foolish and unlearned in the ways of a true ranger’s mount. Dûrvagor promised to teach him though, and had decided that this outing would be good for him, even if Pernolë did seem to step high like a show-horse.

He hadn’t always had Pernolë. Before the white steed was given to him he owned Linteroch: a dark brown mare with white hooves and a black mane and tail. She had been his best horse and seemed to be able to read his mind. He had had her for ten years before he decided to retire her and gave him to his mother for pleasure rides around the countryside. Dûrvagor had pretended not to notice, but it seemed that Linteroch had gotten younger and healthier since he gave her up.

“The life of a ranger’s horse just was not meant for her,” Dorvawen had said, stroking her new horse’s hide lovingly.

Dûrvagor brushed away his thoughts and finished putting his things on Pernolë’s saddle. Then he took them off again and set them inside his tent, loosing Pernolë with a sharp slap to her bottom to go graze with the other horses.

“More ale?” called Sorlas from the ring of rangers long finished with their packing. Dûrvagor pretended to think on it for a while before shrugging it off with a boyish grin.

“Ah, why not!”

[ May 27, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion looked about him as he packed, noting everything with a cold feeling of not caring, smiling very rarely. He rolled up his needed belongings in a sack, tying it to the back ot his horse, Thoron. His sword dropped from his belt suddenly, banging on his knife and on somebody’s bow. He picked it up gracefully, and put it back in, but paused before doing the same with his knife. He stopped for a moment, led his hand dreamily along the design of silver, then sighed and stuck it into its sheath, transfering his hand to his scar, running down the length of it.

Raising a pair of bright green eyes under brows too arched to let him be handsome, Herevion looked around the room, at those he should travel with. He saw perhaps seven, perhaps eight men, all packing for their journey, almost all of them older than him. He had slightly met most of them, but he did not venture out of his tent much, so not all. One man had a scar along the left of his face, just as he did, he noted. Ironic, he thought, how we all even get injured in the same way. He didn’t want to be like the others, for sure, though he had no particular dislike for any of them. He barely did do anything much like them. He even drank differently, and certainly far less, a few drops being enough for him. This wasn’t the life for him, yet, but perhaps, when they started out...

[ May 28, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[Nerindel]

Sorlas was making his way to Islist's tent when Grod's Company arrived back at the camp, he watched as the riders ground to a sudden halt at the healing tent, they dismounted carrying someone to the tent, he couldn't see who it was over the other rangers. He was just wondering who it could be when he saw Islist rushing over to the tent. A look of concern spread across his face as he realised he hadn't seen Grod in the group.

He stopped one of the rangers that were now passing him to warm themselves at the fire, "What has happened" he asked, The older Ranger looked at him and seeing his expression he smiled weakly and said " Grod was injured, but not seriously." looking at the man he could see and smell the orc blood that was splattered across his clothes, "It went well other wise" he asked wrinkling his nose at the smell. The ranger Laughed noting his look and looking at his own blood stained clothes, "indeed it did, we kill the lot o' those stinking creatures" he boasted. Sorlas shared in the rangers mirth until he excused himself wishing to wash and change.

Sorlas turned to go look for Elleraden to find out why they were being summoned, but as he turned he saw Tarannon heading towards him leading his granite coloured horse, the two had become good friends during their stay at the camp. Sorlas had noted that Tarannon preferred to stay outside the camp most of the time seeking solitude, so he was surprised to see him and even more surprised to see him packed "are you leaving us" he enquired raising an eyebrow. Tarannon looked at him puzzled, then realising that he didn't yet know of the letter he proceeded to tell him about it.

"So we are to aid lord Aragorn" sorlas said swelling with pride "it shall be a great honour."

Just then Islist strode passed them saying "follow me", they followed and as they did he notice other of Islist's company followed also, some of them he knew and others he did not. He listened intently as Islist spoke to them, then he went round them handing out mugs of dwarven ale. Sorlas sipped at his gingerly remembering the day he had first arrived at the camp, Elrond had given him a message to give to Grod when he arrived, what was in the message he knew not, Grod had assigned him too his son's company, that night Islist had opened a barrel of dwarven ale to welcome him to the camp, but that is all he can remember of that night for the ale had quite a kick, of course he had heard the usual stories of what he had done but he would not believe any of it.

Sorlas then decided he would prepare and pack and his horse before he drank anymore. He found Telpëtal (Silver-Foot) grazing near his tent, as he drew nearer Telpëtal nuzzled him looking for a treat " sorry boy I have nothing for you tonight" the horse snorted and went back to eating the grass. Sorlas packed then repacked making sure he hadn't forgotten anything, once satisfied he decided to rejoin the group.

"More ale" he cried, forgetting his reservations.

[ May 27, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Earendil Halfelven]

Aravir's ears picked up the sound of cheering and mugs clanking as he drew nearer. He lead his horse through the forest while the sun descended into the horizon. He figured that he probably would need his horse, so he stopped at Thranduil's place and picked up his steed. He didn't want to take it into the northlands but his plans changed.

Firelight from the camps shone brightly. Aravir entered the clearing to see many of his kin having a good time as they "prepared" to answer Aragorn's call. He tied his mount to a tree near the other horses, and headed over to find the leader of this band. He saw many of his friends were already here.

"Ahhh, Hervevion! Greetings friend. Glad to see you're part of this motly crew," he said.

Hervevion looked over and nodded. Ha, good ol' Hervevion. He never was one for talking, Aravir thought. He laughed out loud as he headed off, leaving the young Hervevion to packing his horse.

"Aravir, I didn't know you were here," said a voice from behind. He turned and saw that it was another one of his kin, Elleraden.

"Hail, Elleraden. Glad to see you," Aravir said as they clasped hands.

"I thought you were heading up north," Elleraden said.

"I was in sight of the Ered Mithrin, but I was found by an Elven messanger from Elrond. And...here I am," Aravir replied. "I'll just have to put my journey on hold. The Heir of Isildur calls."

"I'm sorry to stop you from looking for your father. I know you were looking forward to that journey," Elleraden said.

"No matter. It'll just wait," Aravir said with a smile. "Oh, who's the leader of this company?"

"Islist," Elleraden replied. He turned and pointed. "He's off in that direction. It would probably be good to report to him."

"You read my mind, friend. After that, you know where to find me...by the malt beer, dwarf malt beer if my nose serves me rightly."

"Ha, you were always one to follow your nose, Aravir," laughed Elleraden. The two headed off as Aravir went to find Islist.

On the way, he saw more of his comrades of old: Dûrvagor, Bramen, Tarannon, Rinoas, and many others.

After he reported to Islist, he headed on over to the malt beer. He needed to make up for lost times. Then he saw another familiar face.

"Sorlas? Is that you?" he said.

The man turned. His face lit up with recognition. "Aravir, old friend! I was kind of hoping you'd show up." The two greeted eachother with clasp hands and a hug.

"I'm glad to see again, Sorlas. Did you find what you were looking for when we went to Fornost?" Aravir asked.

"Unfortunately, no. Maybe another journey somewhere in the future will have different results," Sorlas replied.

"Well, old friend, why don't we make up for lost time around a nice mug of malt beer," Aravir suggested with a wink.

Sorlas laughed as they headed on over to make merry with the rest. Aravir knew, that with many of his friends and kin in the group, the journey to Gondor was going to be a delightful one.

[Burzdol]

Islist seperated himself from the story telling group, and got out his favorite throwing knife. He brandished it as he traveled farther out. The ranger stopped in a clearing. With a swift throw, he buried the knife in the nearest tree with no particular intent. A rustle suddenely was heard behind him. He spun, and was about to throw, when Hellen stepped out.

"Why there you are Islist. I've been looking for you," the plump women said, walking to the man.

"Yes, well, you found me. What is it that you wanted to talk about?" he asked.

"Well, your father. He said he would be alright, but that was an understatement. His wound was infected by poison, orc poison. The wound was immediatly cared for, but it'll be awhile 'till he'll be okay again. You okay?"

Islist face showed his emotions more than usual. He looked down at the ground, and started, "He will be okay, won't he? I lost my mother to those foul beasts, and I'm not going to lose my father!"

"He'll be fine, I swear on my life......" the man left her talking to herself.

As he left he said," Don't expect me back all that soon. And then he was gone, the old women slowly walked back to the camp. Islist watched from atop a nearby tree, as soon as she was gone he hopped down. He went back to the clearing and sat in thought. Another noise in the bush revealed Elleraden, but Islist never raised his head.

"I followed Hellen here, thought you might need a drink," he said holding up a mug.

"I thank you, my friend. For everything," he said looking at the other ranger. Elleraden sat with Islist, talking and drinking, passing the hours in each others company.

[Himaran]

Elleraden soon spotted a friend. "Aravir, I didn't know you were here."

"Hail, Elleraden. Glad to see you," Aravir said as they clasped hands.

"I thought you were heading up north," Elleraden said.

"I was in sight of the Ered Mithrin, but I was found by an Elven messanger from Elrond. And...here I am," Aravir replied. "I'll just have to put my journey on hold. The Heir of Isildur calls."

"I'm sorry to stop you from looking for your father. I know you were looking forward to that journey," Elleraden said.

"No matter. It'll just wait," Aravir said with a smile. "Oh, who's the leader of this company?"

"Islist," Elleraden replied. He turned and pointed. "He's off in that direction. It would probably be good to report to him."

"You read my mind, friend. After that, you know where to find me...by the malt beer, dwarf malt beer if my nose serves me rightly."

"Ha, you were always one to follow your nose, Aravir," laughed Elleraden. The two headed off as Aravir went to find Islist.

Later, he talked with Islist over a cup of fiery dwarven spirits; a special favorite (and an occasional addiction) of his.

Aravir then returned holding up his empty glass. "Might a friend be able to fill my empty pint?"

Elleraden chuckled and obliged. "I think that we'd all better finish packing. After we finish our drinks."

It was then Aravir's turn to chuckle. "Of course."

[ May 28, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Nerindel]

"Sorlas? Is that you?" he said.

The man turned. His face lit up with recognition. "Aravir, old friend! I was kind of hoping you'd show up." The two greeted eachother with clasp hands and a hug.

"I'm glad to see again, Sorlas. Did you find what you were looking for when we went to Fornost?" Aravir asked.

"Unfortunately, no. Maybe another journey somewhere in the future will have different results," Sorlas replied.

"Well, old friend, why don't we make up for lost time around a nice mug of malt beer," Aravir suggested with a wink.

Sorlas laughed as they headed on over to make merry with the rest.

Aravir and Sorlas talked long about what they had been up to since their last meeting, as they recounted their various tales other in the company piped in as they heard their names mentioned,there was much laughter and merry making. Sorlas was glad to see the mirth in the group it was little seen of late.

Aravir then got up to find a fresh ale, Sorlas looked down at his own contemplating weather it would be safe enough for him to have another. As he looked up he saw Tarannnon and Dûrvagor laughing at him

"Afraid we will have to carry you back, friend" they laughed together.

"Not at all" he laughed shareing in their jest "It's just that I fear I shall forget all before I wake... well maybe not all, that has to be the whitest shirt I have ever seen" he said jokingly tipping his mug in the direction of Dûrvagor's new shirt, being careful not to spill any on the man he had come to think of as the most meticulous and tidy ranger in all the lands.

[ May 28, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Helkahothion]

Tarannon stepped back into Bramen's tent. He was busy preparing as many arrows for his leave. He always had his best shot with his own and had already packed two quivers full of them on the side of his horse; ready to be fired if needed. Bramen had stuck the last arrow in his quiver he always carried on his back and was now packing his toolbox. No matter where he went, he always caried it around. He thought it was vital to everyone's survival.
Tarannon stepped towards his old friend and Bramen smiled as he closed his toolbox.
"Need a pack of arrows friend? You should have come a little sooner."
Tarannon smiled back and sat down next to Bramen. They both sighed. Bramen had a tankard of beer next to him and emptied the last half that it contained. As he stood up, he gave his boots one last checkup and then pulled them on his feet. He beckoned Tarannon and stepped outside. He went to pack his gear on his horse. He said goodbye for now to Tarannon and gave him a broad smile. He was going to ride out again. Staying behind while the other where hunting Orcs had been very frustrating for him. It would be nice to have a little battle again.

Bramen tried his old bow again and it still worked perfectly. The string had been taken care of perfectly and age did not take its toll on it. He shot some more of his precious arrows and then collected them back in his quiver. He saddled up his horse, whose name was Horta, and bound his toolbox under the quiver on the left. Being a left-handed, he could always take his tools quickly. Bramen had packed practical. An axe for firewood, his toolbox, quiver and a big piece of textile to that could be made into a tent if needed. The rest of his packing was only food. The man looked satisfied and patted Horta.

Bramen went back to the fire where all the other man where gathered. Islist was already ready to leave and Bramen searched around the fire to find Tarannon. He found him sitting near the barrel with ale. Bramen went over and poured himself another tankard.
"Tomorrow we ride. Are you ready Tarannon?"
"Of course Bramen. Can't wait."
"True, true."
Bramen drank his ale and just talked for a while with Tarannon, on which he had grown an extreme liking, before going to his tent for sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

[ May 29, 2003: Message edited by: Helkahothion ]

[Himaran]

Having already gathered his rations, blankets and other necessaties, Elleraden had only to collect his array of weaponry for the trip.

Entering his tent, he found his newly polished broadsword. Sheathing it, the ranger chose several knives from the wall, along with a small, light bow and a quiver of arrows. A sad smile crossed his face as he read the name carved into the bow. It had been his father's, and was the only piece of knowledge he had about either of his parents.

Then, opening a specially carved wooden case, he withdrew his prize weapon. It was a small hatchet, which could be thrown if the need came. Its heavily polished black handle flashed in the lantern light, attached to a the cold steel of the crescent blade. It carried no jewel, but still held the beauty of an earlier age, and a greater one. A tool not for decoration, but for death.

Hurrying outside, he attached the various weapons to his leather belt and heaved the bags onto his horse. Once finished, Elleraden reported to Islist.

[Burzdol]

Islist returnedto his tent and gathered his weapons for the trip. He soon laid on his bed an old, weathered broadsword and started to clean any blood stains off as possible. He next laid out his elven longbow and three quivers full of hand made arrows.

"Islist, sir, I am ready and a few others of the camp are as well. Should we leave sooner," Elleraden asked from behind Islist.

"Oh, I didn't realize you were there."

"Hey, what sword is that? That's not yours is it?"

"It was my fathers. He gave it to me when I last visited him. It was his granfathers, so it is very old. Its name is Nariel, never failed my father yet."

"Oh, I just came to report that. I'll just leave now," Elleraden left his statement trail away as he left.

Islist turned back around to his weapons. He lifted his bed to grab three small throwing knives. No one knew about the knives, and he intended to keep it that way until they were needed. He then got a small chest and pulled out a small sack full of money thinking he would need it in the future. Islist hit the inside bottom of the chest and it broke through. Laying on the bottom was a knife. He had seen its sister weapon on his friend Elleraden. He had a hatchet that was made at the same place from the same materials. His blade was of no particular beauty, but his blade was made for the purpose of death.

The ranger looked over his armory again, then put it on his to pack pile. Then he sat on his bed until the sleep weighed down his eyes.

[Nerindel]

It was late and the company started to disperse and return to their tents for the night. With a yawn Sorlas too excused himself and ducked under the flaps of his tent, it was big enough inside to easily accommodate two but he preferred to sleep alone.

He sat down on his bed roll and rechecked his gear again, he was sure that he would forget something, he then lifted a small weather stained leather pouch from his belt and carefully opened it, checking its contains, There was some Gallows-weed, Galenas leaves, Dandelion roots and a small piece of Salierim root. ' yes, that should suffice for now' he thought. Satisfied that he could find more on the way if needed, He carefully put the healing herbs back into the leather pouch and sat it with the rest of his gear.

He then turned his attention to the weapons he would be taking with him on the journey. His long sword was by his side as always, he was never parted with the heirloom of his family, he unsheathed it to see if it needed sharpened before they left. The blade glistened in the dim light of the lantern in his tent, at the top of the blade just below the guard was engraved a tall ship with a rayed star above it, it also had the intricately inscribed words, 'Let the stars guide you' engraved on it in the noble Adûnaic tongue of his ancestors. He sighed as he slid the sword back into the sheath, he longed to know more of his ancestors but his searches had all revealed nothing, the sword was the only clue he had to his heritage. He then unfastened his belt and laid the sword by his bed.

Reaching down he pulled a small black handled knife from his boot, the edge was slightly blunt so he pick up a small wetting stone and spat on it once, then proceeded to sharpen the blade, as he worked he looked over to his long bow and quiver that sat in the corner of the tent, he smiled pleased with the arrows he had made earlier, he now had two score sitting in the brown leather quiver.

'Ah! Feathers!' he cried remembering what it was he had forgotted, he jumped up putting the stone and knife down on the bed and began searching the tent for the black feathers he had gathered earlier, he soon found them sitting in a small stone mortar at the other end of the tent. He thought to take the mortar aswell but then feeling its weight he decided against it, he took the feathers and squeezed them into the hidden pocket on his quiver, then returned to sharpening his knife.

Once the knife was sharp again he carefully placed it into the sheath that was sewn into the inside of his boot and put the Sharpening stone into his pack. Yawning again he removed his boots and flopped down on to the bed, falling a sleep almost a once.

[ May 30, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Tarien Ithil]

Rinoas Imrith puffed on the fifth pipe he'd had that day.
He scopped up some dirt in his palm and sifted it through is fingers. The sky was dark and star-spangled. Crickets chirped.

Rinoas' tent was erected beneath a tree. A lamp, hanging on a branch, was burning faintly. The murmur of soft chatter was all around the campsite.

Tarannon walked up carring a clay bowl of soup.
"Thank you," said Rinoas, and he took the bowl.
"So, where do you come from?" asked Tarannon.
"Gondor," replied Rinoas and sipped the soup. "What about you?"

"Dunedain. My mother was from Gondor, though," he replied.
The sky suddenly rumbled.
"Looks like a storm," said Rinoas.
"I'd better go to my tent," said Tarannon.

[Arestevana]

Tarannon left Rinoas and headed for his tent. He ducked inside his small shelter, double checking his pack. He removed his sword and laid it aside. Next to it he laid his bow, followed by his quiver. He felt for the wrist sheath, then hesitated. He twisted his forearm with a practiced motion and the blade flashed into his hand. He listened for a moment, and the blade left his hand with an almost imperceptible flick of the wrist. It pierced the cloth covering the door of his tent; a tearing noise followed by an audible thunk. Rinoas' voice intruded on his senses, extracting a small smile.
"Very funny Tarannon."
The knife flew back at him, not even tearing another hole in the tent's entrance. It landed at his feet. Tarannon strapped it back to his wrist; just a little looser than before.

His pack in readiness, Tarannon lay down, his head cushioned by a rolled cloak. He slept, and dreamed. But his dreams were haunted by memory. The darkness swelled around him in a protective cloak. Such a thing, darkness. A veil, for or against you. In which nothing is certain.He rolled over. It is gone, he thought harshly. Fool, let it go! You cannot call it back. Still he haunted himself. Call it back. Yes, call it back. Anything to call it back.Not my fault! Again he turned, fighting the familiar emotions. A stray arrow, nothing more. Not my fault!Not my fault. It is gone.

Then his sleep was quieted, and his dream passed. But the memory did not.

[Himaran]

When Elleraden rose early the next morning, the sun was barely peaking out over the broad trees of eastern Mirkwood. Taking a deep breath of the fresh forest air, the ranger was satisfied that he was ready for the journey.

Dressing himself appropriately for the start of the long trek, Elleraden hurried over to the lodge for breakfast. He found Aravir there already, sipping a mug of hot tea and enjoying a sizeable platter of roasted potatoes and bacon.

"All set for the trip, Elleraden?"
"As prepared as possibly, I suppose. Did you leave any for the rest of us?"

Eyeing his large meal, the ranger concealed his smile and played along. "Well, the cook mentioned that he saved some of yesterday's stew. No doubt he would give you a bowel, or two even."

Grimacing at the memory of the truely horrible soup, Elleraden hurried to recieve his fill from the morning's menu. He soon returned with a serving equal in size to that of his friend's.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor woke to the ray of sunlight streaming in through his open ten door. He rose and stretched, yawning away his peaceful sleep. The ranger poked his head out of the door and looked at the sun. It had just peaked over the eastern hills and was spreading its light across the sight.

“Oh good,” said Dûrvagor, “I’ve not slept in.” He paused, rethinking what he had just said and shook it away, dressing quickly in a clean linen shirt and a gray jerkin embroidered with blue designs on the seams decorating the front, bottoms, sides, and wings. He had a bit of trouble pulling on his boots and then realized it was because he had stuffed stocking in the foot of each. It was another five minutes before he was fully dressed, and the correct weapons and pouches hung from their correct places on his belt, and a cloak draped stylishly over his broad shoulders. Grabbing his two bags and blanket roll, he walked out of his tent and whistled for Pernolë. The white horse came stepping up from the stream to his master.

Dûrvagor finished with Pernolë, and walked lazily over to the lodge. Elleraden and Aravir were already inside, eating hearty breakfasts.

“Good morning,” said Dûrvagor, as he joined them holding a smaller version of their morning meals and a mug of herbaceous tea.

“Got your horse all saddled up and packed,” said Elleraden looking out at Pernolë who was standing awkwardly trying to figure out what was on his back and why. Dûrvagor glanced towards his horse and then back at his friends.

“Hmm? Oh, heh, that horse. No, I—I haven’t a clue what you—yeah, yeah all set. Th—that’s my horse.” He sighed dramatically adopting a nostalgic expression and then tucked into his breakfast.

[Arestevana]

Tarannon woke. He shook his head, but couldn't clear the drowsiness out of it. To much to drink? No, it took more than a mug of Dwarven malt to give him a hangover. Standing up, he stumbled out of his tent and toward the stream. He leaned over and splashed cold water on his face. Unoticed, his horse walked up behind Tarannon and made himself useful by knocking his rider into the stream. Tarannon came up spluttering. He could hear laughter from the direction of the lodge. Cursing inwardly, he glared at his steed and heaved himself onto the bank. Though he was thouroughly drenched, his head was clear and he remained unharmed. However, he also seemed to have swallowed quite a lot of rather fishy water. He walked back to his tent to change.

Now dressed in dry riding leathers, Tarannon walked to the lodge. He filled a plate and joined the three others who were already there. Durvagor grinned at him, and he smiled ruefully. Aravir appeared to be choking, but Tarannon suspected that he was trying to stifle his laughter. Elleraden looked up from his plate, glancing first at Aravir, then at Tarannon. Immediately he turned away, a poorly disguised chuckle only half hidden. Slightly hurt, Tarannon frowned. Then he thought back to the incident. Okay, maybe it was funny. He grinned. Soon they were all laughing. Tarannon laughed too, feeling happy rather than ashamed. He did feel slightly foolish, though, when Durvagor reached over and pulled a string of river-weeds out of his sopping wet hair, laughing even harder.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[Burzdol]

Islist woke with a tray of breakfast at his side. Hellen was bustling around him, singing to her self. She saw him and gave a small wave, then left. The ranger ate his breakfast slowly, giving the others some time to eat before he walked out. Finally, he got up and dressed. Then he slowly put on his sword belt. As soon as he finished, he walked out of his tent.

"Good morning, Islist," Elleraden said as Islist walkecd towards him.

"Mornin'," he said back. The man sat down for a moment and got out his sword. The others all started to look at him, anticipating. They were all wanting the same thing.

Slowly, the ranger stoog up. Then he started, "So, what are you all waiting for? Get ready!"

They all jumped up and started to get ready. Islist also went to pack and started with his tent. Soon he had almost every thing ready. He went to the center of the camp, "When you're ready meet here and wait. Hurry!"

[Himaran]

Elleraden dashed into his tent, grabbing his packed bags and weapons belt. Hauling them to the stables, he saddled his horse, Halwen and loaded the packages onto him. Then he led the beast to the center of the camp.

The ranger found Islist there, waiting for the group to arrive. "One ranger, packed and ready to leave."

[Nerindel]

Sorlas had rose from his slumber early, the camp was silent and the sun had not yet risen above the horizon. Sorlas stretched and unable to get back to sleep he walked down to the stream to a secluded area he had discovered during his stay at the camp. He stripped off his clothes and waded into the stream, the water was cold and he shivered slightly as he washed. Once he had finnished and was dry he put his pants and boots back on and lifting his tunic he walk back to his tent.

By this time the sun had now risen and so also had most of the camp, he entered his tent grabbed a fresh tunic much the same as the one he had just thrown down and grabbing a leather thong he walked over to the lodge to join the others for breakfast.

As he walked he tied back his still damp hair loosely at the nape of his neck with the leather thong, he nodded to the others as he passed them to get some tea and a warm breakfast of bacon and eggs, he also grabbed two apples, putting one in this pocket to give to Telpëtal, his rough haired stallion. he then settled himself down next to the others and enjoyed his hearty breakfast.

A short time later, Istlist arrived badeing them to make ready to leave. Shoveling the last of his breakfast into his mouth, he got up and rushed over to his tent to re-saddle and pack Telpëtal. The proud horse was already there waiting for him, he smiled as he gave the horse the apple he had saved for him, he then ducked into the tent and brought out his gear and proceeded to pack his horse.

Once he finnished packing he went back inside the tent. Lifting his sword he carefully fastened it about his waist, he then lifted his quiver and bow and slung them into position on his back, he then lifted his cloak from the corner of the tent and went out and slung it across the front of his saddle. After checking all the fastenings he lead his horse to the center of the camp where the others were waiting.

[Arestevana]

Tarannon did not need to hear the word "hurry". It took him all of two minutes to grab his pack, buckle on his sword, and lead his horse over to the gathering rangers.

He switched his grip on his mount from reins to bridle, hoping that the animal would behave. "Careful, Morroch" He muttered. He tested the balance of the bow slung across his back. It had been long since a true battle. Too long.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion watched everybody grabbing their bags, running to go, saddling up their horses, with a sense of great indifference. All of his things he had readied at night, so as not to have to scurry among the other men, looking for lost belongings or just trying to get them onto his horse's back. Thoron stood ready for him to climb on at any point.

Herevion stepped through a path among the others, keeping out of their way, but not in a meek way at all. He reported to Islist quickly, not looking around at anybody else. He walked straight to his horse, Thoron, patted him on his back, turned around, and stood leaning against a wall, seeming not to see any around him, and wearing a strange expression on his face, half away in the dream world, half arrogant but still polite boredom, until Islist called for them all.

[ June 03, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[Burzdol]

Islist wasn't suprised that Elleraden was the firstd one there, besides himself. The two rangers sat mounted and silent.

"Guess that was our last chess game ever, huh," Elleraden said unexpectidly.

"Yeah. But I won, so it was a good last game."

"You won, I won fair and square."

"Yes, whatever."

Soon Tarrnnon and Sorlas arrived to join the other two rangers. The all shared quick 'hellos' and then sat in silence, all waiting for the others.

[ June 04, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor patted Pernolë tenderly on the back before hoisting his saddle up on top of his blanket. He hummed light-heartedly to himself as he finished tying the necessary equipment to his horse and securing the rest of his things to endure during his absence. Then he mounted and rode over to where Islist, Elleraden, Tarannon, and Sorlas were waiting. He bowed his head slightly and waved as though they were far off. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep dramatic breath of air, grinning foolishly.

“Beautiful morning for a joy ride! Ah! Brought some apples and cheese for a picnic later should we decide to stop. No? Alright, they’re here if any o’ ye change your mind.” He glanced over towards the fields, streams, and forest before them and shook away a slight sense of foreboding before turning back to the others. “Where’s the rest of the stragglers?”

“Coming,” was the short reply from Sorlas. Dûrvagor sighed and picked an apple from the small sack in the front of his saddle. He took a big bite before looking up towards an oak where two birds were busily squabbling over nesting rights. Laughing, he pointed. The rangers lifted their eyebrows to where he gestured and then lowered their gazes again, some chuckling very slightly. He didn’t know why but none seemed to be very quick to make friends with him.

Birds of a feather flock together, was the old nursery rhyme saying. People don’t trust what they don’t understand was the one that went hand in hand with it. Dûrvagor was unlike all the other rangers, and most of them didn’t understand a bit about him or why he was full of childish levity. His duties as a ranger were noble and justified. The idiosyncratic personality of silent reverence was not present in his behavior, which was obvious in his style of dress.

Atop Pernolë in a greyish blue jerkin with embroidered silver trim, Dûrvagor could pass for a nobleman. His finely kept dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that reached just between his shoulder blades. This was one of the two tasteful jerkins he owned; the rest were black and grey. When he entered the ranger’s unit, he had determined that he would probably learn to wear the regular clothes once he had broken into the daily routine of his kind. As the years passed, things hardly changed. Dûrvagor couldn’t find a reason why they should, so he always kept one or two jerkins to wear that would maybe imply that he was a bit more than ranger.

He leaned back in his saddle and watched the birds. Finally, they decided on which branch was who’s territory and began to build nests. It looked like a race to the ranger, each one flew frantically towards the ground, gathering as many oddities in its beak as it could before flying back to its designated place. The reason for such hurriedness was clear when a two rather drab looking birds of the same species returned just to reprimand their mates on their slow progress. Dûrvagor laughed out loud again and tossed his finish apple core to the ground. Eyes twinkling he turned as another of the rangers joined them.

[Burzdol]

Islist was getting impatient when no one was showing. He then rode between tents yelling into each, "Let's go everyone. C'mon! We need to go now! You all are behind! If you take much longer I'm going to make it half rations! And the other half comes to the early ones."

Durvagor joined the crew not long after Islist returned.

"Do I get half rations Islist?" Durvagor asked.

"Sure, if you want. I get all of the other half though," Islist said sarcastically.

"Man, here you go," he started to give part of his lunch, "Just joking, hah."

They all sat, talking and laughing. Finally Elleraden started an old, well known story, "Well, my grandfather told me this story a long time ago. One time, a long time before any of us were born, there was a captured maiden. But there was this prince who......" he finished a few moments later. They all sat in memory at the conclusion. Most thinking about good times, Islist thought about something different. He heard that story when his father went away for two years. He remembered how he felt. A tear swelled in his eye and his wiped it away, not wanting to show his weakness.

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion stood, watching the other men telling their stories to one another. He did not care for such amusements, as he did not care for many things the others thought enjoyable. He was simply waiting for the time to go, and if he waited alone, he waited alone.

He took out his knife again, wanting to test its sharpness, though he knew that it would slice almost anything. He pushed lightly with it against his fingertip, drawing blood. He did not suck his finger, but let it fall, watching the tiny drop of crimson liquid descend to the trampled grass he stood on. Nobody looked at him, as though he were not there. But Herevion was used to this. It was not that anybody tried to stay away from him- it just happened naturally. But he was used to it and could not imagine another life.

[ June 03, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[Tarien Ithil]

Rinoas stood by his horse and stoked his smooth neck. He had ventured out from his tent because he could not find sleep.
The journey ahead was still on his mind.

He brought out his flute from his pocket and the quiet campsite was filled with the hum of the soft music.

A few lamps were lit. The wind rustled teh leaves in the trees.

Suddenly, Rinoas heard the cry of an eagle above him. The eagle was circling the campsite, calling out.
It looked suspicious.

[ June 05, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

[Arestevana]

Tarannon shifted the reins to his right hand. He reached over to grasp the saddle's pommel. Setting one foot in the stirrup, he prepared to mount. Something stopped him. It was a soft trail of music. Curious, he stepped down and followed it.

The music came from a small wooden flute that rested in the hands of his friend, Rinoas. Rinoas's tent was set on the edge of camp, by a large tree. The tree hung over the tent, keeping off wind but also sunlight. Tarannon approached to find his friend watching the sky. He called to Rinoas, teasing with Islist's threat of half-rations. Rinoas laughed and hurried to gather his things, Tarannon waiting for him.
[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[ June 28, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[Burzdol]

Islist finally couldn't take it any more, "We are leaving, whoever wishs to come, we are leaving now! Goodbye all of you who aren't coming, and I hope you good fortune!"

The ranger drew his sword and yelled clearly, "My rangers, let's ride now as the biird flys!" With that he left with a few rangers and his friend Elleraden. They rode at a quick pace trying get to Aragorn with no more wasted time. As they rode, Islist looked to Elleraden, "Thanks for coming."

[Nerindel]

Sorlas's horse impatiently stamped it's hoof and snorted, "it wont be long now" he whispered, bending forward a little to pat him affectioniatly.

"My rangers, let's ride now as the bird flys!"

"See boy, I said it would not be long" Tëlpetal snorted and without any coaxing they fell in behind Islist and Elleraden.

Sorlas felt a rush of excitement as they started on their mission, he was both proud and honoured to be riding to the aid of the cheiftain and leader of his people. As they Rode He Sang loud and clearly.

"For Gondor and the Dunedain we ride,
For honour and glory we will fight,
Till our foe is defeated
And the lands reunited.

In Aragorn, cheif of the Dunedain,
All hope lies.
When he calls the faithful will ride,
So to Gondor we ride, swift and sure.
To Aid Isildur's heir!"

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor kept pace with the rest of the group as they rode towards wherever it was Islist was leading them. Whither that was, he wasn’t sure, nor did he particularly care. Instead he imagined Pernolë flying like a bird, taking Islist’s comment a bit seriously. He chuckled out loud at the thought of his horse trying to build a nest like the avian creatures he had watched earlier.

“For Gondor and the Dunedain we ride,
For honour and glory we will fight,
Till our foe is defeated
And the lands reunited.

In Aragorn, cheif of the Dunedain,
All hope lies.
When he calls the faithful will ride,
So to Gondor we ride, swift and sure.
To Aid Isildur's heir!”, sang Sorlas proudly. Dûrvagor Cormyr knew it also by heart and rode up beside him smiling.

“Catchy little jingle ye’ve got there,” Sorlas raised an eyebrow at the other ranger as he finished his song and adjusted his grip on the reins. “Got a few myself,” Dûrvagor cleared his throat and sang in a strong tenor, though not too loudly,

“Hey ho, Hee ho
Off to the inn will I go!
To get me a drink,
Give the barmaid a wink,
And sit a while to think.

Hey there, hee there!
But what, dear friend, shall I wear?
A gown of satin? A jerkin of brown?
My cuffs turned up? Or upside down?
Or shall I go nude into town?”

“Dûrvagor!” yelled Islist from the front, a slight smile playing on his lips. The ranger ceased his song and bowed his head shamefully, as Sorlas forced a frown.

“I’ll get to the bottom of these chaps,” Dûrvagor whispered to Aravir, one of the rangers here he had only just met. “So help me Eru they’ll go smilin’ to their deaths.” To cover up for his rough mistake, Pernolë’s rider began to hum the tune to the song Sorlas had sung instead of his merry drinking song.

[Himaran]

Elleraden was glad that they were finally off; to him it had seemed that they had tarried for too long in the comfort of their camp. His horse kept close in pace with the others, moving at a quick trot down the road.

Glancing around the darkening woods suspiciously, he lifted out the bow from his pack and readied a shaft in the taunt string. Should an ambush be unleashed upon them, he would be prepared. One could never tell what would happen in Mirkwood.

[Arestevana]

Great. Well, they had a right to be impatient. Cursing under his breath, Tarannon slung his bow across his back and ran to his horse.

He mounted without touching stirrups or pommel, grabbing the reins as his horse shied violently. He yanked the reins again and tried to remain seated. Wheeling back he yelled to the rangers that were still in camp and spurred his mount into a full-fledged gallop, hurrying to catch up with the others. He would have caught up, too, but the horse ran under a low branch, effectively removing his rider. Tarannon cursed again, then remounted and rode off again, this time watching carefully and surpressing his steed's mischief.

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[Burzdol]

"Elleraden," Islist caleed from his mount.

"Yes?" he returned.

"Since youi're the one who drew up our map, I would like you to keep quiet about where we are going. It is much easier to lead people when they're not trying to tell you to go a different way."

"Ah, I see. So when are we going to set up camp? When we get there, I will tell you how long we will need to ride to get to Aragorn. I will also include time for rest wherever you want me to on the map."

"Okay, but about the first rest spot. You're going to have to wonder like every one else."

The two laughed, and a song from behind drifted to them. They couldn't make out the words, but the sound was soothing. The rangers then rode till nightfall, sson they were along a small river. At a seemingly calm spot at the river, they stopped.

"Everyone, this is your new camp. Get some rest. You'll need it," Islist said as he dismounted. The rest of the rangers followed and began to set up for the night.

[Nerindel]

As they stopped for the night, Sorlas dismounted and lead Tëlpetal to the river, he drank his fill then wandered over to graze on the fresh grass not far from the river bank.

Sorlas unstrapped his bed roll and made his way back to the camp, two of the rangers were building a small camp fire, another two were preparing a simple stew.

"I volunteer to take first watch" he said as he throw down his roll next to the yet unlit fire.

Islist nodded and said "we shall watch in pairs two hours a piece"

Sorlas nodded back, then waited to see who his watch partner would be and who would be relieving them once their two hours passed.

[Burzdol]

Islist walked back to Sorlas, "I'll be your partner for the first watch. After that, Elleraden and Durvagor will take over.

Sorlas and Islist walked to the main entrance of the camp. They agreed on sitting on either side to sentry. Each time the wind picked up, they would duck down, then returned to their regular positions. Soon after one of these wind experiences, Sorlas started a song, and the stars came out to accompany the two.

[ June 08, 2003: Message edited by: Burzdol ]

[Himaran]

Elleraden atteptmed to get to sleep, but it elluded him gracefully. He was totured by mental images, of the group arriving at the White City too late, or of them perishing on the journey. Slamming his fist on the ground, he made a solemn promise not to let the mission fail, even if he lost his own life in the process.

Eventually, he fell asleep, but was soon woken up by Islist. "Your turn for watch, friend." The ranger hurried to his assigned position, chatting with Durvagor as they stood sentry.

"You were up north, weren't you Elleredan?"
"Yes, I patrolled in the Blue Mountains for a time. Hard and bitter country; I prefer the darkest part of Mirkwood from those snow covered peaks."
"Aye, well here you are. Mirkwood."
"Yes, funny how these things work out."

The ranger looked over at the camp, and then back at Durvagor; a hint of a smile covering his face. "Since Islist is asleep, might you have a few more of those excellent songs?"

[Arestevana]

It had been dark for an hour when Tarannon reached camp. He had wasted time tracking the company ahead of him because, for some strange reason, they had never been told where they were headed. Well, the white towre eventually, of course, but nothing in particular. As he approached the new site, he heard a soft song. He followed it.

Tarannon stopped. He groaned mentally, trying to keep an indifferent expression. Islist and Sorlas were keeping watch. He dismounted and approached Islist, bracing himself for the furious rebuke he expected. Late? Yes. Did he deserve it? Definitely. Did he want it? What kind of question is that? Stumbling from exhaustion, the horse nearly dragged it's rider down as well.
"Tarannon?" Islist glanced at him. "Sir?" Tarannon winced. The reply was sarcastic "Welcome to camp." Islist nodded toward the fire and Tarannon walked off, not daring to believe his luck. He removed his horses gear and tethered the animal nearby before rolling out his bedroll. He flopped down on the mat, anxious for sleep. Then he heard Islist's voice from the ranger's post on the edge of camp. "Tarannon! Take third watch." Tarannon sighed and rolled over. Their captain was clever enough to make him wish he'd stayed in Rohan.

About an hour later he woke to see Elleraden walk past, taking up the second guard. A dark figure stood and crossed on the other side of camp, but it was too dark to see who. A low voice began singing. It was quiet, and soon had him asleep again. Not for long, however. It seemed only minutes had gone by before Tarannon felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake.
"ungh..." He mumbled groggily.
"That's right!" Durvagor was grinning at him.
"I'm up" Tarannon groaned. "Go to sleep, Durvagor!"
The other man did just that, while Tarannon looked on enviously. Sighing, he paced the edge of camp, watching for any other late comers. Something moved in the woods.
"Hello?" Tarannon peered into the shadows. The something moved again. Not animal. Most definitely not man. That left one possibility...
"Attack!" The shout was enough to wake the entire camp. "Attack!"

[ June 08, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[Himaran]

Elleraden, half awake already, leaped to his feet as he heard Tarranon's warning shout. He saw six large orcs closing in on the ranger, who slew one with a knife and stood ready with his sword.

Quickly aiming his loaded bow, he released the taunt string. The shaft spun past Tarranon's head and into the throat of an assailant, who dropped to the ground with a faint gurgle of death. Other company members were now fighting, shooting arrows or throwing knives. Elleraden's sword flashed out, on cue with his companions, to meet the oncoming rush of orcs.

The ranger ran the first threw with a knife, and pushed the dying creature into another orc; tripping it. Elleraden dispatched with it on the ground, and swung his head to the side; feeling the wind displacement caused by the orc scimater. The orc's charge carried him past the ranger, and Elleraden ran his sword into the fell beast's back.

[Burzdol]

Islist stood, leaning on his bow. The ranger started laughing at how some of the younger rangers struggled. He yelled out things like, "Keep your haed up!" or, "Turn quicker, next time you'll pay for it!"

He only broke his stance to slay the orcs that overwhelmed the younger ones.

Elleraden soon joined Islist behind the fighting, "The young ones need to learn a little more. This is nothing compared to wargs and Uruks. What should we do?"

"I say we pair a younger one with a veteran, they can train and be like...a...an aprentice. Sound good?"

"Yeah sure."

The two rangers then drew their bows, and started to help in the fight again.

[Earendil Halfelven]

Aravir sat up straight. The cry, "Attack!" pierced the night as the company slept. He could see the others get up and draw their weapons, some with bows. As the first orcs entered the firelight, they were shot down by the archers. Others fell with mortal sword wounds.

Aravir drew his sword. As he did so, he heard a snarl behind him. He turned to see one of the most hideous orcs behind him brandishing a scimitar. It charged and raised its weapon. As Aravir blocked its blow, he saw the it wore orc mail around its chest and arms, but none around the neck. Aravir kicked its feet out from under it and shoved his sword into its neck.

He looked around. It seemed as if everybody was able to handle himself. Nobody was having too much trouble. Seeing a gap in the line, Aravir ran and plugged it. He got there just in time, because two orcs ran for the spot. He finished them off.

Where could this band of orcs come from? he thought. The most likely source he could think of was Dol Goldur. That place should be finished off once and for all.

The orcs seemed to be getting less and less as the company slowly defeated them.

[Arestevana]

At last the invading beasts drew back. Tarannon watched as Islist sent the last few on their way with a rapid volley of arrows. It disturbed him to see them go unharmed, and he had to exert quite a lot of will power to keep from chasing them. Sighing, he turned and began to clean his sword.

When his sword was clean, Tarannon resheathed it and began to hunt for his knife. He had drawn it when the orcs first charged because, he remembered ashamedly, he had not thought to draw his sword when he took up the watch. He saw a glint in the grass. It turned out to be his knife, stuck deep in the chest of a dead orc. He retrieved it, cleaned it, and sheathed it. He had only been in the thick of things for a few moments before backing off, but it had been enough to tell him that he was falling behind on his sword skill. He needed to do some sparring to recover his speed and agility. Ruefully, Tarannon examined a long scratch on his right arm. It was not deep, but stung annoyingly. Luckily it was not poisoned, and his sword arm was uninjured. He walked toward the center of camp to see how the other rangers had fared.

[Nerindel]

Like everybody else Sorlas had leapt to his feet at Tarranon's cry. He had instinctively reached for his sword, when he saw several of the creatures perched in the trees with bows at the ready, seeing Islist with his bow already knocked he called "In the trees" then taking his own bow they started to shot the creatures from their perches.

Just then someone shouted "behind !" as he stole a glance an arrow whizzed passed grazing his left cheek, but landing harmlessly into the dying embers of the camp fire. he raised his bow to return fire, only to see the creature falling from the tree with an arrow through it's neck, he turned to see Islist's satisfied grin, he nodded his thanks then shouted "Duck!" as a large orc came running up behind his leader. As Islist dropped to the ground Sorlas released the arrow he had already knocked, it struck the stunned creature right between the eyes killing it instantly. "Good shot" Islist grinned jovially as he rushed up to make sure his captain was all right.

Sorlas reached his hand to help Istlist back to his feet, the pair shared a laugh then turned and fired volley after volley into their retreating foes.

After the battle the camp regrouped by the fire, Sorlas wandered from one to the other checking that they were not injured miraculous only himself and Tarranon had been injured. He looked at Tarranon's wound "it's just a scratch!" he protested, "As is this but I will still treat it!" he replied pointing to the graze on his cheek. Tarranon relented and put out his arm, Sorlas took a spongy brown root from his herb pouch cut it in half then without warning he squeezed the oozing white sap over the wound, "Arggg! you could have warned me, Had I known the remedy stung more than the wound I would have gone without!" Sorlas merely laughed at his friends retort and handing him the root, he indicated that he should do the same to the graze on his cheek. "Ah ! but it won't be the same, you know what is coming" he joked. Sorlas laughed then closing his eyes and gritting his teeth he wait for the burning sensation that he did indeed knew was coming. He winced visibly as Tarranon squeezed the stinging sap along his cheek.

Once done he thanked Tarranon and put the unused piece of root back in his pouch, "The wound should not need dressing but you should keep an eye in it. Smiling he moved off to find Islist to see if they would be moving out right away, He did not fancy staying to long, with them being this near to Dol Guldur, the orcs that had escaped would surely come back with reinforcements.

[Tarien Ithil]

Rinoas helped Sorlas as he tended to Tarannon.
Afterwards, he vanished into the trees to explore.
His quiver of arrows and bow was strapped to his back.

Suddenly, he heard the shrill cry of the eagle. The eagle he'd seen circling them earlier.
He squinted up into the sky. This eagle was suspicious.
It cried again, then swooped down.
Without a thought, Rinoas ran back to the others.
"Islist! Isilist!" he shouted.
"Islist, a strange bird of prey, black as the night, is circling above us."

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor didn’t have a problem fighting. His moves were swift and agile with his sword. Without his sword he was a maladroit. He couldn’t throw a knife or arch, but with a sword, he was practically invincible.

When the orcs retreated he checked himself for any sort of cut or wound for poison. The only injury he found was a cut on his finger he had gotten when sliding his sword back into its scabbard. His hand had slipped and the blade cut his finger. The ranger wiped it on his tunic and went to put on his jerkin and pull on his boots.

When the cry came he had been sleeping, just having finished with his watch and had to fight in his pants and untucked tunic with his hair down and around his face. Now he pulled his light brown hair into a ponytail, tying it with a strip of leather and laced up the front of his jerkin. His boots over his arm, he walked towards the fire to see how everyone else was doing.

"Islist! Isilist!" shouted Rinoas, running back to the camp from wherever he had been. "Islist, a strange bird of prey, black as the night, is circling above us."

“You don’t say?” said Dûrvagor mockingly, following him over to Islist. Rinoas shot him a threatening look and the ranger backed out of ear shot, packing his things. They were sure to leave after the attack. The further they were from Dol Guldor, the better. Then suddenly a thought hit him. The horses!!

[ June 13, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Himaran]

Elleraden looked with disgust at the broken shaft of one of his arrows. It had snapped against an orc's chest-plate, though slaying it in the process. Tossing it on the ground, the ranger retrieved his other shafts and cleaned them carefully; after which he washed the dark blood off of his sword and knife.

As he walked into the middle of the camp, Durvagor suddenly yelled out; "The horses, the horses! They're gone!"

Elleraden looked around quickly. Durvagor was right; they had been frightened off by the orc raid. For all the rangers knew, their steeds were a mile away; deep in Mirkwood. Elleraden swore under his breath, realizing the hopelessness of their situation. Not only were they now stuck in Mirkwood forest, far from civilization, without a fast means of transportation, but much of their food and other supplies had been carried off by the horses in their flight.

He looked around the rest of the group, who stood silently in the center of the camp. All eyes turned to Islist, and Elleraden uttered the phrase which everyone felt and thought. "What do we do now, sir."

[Arestevana]

Tarannon froze as Durvagor's words reached him. He turned sharply, not wanting to believe it. However, he seemed to have no choice. The horses were gone.

He rushed over to the spot where they had been tethered, saw the frayed ropes and snapped pickets. He avoided stepping on the earth; surely Islist would want to track them, as he was much more experienced in that area. Tarannon shook his head, taking back that last thought. The horses would be long gone by now. Lost in the woods they would become easy prey for any wandering beasts. He glanced back at the other rangers, then turned his gaze to their leader. Elleraden seemed to read his mind as he asked "What do we do now, sir?"

[ June 16, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[maikafanawen]

“Well,” said Dûrvagor, tying his blanket the bottom of his pack. “Guess we go find them eh? No use moping around thinking about it. What’s a small trek in the woods?” Islist shook his head and glanced in the direction their mounts had retreated.

Dûrvagor spoke again, “Pernolë’s not much of a horse, I’ll admit, but he’s the only horse I got and I’d kinda like ‘im back." No one said anything. "Well Islist?” Taking orders from a twenty-three year old was starting to wear on Dûrvagor. But after all, he was Grod’s son, and Dûrvagor respected his father, so the ranger waited for what Islist had to say.

[Himaran]

Elleraden could sense the uncomfortable tension within the group, and stepped in to answer Durvagor's question. "Good ranger, we would all like to have our horses back. I cared deeply for my steed, who traveled with me for many years. But it would be nothing short of suicide to try to find them in Mirkwood; this close to Dol Guldor. We can do nothing but go on."

Islist nodded, taking control once again. "Yes, we will go on. Pack your things! We are leaving the camp immediately, and marching full speed until dark. The sun will rise soon, and we will be able to go quicker."

[Nerindel]

When Dûrvagor had alerted the group that the horses had gone, he immediatly looked up suprised, Tëlpetal was not easily spooked. He got up and walked over to were the horses had been teathered, he crouched down to the ground examining the many jumbled hoof prints. As he found what he was looking for he heard Aravir come up behind him. "What is it? Friend" he asked.

Sorlas lifted the three black shafted arrows he had just found, up so Aravir could see them, "Oh! no" he sighed heavily, thinking that not only were the horses missing they were injured too. Sorlas shook his head and turn the shafts around. Aravir's eye's widened with suprise "there's no tips!" he exclaimed taking the arrows from Sorlas's hand and examining them himself. "And no blood" Sorlas added as Aravir smelt the shaft for signs of horse blood.

"So they never intended to kill the horses, I don't understand" Aravir said looking again at the arrows he held, a puzzeled expression crossed his face.

"When I first saw the orc archers in the trees I thought their target was us, I was wrong they meant all along to spook the horses the battle was a diversion, they want us on foot for some reason." Sorlas told him "You think they have word of our journey!" Aravir concluded, Sorlas nodded grimly.

Then looking at the tracks again he suddenly burst into a smile "Look! Look!" he cried to Aravir. The older ranger got down on the ground to see what had excited Sorlas but all he could see was hoof prints, but as they moved forwards following the track's it became quite clear that two horses had took lead of the others, Aravir turned his head eyeing his younger friend "Your horse?" Sorlas was grinning from ear to ear "Yes and one other, he will lead them home" "And where is home?" Aravir asked cocking an eyebrow. North he said pointing out the trail, we've been at Grod's camp for five months, so he'll head for there!"

The two men then got up and wiped the dust from their clothes, "We should tell Islist what we have discovered" Sorlas said, he picked up the arrows he'd found and walk confidently over to the others to tell them what they had learnt.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor, his mouth slightly open in surprise, listened as Aravir and Sorlas told the group the opportune fate of the horses.

“There is one thing I will say,” the rangers turned towards him. “It sure wasn’t Pernolë leading. It probably took a great deal of ninnies and neighs to convince him that the orcs were not trying to kill them.” Eyes were rolled in exasperation. “But,” Dûrvagor continued, “why would the horses go all the way back home. Wouldn’t they just wait somewhere for us to find them?”

Sorlas shook his head, “I’d bet that the orcs chased them far enough so that they would have no other choice but to go home.” Dûrvagor shrugged, still confused, and they picked up what little things they had, following Islist from camp.

Luckily, Dûrvagor still had a few things. He had his sword, and pack that held his cloak for damper, cooler weathers, gloves, and some dried fruit and nuts. Missing were his clothes and a book of herb lore he kept with him. Adjusting his shoulders and sighing at the slight misfortune of walking, he followed, keeping up with the group.

[Himaran]

Sorlas shared the information he had with Islist and Elleraden. Islist sat in deep thought, speaking at length.

"The orcs may merely have wanted our food, or us for food. But as close as we are to Dol Guldor, I think that what you have discovered is too much of a coincidence. The orcs wanted us on foot, definantly. They want us to move slowly, so they can track our movements and prepare an ambush. Like I said, we cannot linger here any longer!"

The group completed their packing, and was soon marching again; the sun peaking over the trees. Meanwhile, a skinny tree-orc shimmied down from his perch, carrying a drawing of the company and its members, along with information regarding its numbers and supplies. It slipped to the south west, bound for Dol Guldor.

[Burzdol]

Islist led half of the party one way as Elleraden led the other the other way.

"Any orc we find, we quewstion then kill. Any questions?" Islist asked his smaller party.

"Can't we just kill 'em upon sight? It's easier than tryn' to catch one of them," Durvagor said.

"How about we kill you instead? That would be easy, too. It's not like we have to catch you either, you're right here," Islist raised his bow. The ranger pulled the string and aimed at Durvagor. Just before he shot, he moved the bow up and a cry came from the nearby tree. An orc fell with a large "thump" on the ground. The thing squealed like a pig. The small party walked to the crying orc. They started to question it but soon got fed up. Islist drew his sword and stabbed the orc's right arm. After more whimpering and no talking spalls, Islist stabbed the left arm. The orc still subdued the pain. The ranger then stabbed its left leg, followed by the right. Still, no information.

"For the love of Aragorn," Durvagor said and the killed the orc with a swift thrust to the neck.

"Let's get going now that you ruined our only source," Islist sadi as he left with a smirk.

[maikafanawen]

“Oh for the love of Aragorn,” said Dûrvagor, killing the orc with a swift, merciful thrust to the neck.

“Let's get going now that you’ve ruined our only source," Islist said as he left with a smirk.

“Only source?” said Dûrvagor, looking up to see Islist turn his back. “What in the—you were torturing him! That is illegal. Do you see what you hold in your hand?” He ran up and kicked the ranger’s sheath with his toe. “That’s a weapon. It takes lives. I can’t tell what you’re more proud of! Wielding that sword for your king, or wielding it for the pleasure it brings you to see your rival die, or in the last case, suffer?” Dûrvagor shook his head. Islist didn’t answer.

Dûrvagor fumed, his patience, usually immeasurable, was growing short. Words swarmed in his head. Words he’d like to scream at the neophyte ranger. Listen here little boy. I don’t know what exactly you have in mind but let’s get a few things strait. As much of a hot shot you think you are, save it for someone who cares, understand? That little trick with the bow: touchy, if you’re a fool in Gondor for the solstice festivals not if you’re answering a call from Lord Aragorn. Further more, I’d like to point out that a ranger never torments another being, no matter how evil it is. This being made clear I trust we shall encounter no further problems? Mm? Instead he shouldered his pack and kept his words inside.

The orc’s blood was spilled on the ground and Dûrvagor could not help but feel a bit sorry for his manner of death. Torture was cruelty no matter who it was inflicted upon and no matter who did it. Dûrvagor hoped that Islist would see someday. He didn’t much feel like walking with the group. When he got angry, which was rare, his face got flushed and his mind jumbled. He wasn’t quick or witty, and a terrible socialist. Instead, he walked in the middle of the company, head bent, trying to calm down.

[Nerindel]

Sorlas too was astounded by their captains treatment of the creature, he felt no love for their race but he would never lower himself to the evils of torture!

He had watched carefully the encounter between Islist and the Usually cheerful Dûrvagor, he saw a spark of anger in the usually calm mans eyes, to the injustice he had witnessed, though he did not speak of it openly. Sorlas nodded his head in new found respect for the usually flamboyant ranger, The man he thought of as the jester of the group, had a seriousness to him after all!

With the return of Ellerden and his group Dûrvagor fell into line at the centre of the reunited band of rangers, to collect his thoughts. Sorlas decided he would take the rear guard. He let the others pass him by then he fell in behind them. As he walked backwards watching their rear, he could feel the presence of Herevion and Rinoas to his left and right hidden among the trees doing the same. He gripped his bow ready for what ever the orcs had planned for them....

[ June 17, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Arestevana]

Tarannon watched Sorlas fall to the back of the group. Herevion and Rinoas walked in the trees to either side, copleting an effective rear-guard. They held swords or bows ready, covering the entire company. Tarannon walked behind even them, not caring for the danger. They had not noticed him, for he could be silent when he wanted to, and nearly invisible. He needed to be alone.

Islist’s torture of the captive spy frightened him: not because the cruelty had been rarely found in thir leader, but because he recognized it in himself. He could not say that he would have spared the creature, or even have killed it on sight. To his mind came unbidden the memory of the small house on the Westfold where he was born. He saw the flames grasping at dry timbers, saw the licking greedily at the thatched roof. He heard the screams—

The ranger shook his head, banishing the vivid images. He clenched his fist until the nails drew blood from the palm. Drawing his sword, he imagined dark blood running through the deep gutter, spilling onto the hard earth, staining the grass crimson. Shaking his head again, he moved to sheathe the blade. To his horror, he found that he could not.

Tarannon knew what was wrong. His war-wrath had not risen at the camp attack. Now the death of the spy had evoked the memories that brought a near-insane battle fury rushing through his veins. If he could not contain it, his companions were in danger. For long moments he fought the rage, finally controlling it. He sheathed his sword and with an effort slowed his breath.
“Seregsul,” He muttered. Though surpressed, it would return; and soon.

Tarannon moved, unnoticed, back amidst the marching group. Immediately, he noticed something that he had missed while walking behind. The rangers were silent. They stared mainly at the ground or straight ahead, and avoided meeting eachother’s eyes. Their expressions were tense and reserved. He noticed Durvagor walking in the middle of the company, his head bent, obviously fighting some personal battle. Tarannon avoided speaking, not sure he could handle a stressful conversation. Luckily, with no one else wanting to even think about talk, that was not even challenging.

[ June 17, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion, observing the others with interest, could tell that many were angry, or disgusted, or quiet for other reasons. He, himself, merely kept silence because that was his usual state. He did not care for orcs, and it seemed that torture should be below the rangers, but he had not actively intervened. He did not care nearly enough.

He straitened his scabbard, dropping back to the end of the line with two others. He watched all around, but nothing seemed to be suspicious. A bit quieter than usual, perhaps. But it could be expected in these evil parts. Walking was a bit of a nuisance, but he did not much care that his horse was gone. He could walk as far as any other, and Thoron was not always needed. It mattered only how far Aragorn was.

He thought back for a moment to the battle, and was almost momentarily sick. It was his weakness. He had fought coolly, collectedly, as he did everything, receiving only a few shallow cuts. But it was not that... he never stopped others from killing, but himself... he did not mind at the moment of battle, ever. But now it made him feel, have feelings, and he did not like it. He was guarded because he had made himself guarded. He would need to work, for to help Lord Aragorn, he would have to stop feeling again...

[ June 17, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[Burzdol]

Islist knew Durvagor was frustrated at his manner towards the orc. Soon he could tell that the ranger was about to say something to prove he was smarter, but Islist spoke first, "I know you may not like the way I killed that orc, but my motives run deeper than you will ever know. If the same thing ever happened to you, you would do the same to the foul beasts."

"And what was that, O great leader?" Durvagor shot back smugly.

"My mother was tortured before my eyes by these things. She was eaten alive in front of my own eyes. Now, my father is dying from more of them. And you think that we should feel sorry for them?" Islist yelled at the other ranger.

From then on, they walked in silence. The rangers only spoke to the dying orcs to try to pry out information.

[Himaran]

Elleraden walked alongside Islist as the party continued. They had regrouped upon hearing orc crys, which Islist had explained to him as a sentry which they had slain. The ranger knew that there was more to the story than merely what he had been told, but he worried about it little. Elleraden knew that he would get the full tale from one of the other rangers at a later time and date.

Looking around the group, the ranger realized that something was wrong. Everyone kept their eyes forward, or on the ground. No one spoke. There was tension enough in the air to walk on it, that was certain. But the ranger merely kept his thoughts to himself, and continued marching.

Meanwhile, several miles away, the black gate of Dol Guldor opened, letting forth a stream of vile, black armored creatures. Orcs and wargs, Uruk Hai, Mirkwood wolves, and even two monstrous trolls. They dashed into the forest, following a scout which had spotted the company several days back. Their orders: destroy the company down to the last ranger, and bring their weapons and supplies back to Dol Guldor.

The rangers continued marching south, oblivious to the fact that a virtual horde of enemy forces was bearing in on their postion...

[Earendil Halfelven]

Aravir walked quietly. He hadn't said much. He enjoyed watching the others argue with eachother. But he became alarmed when Islist pointed his arrow at Durvagor. At that point, his opinion of Islist changed somewhat. However, he didn't really care that he had tortured the orc. It was an animal that had received a taste of its own medicine.

He knew that being too close Dol Goldur meant that they were in a lot of danger. Sauron would definately try to stop the Dúnedain from answering Aragorn's call. After they defeated the orc party, Aravir knew that Dol Goldur would muster a more formidable company against them.

He didn't feel that his arrows were going to be of much use here in the forest. They were too many trees and brush in the way. You'd waste time finding a target among all the greenery. Instead, he drew his sword, and kept it in front of him. Aravir did not look at the ground. Instead, he strained his ears to hear the slightest sound. He felt that something was already on its way.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor instantly regretted any harsh words he had shot or thought to shoot at Islist. If what he said was true, than Dûrvagor decided never again to interfere. The horror of what the young ranger had seen was almost too awful to be true. He didn’t want to believe it. He’d try not to. In his forty plus years alive, he’d never experienced such terror and this man had seen the worst imaginable before his twentieth year.

Although, Dûrvagor reasoned, that doesn’t account for his ill manner towards the rest of his companions. Still feeling a bit apprehensive towards Islist, he turned his gaze towards the sky and took a deep breath. He sensed something: the foul stench of orcs, lots of them. Or maybe just the stench of the orc Isli—er—I killed. Yeah...that's it. But he was wrong.

[ June 18, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Tarien Ithil]

Rinoas wiped his sword on the grass. It was smeared with black orc blood from teh the orcs he'd slain earlier.

He crossed over to Tarnnon's tent. He was there, shapening his sword.

"Hello," said Rinoas to his friend.

Hello!" answered Tarannon. Come on in and see my sword. It's slain over one hundred orcs in its time!"

Rinoas was awed by this but decided to change the subject.

"So what do you think of this journey? A bit strange, if you ask me. That eagle is bothering me and robbing me of my sleep," he said.

Tarannon appeared to be thinking.
"Did you tell Islist?" he asked.
"Yes," said Rinoas.

Then he heard the shrill cry again.
The horses stirred. Rinoas and Tarannon emerged from the tent to see. The eagle was soaring up above and then vanished into the clouds.

It was all very puzzeling.

Rinoas wandered from the tent, followed by Tarannon. Then suddenly, Rinoas tripped and then something was on him, a knife at his throat. A goblin was clawing at his neck, rasping.

"Help," Rinoas cried. Tarannon fought the goblin but soon cries of others echoed around them.

[Arestevana]

"Help!"
As soon as Tarannon heard his friend's yell, he was on his feet, sword ringing from it's sheath. He ran toward the scuffle, horrified to see an orc attacking Rinoas. The ranger was fending the creature off as best he could, but had no time to reach his own blade. "Duck," Tarannon suggested. Rinoas did so, and the orc was neatly dispatched with a thrust through the head.

The first orc was followed immediately by another, as Rinoas went for his bow rather than his sword. Tarannon followed the other's lead, pinning two orcs to a tree with a single well-placed arrow. He could see no more, but expected that they were watching from the thicker trees around them. Tarannon hurried back to the others, wondering what they were going to do.

[ June 28, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[Tarien Ithil]

"Oliphaunt!" yelled Rinoas as the huge creature stumbled through the trees.

He was amazed that these orcs had captured such a creature.

The beast tossed its great head about, trampling the trees around it.

Rinoas and Tarannon froze then quickly Tarannon regained himself and shot an arrow at the head of the oliphaunt. It bounced off harmlessly.

"Come, quickly and make haste!" yelled Rinoas. "We cannont face the beast alone!"

"Islist!" shouted Tarannon. The two rangers dashed through the trees blindly, followed closely by their foes.

"Quick, Tarannon!" Rinoas yelled as they ran. "They're right behind us!"

[Arestevana]

They joined the other rangers gathering around Islist. Out of the corner of his eye, Tarannon noticed an orc creeping down the side of a hill. He turned, drawing his bow.

Horrified, he saw Herevion laying on the ground at the orcs feet. With a shout Tarannon loosed the arrow, which took the orc through the head, killing in instantly. He watched Herevion rise, turning back to listen to Islist when he saw that he was alright. They began to march again, slowly drawing nearer to the forest's edge.

[ June 28, 2003: Message edited by: Arestevana ]

[Burzdol]

Islist strode before the rest in his party and started to speak, "Everyone. Durvagor has found the trail of the orcs that stole our horses. I am sorry to say that two of the horses were found dead, eaten, on that trail. We must now get our horses back. Who's with me?"

The whole company cheered or yelled battle cries. Soon they all ran down the trail and started to gain on the robber orcs.

[Burzdol]

The ranger company came to a large grove of trees, where Islist halted them. In front of the grove was the orc party that still had the horses.

"Okay. Elleraden, Durvagor, and I will get the horses. Everyone else, distract them and draw them away from the horses. We'll do the rest," Islist said as he crouched low to the ground.

The three ran into the grove as the rest of the group ran for the orc party. Soon the three rangers heard clashing steel, screams, and war cries.

"Now, let's go!" Islist yelled as they ran into the camp. They quickly ran back out with the horses by their reins.

Elleraden yelled as he ran, "Retreat! All rangers retreat!"

[Nerindel]

Islists plan was working as they fought with the surprised orcs he saw Islist,Elleraden and Dûrvagor out of the corner of his eye leading the horses to safety, he was relieved to see that Telpetal was among them.

The orc he was battling swung it's crude sword to meet his the sudden ring nearly deafened him, as they locked Sorlas kicked out and sent the orc sprawling to the ground, fumbling desperately to find the sword that had flown from it's hand.

"Retreat, Rangers Retreat!" he heard Elleraden cry. he kicked the sword further from the sprawling orcs grasping hand then ran after the others.

They ran without stopping for some time he could still hear a few orcs following in the distance. As they slowed to a stop he burst out laughing slapping Tarannon on the back "Did you see their faces" he laughed remembering the look on the stunned orc's faces as they had charged into their midst...

As he looked around he could see that they had finally made it to the eaves of the forest and the desolate, treeless brownlands now streched before them, this land was a sore reminder to all of them of what they were still to face. the land had been ruined during the last war between Sauron and the Last Alliance at the end of the second age and it had never truely recovered. Recounting his history, he sighed heavily, then he grimly trudged over to see how his horse was and what if anything had survived in Telpetal's panniers.

[ June 27, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[maikafanawen]

They mounted and rode quickly away from the battlefield leaving the orcs lost in their wake. The two horses that had been killed belonged to Aravir and Bramen. The latter had lost his life in the battle and the former rode now behind Durvagor until he could get a horse from the nearest village. Pernole was uninjured but cagey. His magnificent head constantly darted to and fro at the slightest movement.

“Here now,” chided Durvagor at one of the show horse’s skittish movements. “You’re going to have to stop that. You’re a ranger’s horse and I’m going to teach you to act like one if it kills me.” Then, kicking the horse in its side, he continued on until dawn when the orcs would be immobile.

“Okay,” said Islist a bit breathlessly as they cleared the last ridge. “We’ll stop for a bit to rest the horses, and ourselves,” he said, stretching his back as he hopped off his own steed. Durvagor removed Pernole’s tack to the discontent of some of the rangers.

“We might have to ride off quickly,” one reproached. Durvagor shrugged, “He‘s not used to constant travel yet.” The ranger looked unconvinced. “He needs a break,” Durvagor assured him curtly, “and he’s my horse.”

Fire wasn’t started right away for the morning was hot. Durvagor rolled his sleeves up and skewered three rabbits; they hadn’t eaten for a good twelve hours of fighting and riding. As proof to that though, he looked over to see the horses drinking and splashing in the nearby creek.

He was reluctant to stand over a fire to cook his catch but he was starving. Aravir offered to take turns turning the rabbit as it cooked. After a good half hour of cooking and eating, the rangers’ hunger was deferred.

[Burzdol]

Islsit was the last of his company to eat. When he got to Durvagor, he said, "Thank you. This should be good."

The two sat together and talked. Later they were joined by Elleraden. They then sat to tell stories about their ancestors, then to fantasies of the battles they would be in with Aragorn. Islist looked around at everyone, most of them had finished eating. The ones who didn't, were almost done.

Islist stood up and began, "We are now on the edge of Mirkwood and the Brown Lands. We must ride quickly through those plains. We are a large, open target. When we do ride, keep your guard up constantly. Wargs and riders will kill us quicker than any group of orcs will. We are going to leave soon. Pack up, and get ready."

The rangers rushed around, getting ready. Soon they were all ready and Islist yelled his order. They were off to help Aragorn.

[Burzdol]

As soon as the company was around two miles from Mirkwood, a group of wargs broke through th dense foilage. Uruk-hai ran behind them, swinging their barbaric swords. Islist quickly ordered a halt, "Everyone, split into two groups. One group will flank them, the other will take a head-on charge. I will lead the charge. Elleraden will divide you."

"Islist,"Elleraden started, "Which group will I be in?"

"Mine. I want the best, and most experienced in the charge. Oh, make sure Durvagor also takes the charge."

"Yes sir."

The two groups split ito the arranged groups, and then Islist charged. The others were suprised by the quick action, since none had even formed into a main group yet. The closest behind Islist were Elleraden and Durvagor. Their horses worked twice as hard to catch up with their leader's in his moment of insanity. The group could now hear the growls of the wargs only fifty feet away. The rangers started crying for Gondor, and then soon quit upon meeting the enemy.

Islist took down the first warg by double teaming it and it's master with Elleraden. The beast fell, but the ranger's victory was short lived. More wargs rushed in to meet the small ranger force. Their hope of winning was fadding since uruks now joined the fight.

Above the clashing of swords, snarling of wargs, and yells of pain, one word was heard, "GONDOR!"

The flanking party rushed in like a tidal wave on a bare beach. The enemy was now divided also. One force to face the frontal assault, and another to face the back. With the last Uruk dying by Durvagor's sword, the company was off.

Over the rushing wind Islist yelled, "There will be more of them. Let us ride quickly now."

[Nerindel]

Islist had quickly ordered a halt when they saw the enemy in persuit. "Everyone, split into two groups. One group will flank them, the other will take a head-on charge. I will lead the charge. Elleraden will divide you."

"I want the best and most experienced in the charge."

At these words Sorlas sat up on his horse and made ready to go with the charge, but his ego was deflated when he heard Ellerden address him, "You will lead the flank!" He stole a quick glance over his shoulder at the other group then nodded his head curtly.

He pulled on Telpetal's reigns and headed swiftly behind the dense foliage to flank their enemies. As he rode he looked to his left and right to make sure there was no ambush for them as he searched with his eyes he took note of those how rode with him.

To his left was Tarannon, reigns in his right hand and his short sword already in his left, his tall slender form sat squarely on his horse and his grey eyes shined with excitement and apprehension.

To his right sat Rinoas, his golden hair tussled by the wind and the gleam of battle in his eyes. Sorlas could hear another behind him and as he looked back he could see the emotionless face of Herevion, tight behind him, the shield on his left arm gleamed lightly in the afternoon sun.

At the top of a well hidden grassy knoll Sorlas raised his hand to stop them, he raised up to look down at their quarry. The orc were close but not yet apon them, Tarannon stirred impatiently, "Not yet!" he said sternly with out taking his eyes of the battle below, the other two riders seemed to know what he was waiting for and didn't stir.

The minute the Uruk's join the fight, Sorlas drew his sword and kicked off, the others following suit. "GONDOR!" the four riders shouted in unison as they charged down behind the startled orcs.

The Uruk's at the rear and a few of the wargs turned to face their charge, Sorlas swung his sword at the first Uruk slashing it across the chest, then he swung Telpetal about and kicked at a warg that had went for Telpetal's throat, hitting it hard in the face with his sole of his boot, it let out a yelp as it fell to the ground, but before it could get back up Tarannon had drove his short sword through it's matted, hairy side. Sorlas nodded to Tarannon and quickly turned back to the next oncoming orc.

Sorlas was breathing heavily as he saw Durvagor finish of the last Uruk, but they did not stop instead Islist rode them on, "There will be more of them. let us ride quickly now." he heard him cry over the rushing wind. And he did not doubt his leader for a minute.

They rode south then followed the course of the River Anduin. The desolate brownlands making way for the sharp ridges and deep valleys of the Emyn Muil.

They had come some hundred and fifty miles in little under ten hours, it was now dark, the horses were exhausted, infact Durvagor's horse looked near to collapsing under the weight of two riders and the moon afforded them little light.

"we must stop!" Sorlas cried "Our horses will be of little use to us if they die of exhaustion."

mutterings of agreement swept throughout the group, Islist calmly raised his arm in the air for silence then when the muttering ceased he went on "I share your concerns my friend, and we will be stopping shortly, just beyond this ridge is the Sarn Gebir rapids we will camp there." as Istlist pointed in the direction of the rapids, the company nodded and continued at a slow trot.

It was not long before they reached the rapids, Sorlas lead telpetal to a last fast flowing part of the river, there you go boy he said patting the horse affectionatly watching as Telpetal drink deeply.

As he watched he saw his own reflection in the river, but he bearly recognised it, caked with blood and mud. He wearily knelt beside the river and cupping his hands he scooped up a handful of the cold crisp water and threw it over his face, He shivered as some of it ran down the back of his neck.

Once washed he made his way back to the camp were Islist was organising the watch, "ah! there you are" Tarannon said grinning at him, we're to provide the evening meal, so what will it be fish or game he said looking from the river to the small wood that flanked it.

"I think game would prove easier" he laughed, taking his bow from his back. "the river is to fast and deep here" he continued as he headed in the direction of the small wooded area.

[ July 03, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[maikafanawen]

Durvagor, with the help of Aravir, washed down Pernole and gave him a good, scrubbing brush. The horse was exhausted and not used to the straining ride against the wargs they had endured that day. Aravir was kind enough not to say anything about his weaknesses. Instead he unloaded his own belongings and set them down by a tree stump as Durvagor finished with his horse.

With a coat of pearls and mane of snow
Non beauty can compare
His grace and splendor dashes all
Pernole was born with flair

“Well it’s not a good rhyme I know,” he said, patting Pernole’s nose. “But you deserve some praise. Here I’ll add a second verse.”

Bravery indeed was not his strength
Before this dawn occurred
Tho’ as soon as peril showed it’s face
His mind was not deterred

Durvagor shrugged and watched as Pernole, still a bit shaken, made his way to the rapids to drink in the coolness. The ranger then proceeded closer towards the blazing fire and set out to sharpen his sword and do his best to smooth out the few nicks it had received on the Uruk’s armor. Soon, Tarannon and Sorlas returned with food.

[Burzdol]

Islist started to cook the rabbits and other game Sorlas and Tarannon had brought back. Durvagor watched the horses as they drank from the river, and Elleraden seasoned the new;y cooked meat.

"Everyone eat up. We leave bright and early tomorrow. The Uruks don't have to stop like us, they'll be gaining on us evey minute. Get some sleep as soon as you eat. Good night."

[Himaran]

Elleraden sat, chewing a piece of cooked rabbit slowly. He was unusually quiet, which translated into frustration with himself. The ranger had seen much death over the span of his life; had watched dear friends be slain before his very eyes. But the company had already lost one member, and perhaps more to come; with a Uruk Hai force tracking them. How long could the small company go before they were destroyed?

The ranger looked out over the foreboding ridges of Emyn Muil. Elleraden wondered if their water supply would last the trip over the confusing maize of rock. They would certainly have to ration it, if nothing else.

[ July 04, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[Nerindel]

Sorlas crawled around the ground feeling, for what! he thought, he could hardly see his eyes were blurry. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, Tears and blood obscured his vision, he looked at the blood on his hands then saw the carnage around him...it was a battlefield. All around him were his comrades dead or near death, some pleading with him to save them! He fumbled for his herb's but his belt was not there nor was his sword!! he searched wildly around blood again obscuring his vision suddenly he was chilled to the bone as a dark shadow bore over him laughing maniacally.

Sorlas sat bolt up right sweat dripping from his face, he was breathing heavily. A dream he thought as he wiped the sweat from his face. He quickly glanced around to make sure he hadn't woke anyone, it was still dark but as he looked at the stars he could tell that morning was not far off.

He quietly rolled up his bed gear and saddled up Telpetal. Their trek through the Emyn Muil would be a difficult one, the horses would need to be lead and then they would have to figure out away to cross the river, he thought on these things, trying to banish the vivid visions that still remained from his nightmare.

There was plenty of dried fruits and oats in his pack so he filled a bowl and eat the dried oats tasting like dried wood shavings with out any milk to soak them in but he was hungry so he eat quickly then went down to the river. he knelt down and cupped his hands plunging then into its icy depths, he took a long drink to easy his throat from the dry breakfast, then lifting another cupped handful he threw it over his face rubbing his hand through his hair and across his neck, once washed he retied his hair at the nape of his neck and made his way back to the camp.

It was dawn and the sun was only but rising a thin mist lay about the camp coming up from the river, as he drew closer to the camp he could see that the others were now rising and clearing up all traces of their camp, Sorlas helped them and little under two hours the were ready to set off again.

Sorlas had not been the only one awake before dawn, as they led their horses cautiously over the rocky ridges of the Emyn Muil Elleraden came up beside him "Restless night my friend?" he asked tentatively, Sorlas nodded grimly but said nothing, not wanting to look like some foolish child that was frightened by nightmares.

"How do you Think Gondor fares" he asked changing the subject, Elleraden's look show him that he to had been wondering the same thing.

[Himaran]

Elleraden thought over the question, much like the one he himself had been pondering. "How do you Think Gondor fares", Sorlas had asked. How can we know? We can only hope, and guess, and discuss the answer.

"Well, Sorlas, we have seen no horde of orcs heading northward, fresh from a victory in Gondor; and that is all we have to hope on. I for one believe that the White City stands, and that its defenders are standing strong against the darkness of Mordor, but who can tell, really."

[ July 05, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion just listened quietly, not saying anything or standing up. He still touched his scar every few minutes, as if remembering, and his eyes gleamed in the still-dark, but nothing else showed him to be awake at all, though he was sitting upright.

He wondered only what would happen if Aragorn... failed. Of course, he knew of Lord Aragorn's heritage, that he carried the Sword That Was Broken, and all the other legends and truths spun about him... but still. He was still a man. And as for what would happen to their own company if Aragorn himself failed... he didn't even need to wonder. They would all be dead. The thought was repulsive to Herevion. It was not dying. He could take pain, and he did not have anything in particular to live for. It was only... death. He remembered the feeling he had had when looking at the dead orcs, and knew that he never wanted anybody to look at his own cold, stiff body like that.

Herevion shook his head. What was he thinking about? There was yet more to come before anything like that, and these thoughts were dangerously close to feelings...

[ July 05, 2003: Message edited by: GaladrieloftheOlden ]

[maikafanawen]

Morning came in a brilliant hue of red: storm weather. The rapids were swift and dark clouds were rolling in the distance, a foreboding sign of disaster. The wind hadn’t begun to roar when they were gathered at the edge of the Anduin trying to decide how to get the horses over.

“Well, we do have one boat. We could take ‘em over one at a time,” suggested one ranger. Islist shook his head.

“That would take too long. The storm will be upon us within the next hour or so.” Ideas were exchanged and shot down for a while before Dûrvagor knew what to do. Two years ago when he was visiting his parents’ at their ranch back in Gondor, there was a disastrous flood and the stables were washed away. They had to take the horses to their neighbor’s stables to keep them safe from hungry wargs. Dûrvagor now remembered how they did it successfully.

“I’ve got it,” he said coming up beside Islist and Elleraden. “We’re going to need lots of strong rope though and a few rangers willing to get a bit wet, but it should get us all across before the storm comes.”

“What’s your idea Dûrvagor?” asked Elleraden.

“We can tie ropes to connecting their bridals, putting them in a sort of line, then one person uses Frodo's boat to lead them across and a few others secure the ends of the lines that will come back around in a sort of circle pully, moving the horses across the river though still keeping their heads above water as they swim. I think it would work very nicely. I hope we have enough rope,” he said scratching his chin. “Then we take the boat back and forth bringing over the tack and other supplies as well as us rangers...unless we would like to swim the rapids…”

“No, no,” said Islist jovially, “we’ll use the boats. Well let’s get to work before the storm comes. We don’t want to be stuck in the river when it begins to thunder.” Dûrvagor told Sorlas and Herevion to collect all the rope they could from the rangers. They got plenty and began tying the lengths to the horses’ bridles.

Pernolë gave them a bit of trouble. The lead rope went on fine and the other end was connected to Islist’s horse in front of him, but the white stallion would simply not step into the deeper water.

“Come on you stupid animal,” shouted Dûrvagor as he tried to push him into the water. He stripped off his shirt and jerkin and waded in around to Pernolë’s front. “Come on boy, it’s just water see?” He dipped under water quickly and re-emerged shaking the water from his face. “Come on...” he swam backwards trying to get Pernolë to follow him.

“Apple?” Sorlas called from the shore. Dûrvagor looked and saw all the rangers lined up, watching his pitiful progress with his horse. He laughed in spite of it all.

“Why not!” he yelled. Sorlas tossed him the fruit and Dûrvagor held it in front of him, waving it before Pernolë. The horse’s ears pricked up and he moved forward slightly to take the fruit just as Dûrvagor moved backwards. “Ah...come on...that’s it...” Finally Pernolë was towards the center of the river, swimming on his own accord with Herevion‘s, Sorlas‘, and Rinoas’ horses behind him. The ranger swam back to the shore, pulling himself up on the ropes so as not to be swept over by the quickening rapids. He got to shore and dried up a bit before setting his things in the first boat to be taken over.

The sky was growing dark and only Elleraden’s horse had reached the other end and Tarannon’s horse, Morroch, hadn’t even been put on the ropes yet.

“We’ve got to hurry,” whispered Dûrvagor to Elleraden when he too emerged from the river after checking the ropes: they had begun to fray. He nodded and Tarannon’s horse was ushered into the rapids.

The first thunder crack sounded across the valley, ricocheting off the canyon walls up river. The rangers froze for a second and looked into the river. The horses were neighing frantically. Both Elleraden and Dûrvagor jumped into the water trying their best to steady them.

“Whoa boy! Whoa!” said Elleraden as he reached Tarannon’s first. “Keep their heads above water!” he yelled to Dûravgor. Aravir swam past on the opposite side to help Islist bring them in on the other shore.

It began to rain.

The rapids doubled in speed and the ropes were taut and scrapping along the tree where they were tied.

“Don’t let them snap!” shouted Dûrvagor to Rinoas and Tarannon on their side of the river. The two rangers held onto the ropes as Elleraden’s horse was pulled ashore soon followed by Pernolë. There were still four horses to go and the lightening continued to streak across the sky in angry bursts.

Disaster struck: the ropes between Tarannon’s and Rinoas’ horses snapped. Luckily, Morroch hadn’t gone far and was able to be pulled ashore. The rapids had become so fast that Rinoas was soon dragged down river towards the falls dragging Dûrvagor and Elleraden with them.

Aravir was on it immediately. He ran down the length of his shore, diving into the water just at the place where Rinoas’ horse caught and held fast to Dûrvagor’s wrist.

“Bring them on now!!” he shouted back to Islist through the roaring wind. Each horse was then guided to the bank and led into the trees where they were coaxed into calmness by the four who were on that side. Across the river, Tarannon, Sorlas and Herevion still stood with Tarannon’s horse.

“What should we do?” Dûrvagor asked Islist as they peered through the sheets of rain to the opposite bank.

“We have to wait until the storms over and try to get him across when it subsides. It’s not up for discussion,” he cut in, stopping Dûrvagor from arguing. “It’s the safest route.”

The rain came in torrential amounts well into the afternoon and the rapids swelled. The sun had begun its evening decent by the time the rain stopped enough for them to get Morroch and the three rangers across. To everyone’s astonishment and gratuity, Tarannon’s horse didn’t give them any trouble and was easily led across by his master.

Loading the two boats with supplies they ferried over the other rangers and all the gear. Once everyone was on the western shore it was very dark and it had begun to rain again. Taking shelter in an outcropping of rock, the rangers waited out the rest of the storm, thanking Eru their lives, as well as their horses‘, had been spared.

[ July 09, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Nerindel]

It was morning before the storm finally passed and a thin mist covered the ground about their feet. Islist and Elleraden walked amongst the company urging them up. They rode on for about an hour in silence before Islist raised his hand to halt them again. The mist is thicker here Sorlas thought as he dismounted Telpetal to take a look around but as he walked further forwards he could just make out the dank dark marsh that lay before him, he carefully stepped forwards he felt his boot sink in to the soft mud and quickly pulled it back. "It seems the storm still hampers us" he said aloud, many nodded their heads in agreement.

After some discussion Islist spoke "We shall go west, crossing the Entwash and making for the west road." Sorlas nodded his agreement with the others and remounted his horse. It was early afternoon when they reached the Entwash and Sorlas was relieved to see that it was not as deep or as fast flowing as the other they had crossed the previous day. Infact they had merely only to wade the horses across, once they were all across they stopped only long enough to fill their stomachs with the dried fruits and stale honey cakes that were left and to fill their near empty water skins with the clear crisp water of the Entwash.

Under less than an hour they were again mounted and heading west towards the road, once on the west road they followed it through the Fenmarch. Sorlas was sure that on more than one occasion he had heard the very distant rumble of many hoofs ahead, but still they went on. The weather had remained damp and dreary and the heavy showers did not help their mood, they were all wet and miserable by the time Islist stopped them again. In the drawing darkness Sorlas dismounted, threw back his dripping hood and had a look around.

"Firien wood...., we shall camp here tonight was all that he heard Islist tell the others. He was studying the ground, the rain had washed most of it away but he could still see signs that many horses had been here and as he inspected the camp further he found washed out foot prints Definitely men and a lot of them he thought to himself. "Look the beacons are lit!" Sorlas turned to see Durvagor pointing in the direction of the beacons, "Rohan!!" he suddenly exclaimed laughing that he had not realised it sooner. He soon became aware that the others were staring at him crouched in the mud under the eaves of the wood with puzzled expressions on their faces.

" Thought I heard the rumble of very distant hoofs ahead of us as we rode on the road, I had feared that the Uruk Hai's had found some way to cross the river before us and had over taken us as we waited out the storm, but I was wrong! I now believe it is the Rohirrim that ride afore us." he explained.

"How can you be so sure?" Tarannon asked sceptically. It was now Aravir's turn to laugh as he too saw the signs in the ground afore him "Horses, The uruks were not riding horses" he said turning back to Tarannon. "But they could have acquired some" Rinoas put in , "Not this many Islist grinned as he too crouched to the ground for a better look.

Fresh spirits had surfaced in the company as they prepared camp, Aravir and Durvagor volunteered to find food, Herevion and Rinoas took the first watch, Islist and Elleraden took the horses down to the stream to drink then sat under a great oak discussing possible battle strategies, which left Sorlas and Tarannon with the task of building the fire and cooking the meal. Tarannon had already confessed to Sorlas some time ago that he was not a very good cook, so when Sorlas had asked him if he would prepare the fire instead he eagerly accepted.

Sorlas took the two pans the company carried and headed down to the stream to fill them, when he returned he saw that Tarannon had the fire built and was just lighting it. It took a good deal of coaxing before the fire burned as some of the wood was still damp. Sorlas searched his pack and produced a small dark coloured pouch as he carefully opened it the pungent smell of the rich dark coffee grinds reached his nostrils, he smiled it did not get damp as he had feared he closed the pouch and put both pans over the fire to boil.

It wasn't long before Aravir and Durvagor came back with no less than four plump rabbits between them. Durvagor sat down next to Sorlas and helped to gut, skin and bone the conies, they then cut the meat into large chunks and put it into the now simmering water, Sorlas took some mint he had found earlier in their journey and added it to flavour the watery stew. "Now if we only had some vegetables this would be a fine meal" he laughed jovially to Durvagor. "Will carrots suffice" Durvagor grinned pulling two large carrots from his pack, Sorlas's face was one of total surprise as Durvagor continued " I was saving them for Penole, but I'm sure he won't mind" Sorlas could not help but laugh as he took the carrots from him. He diced them roughly and threw them into the pot with the minted rabbit.

Within an hour everyone was eating rabbit stew and drinking the last of the hot black coffee. Sorlas was careful to set aside two bowlfuls aside for Herevion and Rinoas. Once they had finished Elleradan and Tarannon had offered to wash up, So Sorlas got up and went to relieve the two silent watchers.

"Wait up! I shall take watch with you tonight my friend" Sorlas stopped and waited for Durvagor to catch up, the older man was grinning broadly and there was an unmistakable spring in his step as he approached. It took them some time to locate Herevion and Rinoas hidden among the dark oaks. "There is stew waiting for you back at camp" Sorlas told them as they relieved them from their watch , "And coffee if your quick" Durvagor added laughing jovially.

Sorlas and Durvagor decided to take their watch closer to the camp, they climbed one of the oaks so that they had a better view over the whole camp and began their watch, Sorlas was glad that his watch tonight was with Durvagor and not one of the quieter rangers, as he hoped Durvagor would distract his thoughts from the upcoming battle and the terrible dreams he had been having since they left mirkwood.

[Burzdol]

Islist woke by the hands of Elleraden. He then went back to cooking breakfast, while Islist woke the others. Murmuurs rose about when they were to leave, and more about when breakfast would be done, most said in mocking tones, "C'mon Elleraden, while were young."

"Yeah, yeah, it's coming. You guys are going to cook next time so I can hassle you. Anyway, if you keep complaining, you don't get anything," he said laughing.

Soon the rangers had packed and were on there way, now merry laughter and jokes.

[Himaran]

A cloud seemed to have been lifted from the company; with the river and Uruk Hai behind them. All were secretly pleased that the daunting task of passing through Emyn Muil was being avoided, and the group now walked with the air of certainty common of rangers soon to enter a dangerous battle.

But Elleraden still had his doubts about the journey. Even if they did reach Aragorn, how much help would a few rangers be in the long-term battle. Pushing the question from his mind, the ranger awoke from his deep thought too late to avoid walking into Herevion; who was marching in front of him. His action caused a chain reaction, and soon the entire company was triping and falling along the dusty path, and laughing the whole time.
__________________________________


After several days of travelling along the road through Anorien, the company was finally nearing their ultimate goal. After checking a map carefully, Islist declared that the company was within several hours' march of Minas Tirith. An air of excitement ran through the group, and the rangers quickened their pace.

Two hours later, the pinacle of the White Tower of Gondor could be seen peaking over the tips of the dark mountains...

[ July 11, 2003: Message edited by: Himaran ]

[maikafanawen]

It hadn’t been so long since Dûrvagor had been to Minas Tirith, but as they entered the city, they were all dismayed to find disaster. The city was yet barely untouched but the resonance of battle echoed up from the Pellenor fields.

Dûrvagor looked imperceptibly around at his fellow companions. To his mild surprise and great satisfaction they were not somber faced or disconsolate, but instead courageous and even optimistic. A few yet wore grins.

“I knew it,” said the oldest ranger back to Aravir who still rode behind him.

“Knew what,” he whispered back.

“Didn’t I tell you when danger was still far off? Did I not say that so help me Eru, I‘d show these men some joy that lingered underneath the Shadow? Look at them now Aravir. They all smile, faces alight with the promise of a brighter morning.” He paused as his gaze settled on Herevion before he added jovially, “I’d be willing to wager that there is only one thing that would make that one smile.” Aravir snorted.

“I think it’s a bit obvious don’t you?” The two chuckled silently as they breached the final hill before the fields.

The sight that was before them as they reached the battlefields was magnificent in Dûrvagor‘s mind. Here they were, all the men of Middle Earth who had a spark of hope that lingered still under the shadow’s threatening presence stood fast. Swords of ancient make were held triumphantly before the foe of darkness that oppressed them from the East. Not a coward stood among the ranks. Not a man unworthy of the honor to fight for Lord Aragorn took up his place with the brave.

With that the company rode hard, their horses’ hooves beating the ground like the firmament’s thunder cracks of angry gods. The wind whipped through the manes of the steeds and the capes of the Dúnedain that rode to aid their king. Through the unsettled breezes whispered their battle cry:

For Gondor and the Dúnedain we ride,
For honour and glory we will fight,
Till our foe is defeated
And the lands reunited.

In Aragorn, cheif of the Dúnedain, all hope lies.
When he calls the faithful will ride,
So to Gondor we ride, swift and sure.
To Aid Isildur's heir!

The rangers joined the battle in a blur of avid determination; each one set on a victory. Aravir gained possession of an unmanned horse early into the fighting and took up his own mount for the remainder of the fighting. It wasn’t long before Dûrvagor lost sight of his companions who had disappeared into the madness, fighting to acquire what should never have been taken.

[ July 14, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Nerindel]

March 14 ( The Battle of the Pelennor Fields)

It was early-morning when they arrived, they found the great gates torn down and the first level of the city on fire, but the city was not taken. Sorlas grinned, hope and renewed courage swelled in him the white city still stood!.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as they breached the final hill, and with the sound of their battle cry whispering on the wind he drew his sword and charged valiantly into the fray, his sword thrusting and cutting as he went.

Sorlas managed to fight his way towards the rear of the Rohirrim and with the riders of Rohan he helped to vanquished the Hardrims forward army, it was during this frey that he was dismounted from his horse and he knew not of it's fate. He had just received a vicious cut across his left cheek from a heavy set Haradrim warrior, when the lord of the Nazgûl descended apon them scattering them, as Sorlas fought he heard a loud piercing screech, that chilled him to the bone, he was pressed by three Uruks and could not see what had made that deathly scream.

He dodged right avoiding the first Uruks thrust, and cutting the second across the stomach as he did, as the dying orcs guts spilled to the ground he ducked to avoid the blow of the third Uruk , but the first Uruk was again apon him as he rose, he had no time to avoid the thrusting spear, so he grabbed it by the black shaft and pulled it rolling away as he forced it into the third Uruk, the first orcs eyes widen as he realised what had happened but the orcs shock quickly changed from horror to rage, he discarded his spear and attacked with his crude black sword, pressing Sorlas back, but not for long Sorlas was not ready to die at the hands of a filthy Uruk, he dodged and parried the orcs every blow, then took the offensive as the Uruk tired. "Were is your king, eh Dunedain" the Uruk spat venomously, obviously trying to goad him into a mistake but the mistake was his at hearing those words from this filthy orc Sorlas in his rage thrust his sword hard into the filthy creatures chest piercing right through its dark armour, "He is here in every man that fights in his honour and he will see everyone of you vanquished before this day is done" he spat back at the surprised dying creature.

"You lose this" a voice cried to him, it was Tarannon and he held Telpetals reigns in his right hand, while he stabbed and kicked off the orcs and men that attacked him, Sorlas gratefully grabbed the reigns and quickly mounted kicking a charging orc hard in the face as he did. Sorlas pulled at the reigns so that Telpetal stood beside Tarannon facing the opposite direction, the pair fought side by side for some time before they where eventually separated.

By mid-morning, despite aid from the cavalry of Gondor,led by prince Imrahil of Dol Armoth, the Southward advance to which Sorlas was now a part and knew not if his company was among them, had been slowed, for the Oliphaunts of the Haradrim could not be conquered. His horse and those of the Rohirrim would out go near the mighty beasts, how ever hard Sorlas tried to turn Telpetal towards the Oliphaunts the horse blenched and swerved away leaving the great monsters unfought. The enemy had many more troops than them and by about noon they were surrounded, all but a mile north of the Harlond.

And to worsen their case a new strength came now streaming to the field out of Osgiliath, Easterlings with axes, and Variags of Khand, More Southrons in scarlet, and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls. Some now hastened up behind them, others held westward to hold off the forces of Gondor and prevent their joining with the besieged Rohirrim.

Sorlas's hope began to waver as the enemies fresh forces marched on them, his heart sank as he saw the black sails of the Corsairs ships heading fast towards the haven, but out of his despair he heard a resounding horn, he turned to see from whence it came, a mistake for their enemy were now heartened by the sight of the ships and had advanced again, Sorlas in his error gained a deep gash across his left leg, but he was quick to retaliate pulling hard on Telpetals reigns and swinging his sword he ran his attacker through.

He heard not the new king of Rohans words amongst the battle cries of his enemies, but as he ran another foe through he saw the foremost ship turn and a standard break forth, the wind displayed it as she turned towards the Harlond, again hope, pride and fresh battle lust took him as he recognised the White Tree for Gondor and the Seven stars about it and the high crown above it for the house of Elendil. "Aragorn! Isildurs heir! has come!" he screamed as he charged anew on his foes, of whom some now stood bewildered at this change of fate.

[ July 14, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Himaran]

Elleraden yelled with the others as the fresh group of mounted warriors charged into the fray. Swinging low with his sword, the ranger clipped an orcs head from its
shoulders and hurled a knife at another. Suddenly, a Uruk Hai had appeared before
him, wielding a long spear. The beast lunged forward with the weapon, running
Elleraden's horse through.

Leaping off of his dying steed, the ranger roared and charged the Uruk. With its pike lodged in the horse, it pulled out a mace and a long knife. Hurling the latter at
Elleraden (who swiftly dodged it), the Uruk took a hard swing at him with the mace.
Ducking the clusy attack, the ranger sliced off its mace arm before slaying it with a
swift thrust.

Suddenly, Sorlas (who was standing near him) gave a loud shout. "Aragorn! Isidur's
heir has come!" Looking south toward the beach, Elleraden saw the magnificent ships glimmering in their splendur. From the helm of the formost, a bright light was shining. It was indeed Aragorn, the rightful King of Gondor.

Filled with new hope, Elleraden charged back into the fray. His sword swung up and
down constantly, weaving a path of death through the swarms of foes surrounding
him. And then his sword was gone, wrenched from his grasp by a powerful albino Uruk. But no sooner had the beast disarmed him then a mounted Rohanian ran it through with a spear.

Retrieving his weapon, Elleraden attacked once more. But then, looming above him
like a giant raincloud, stood a great troll. Bellowing, it brought its huge club crashing down. The ranger dove to the side, toppling into a small orc (who promptly
attacked him). Slaying it with a knife, Elleraden found himself being picked up by
the monstrous foe. Squirming from its grasp, the ranger crawled up onto its
shoulders and began hacking at it futily with his sword.

The blade turned, cracked and finally shattered under the furious beating against
the Troll's solid back. Hanging on for dear life, the ranger made an easy targer for any watchful sniper. And it was then that an orc archer spotted the ranger, and released a shaft with deadly aim. Elleraden suddenly felt a sharp pain in his back,
and the last thing he remembered before blacking out was the odd sensation of
falling... falling...

[GaladrieloftheOlden]

Herevion watched the battle a bit detachedly, reluctant to put himself into the fray, reluctant to feel his usual nausea at blood, reluctant to feel fear... feel... he stared forwards determinedly. He knew he had to go into the battle... he couldn't push himself out. He had duty. He had nothing else. He needed to go in- he pushed himself forward, though the effort would have seemed, to anybody watching, to have been physical, and showed itself on his face, usually so unused to any expression but his usual stony one that it seemed to creak into place as his muscles moved beneath it.

And he was in, fighting among the others, not watching, just working with his sword, mechanically, methodically. He could almost hope- just almost- that the disgust, the fear, would not come. He almost could. But the moment he thought about them, he looked up quickly, as though he expected them to sneak up on him from behind.

And it did, suddenly, as he watched another orc fall. But then it wasn't "another orc." It was another life, inferior though it seemed, and evil to the core though it may have been. Still another life. Herevion stabbed quicker now, the rhythm of his breath becoming irregular, the hits of his sword faster, more often inacurate. He dodged lower, keeping his eyes fixed on his boots until he had to raise them.

Suddenly, a leering face came towards his, knocking him backwards. As it came down towards him, he drove his sword up, pushing and twisting, and finally chopping the head clean off. It fell onto him, giving him a nasty rush of something he could not identify. He pushed himself up, or tried to, but now he was shaking, physically as well as inside. He could hardly hold his sword... he tried to hack, and must have suceeded well enough to keep the orcs away, though he did not know how. He blundered forward, something wet pouring from his eyes, not caring whether any man saw him... he reached forward, heard one of the men give a yell. Then he saw another fall. For a moment it was unreal, and then he heard the man hit the ground with a thud, blacking out, most likely.

Suddenly Herevion heard a scream, low pitched and throaty, from... somewhere. And then he realized it was he, himself, screaming, and that he was falling. He could not have gone farther from what he wanted to be than what he was now, and knew it, as he picked himself up, and crawled to the side, avoiding axes and maces in some miraculous way. He reached a bush and retched, sick till his stomach was empty. He moved to the side then, and lay down, under another bush, too exhausted too do anything, tired enough to sleep in the midst of a battle.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor

The plague of war had never been a frightening issue for the jovial ranger, but more a sorrowful task that could not be avoided. All the same Dûrvagor hadn’t ever enjoyed putting his sword to use against the foe though he had always done so without hesitation, knowing he did the right thing.

As he fought the enemy now upon the fields of Pellenor, his views on violence didn’t change. He met each scimitar with a firm parry and killed the enemy with his second move. How long the battle would last he couldn’t foresee. The adversary was numerous and strong. However, the addition of Lord Aragorn and his men was to the rangers’ great advantage.

Pernole faired well, constantly avoiding the occasional axe or spear of an Uruk. Dûrvagor hadn’t anticipated his horse surviving any more than ten minutes into the fight; the beautiful steed had now conquered fifteen minutes and trampled no less than twenty small Uruks.

The roar that followed the death of the first Troll shook the very ground upon which Dûrvagor’s mount stood. The ranger spared a glance to where the colossal foe had fallen and shivered. It would be the end of him and his horse if one of those were to challenge them.

Aravir

The giant black warhorse that he had acquired early on was extremely helpful. He seemed to know exactly how to move in order to keep his rider safe though give him the best vantage to a mounted attack. Uruks were an imposing enemy and to eradicate them meant dislodging their heads or sending an aerial weapon into their neck.

Aravir’s knives were spent successively and gathered up again routinely. His arrows had been spared and his sword wore the blood of thirty opponents.

“Aragorn! Isildur’s heir has come!” Aravir couldn’t identify the origin of the shout but looked nonetheless towards the shore where an armada of ships in their magnificent splendor came, a brilliant light shining from the bow of the foreword-most. It was indeed the heir and rightful king of Gondor.

Aravir fought on with formidable strength. It came to the point where an Uruk would blanch and turn at the sight of his blade. It was then that the berserker came. He raised his seventy-two inch scimitar above his head and snarled. The warhorse quickly retreated backwards, out of the Uruk’s range.

Aravir’s hands had gone instantly to his bow and letting an arrow loose towards the foe the moment it was notched. The berserker faltered as the arrow pierced the center left of his chest, but stood, scimitar ready to strike. The second arrow found its mark in the monster’s neck but didn’t throw off his swing. Beneath him, the warhorse stumbled and fell as its front legs were broken. In the next moment, the magnificent beast was slaughtered with a second swipe of the Uruk’s scimitar.

Aravir grasped the blade of one of his knives and hurled it at the monster who caught it cleanly in his throat. Spurting blood, the berserker fell to his knees before a nearby ranger severed his head.

Aravir was now horse-less, and the fighting wore on....

[maikafanawen]

FOR GaladrielOTO'S POST

[ July 19, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[maikafanawen]

Fire engulfed the sky as dusk, the memory of war, conquered the day. All around the fields of Pelennor and these westward most lands of Gondor lay in red darkness. The foes who had not been slain ran, the fear of men in their hearts. The Southron and Easterlings scattered and the victors stood there on the fields, counting their survived and collecting their dead heroes.

Among them was found Tarannon, his body pierced with an orcist javelin and Rinoas, hands clasped still on his sword, but lifeless eyes held no purpose of function. The two rangers come with Islist were given to be buried and their things discharged to their families. Dûrvagor had reunited with Aravir and Islist who were all three unscathed. Later they came upon Sorlas who still held the reins of his steed.

“Unbelievable,” said Aravir, stroking Telepetal’s neck. “Pernolë survived as well.” He stepped back so that Sorlas could see the white show horse, following his master as he searched for comrades with an elevated sort of pride. He smiled.

“Did you find anyone yet?” he asked. Islist nodded, his expression somber as he told of Tarannon and Rinoas’ death. Dûrvagor also offered words of the sincerest condolences. Sorlas didn’t meet their eyes and his look was unreadable.

“And Elleraden and Herevion?”

“Missing,” said Aravir gravely. “How can one find one’s comrades in this mess?” Islist gasped suddenly as he stumbled upon a live man. He wiped dirt and caked blood away from the face so that the man could drink of Islist’s canteen. Being on his stomach with a shaft in his back, he could not get up. As Islist’s hand continued to clean his face off mechanically, the familiar features became distinguishable.

“Elleraden,” he whispered. Together the four rangers heaved their friend upon Pernolë after removing the arrow that, miraculously, had not been poisoned. He was quickly taken into the House of the Healing to have his wound evaluated and if possible, mended. The rest searched an hour yet for Herevion to no avail. By midnight, their torches extinguished and they made their way to the encampments that surrounded the city, waiting for news on Elleraden.

Dûrvagor sat by his self, chewing on his pipe and gazing wearily into the flames that cracked and danced around the pot of bland stew Aravir had set on. Beside him, Islist hummed a mournful tune as he sharpened his sword; the whetstone singing at each graceful swipe of the ranger’s calloused and bleeding.

He was so young and to have endured this much, Dûrvagor esteemed him. By his twenty fifth year, he had fought and survived the bloody battle on the fields of Pelennor. What a ranger he will come to be.

Taking his gaze away from the fatigued face of his companion, he took up his own weapons to clean and re-sharpen. One of his knives he had to dispose of for it had become bent and useless. Of his original fifty arrows, only twenty-two remained. His sword was blemished by black blood and the tint of firelight made it eerie to look at. He soon put it away and resumed his pipe.

“Words fail me,” Dûrvagor turned as a distant voice entered his thoughts.

“I'm sorry?” he said, peering to see who had said that.

“Words fail to describe this eve,” repeated the man. His face entered the faint ring of light that flickered over the small tent circle. His eyes had each its own color and his hair was long and graying. A scar ran down the length of his face from his widow’s peak to the unnatural cleft of his chin, dividing his deranged face in two. Dûrvagor flinched when he spoke, a raspy surreal sound. “Alas! It has come upon us and we have yet one battle left to fight.” Dûrvagor shot the man a quizzical look though he did not answer it. “Get your rest ranger, your sword is yet needed.”

“Well I’m dashed,” whispered Dûrvagor as the stranger walked away, a limp plaguing his left leg.

“An old friend?” asked Aravir coming to take a seat beside him. Dûrvagor chuckled in spite of the melancholy.

“I wonder. A grave message he had for me though. ‘We have one battle left to fight my friend,’ said he. ‘Do not put up your sword.’ I wonder.” He stoked the fire with the toe of his boot, shifting the log so that it snapped in the heat and sent a shower of sparks into the air. “I wonder...”

Morning came in a dull hue of gray, and a mist fell upon the land as if to begin the purge of evil. The stranger’s message seemed a joke as the field was cleared of noble men who were buried in honor while the foe was burned a league away from the city.

It was also known that Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, had taken his life by fire and was no more. Faramir yet lived in the House of Healing and Lord Aragorn gave his assistance. The news that Isildur’s heir lived much heartened the rangers and Dúnedain who camped without the city. Though their mood was hardly lifted, they wandered about in ease, anxious for more news.

Going about his musings, it was he who came upon Herevion. The man was one night dead, his own noble sword pierced him through. The sight took Durvagor hard by the throat and he was sick. It pained him to see his friend thusly, without attention and left to rot under a gorsebush. He summoned Aravir who also took the scene hard. Together they carried him and buried him beside his companions on the ride southwest to Pelennor. So now they had lost three and one was fading...

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]

[Nerindel]

March 16th

when they had taken Elleredan to the houses of healing one of the healers had bustled him away from the others, so that she could treat his wounds, Sorlas protested bitterly; "I am fine, I must see to my friend" he said in the end, but he did not look at the woman who was now leading him to another part of the hall, instead his gaze watched the others as Elleredan was carried into another room. Sorlas was right to be worried on their ride back to the halls Elleredans pallor had greyed and the wound looked to be infected, suddenly the healers soft calming voice reached his ears "He is in good hands Ranger, the healers of these halls are quite skilled." her words comforted him a little but still he could not help but worry, He had already lost three of his companion's and another was missing, he held little hope that they would find Herevion alive.

He winced as the healer washed out his wounds with salted water, "you are lucky, these wounds are not life threatening, but they will scar" she said sadly with pity in her soft blue eyes , At these words he looked down on her and taking her head in his hands he answered softly "Nay lady, do not pity me, save it for those who's loved ones shall not return and I prey thee do not pity the dead for they have set down their lives with valour and honour that we may be at last free from this evil." The healer turned her head away as he let her go, "I hear your words but I can not see how we can defeat this foe?." "with hope my lady, with hope, for that is all that we have" he replied gently.

The young healer now work silently as she saw to his wounds, she had to cut away the leg of his trousers to strap up his thigh, while she worked Sorlas watched her in awe of her talents, and if he survived this war he had thought to return and seek this young woman out and ask her to teach him her skills. After his leg was strapped up and his facial wound tended, the healer called for a young lad to bring fresh trousers for him. "That will not be necessary I will get my own spare from my pack when I return to my horse," he got up and started to limp for the door, when he felt the healer grasp his shoulder firmly, more firmly than he would have expected of her, and in even firmer tones she said "I am afraid not, the nature of your wounds requires that you remain here until we can be sure that no infection has set in, " "But.." he began "I will not hesitate to have a guard set apon you to make sure you remain" she broke in resolutely. Seeing that her mind was set, he slumped his shoulders and nodded his assent, "But I shall not sit here idly and wait to be discharged, while I am still able to help others, please my lady, I am but a novice healer but if I can help I will."

She smiled warmly at him and nodded, "Any aid that a Ranger can give will be of great help indeed." So it was that for the rest of the day Sorlas helped to treat the wounded, that where brought to the halls.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

March 17th

The next morning Sorlas was woken by the young healer who had tended his wounds, her face was grave, "What is it my Lady, what has happened" he asked earnestly. "It is your friend, his wound was worse that first thought, infection had set in and he is now asking to see his companions, The others are already with him. Sorlas jumped from his bed and quickly dressed and followed her to Elleredan's room, She stopped at the door but did not enter instead she opened the door and let him through then quietly she closed it behind him, Leaving the four companions alone with their dying friend.

[ July 21, 2003: Message edited by: Nerindel ]

[Himaran]

"Elleraden."

The man painfully opened one eyelid, half recognizing the voice. The image before him was blurry, but the face of Islist Scorn contained a permanant place in his memory. He smiled weakly, glad to see a friend. He coughed, and tried to speak; but his voice was raspy and sounded strange to his own ears. "I am glad you came, Islist. I was unsure if you survived the fight."

He rested a moment before continuing. "Did we win, Islist?"

The man leaned on the bed post, toying with a knife in nervous idleness. "Aye, we won alright. The armies of Mordor fled before us, what is left of them. But we suffered casulties as well, and will suffer more in the coming battle. Not everyone from our party survived."

Elleraden nodded. "Tis' to be expected. But don't say who, I wish to die without knowing who it was that suffered."

Islist looked hard at him for the first time. "Elleraden, don't be foolish. The doctors have said that you have a decent chance of survival. Keep up hope, the houses of healing are among the best wards of middle-earth."

The injured man chuckled, his lips once again forming a smile. "No, Islist, I am done for. Whatever they may say, it is only a matter of time. Today will be my last. But do not dwell on that, friend. Go, win your battle. I will not be there to see the world be freed of such a menace, but that is my fate, my destiny. Be victorious! Rid the world of Sauron's great army! And do so without thinking of me. You must move on, and I have no doubt that you will become one of the greatest men in Gondor. With that said, Islist, let me go to my rest in peace, without feeling the sorrow that shows in your face. I am but one of many, one of many."

Islist stayed by his friend's side throught the day, and that night, before the sun went down over the mountains of the west, the brave ranger died.

[Burzdol]

Islist cryed over his friend's body, as Durvagor entered, "How's Ellera......"

He too broke into tears. The two rangers recovered and carried the ranger's body to be buried outside of the White City. Each ranger paided their respects to the brave man that lost his life in the fight.

Aragorn passed by and stopped, he looked over to see the dirt cover the noble body, "Everyone else is ready,"he started, " Take as long as you need. That great of a loss is hard to bear."

Islist spoke for his men, "We are ready, sir. Just give us one minute,"he then turned to his men, "Most knew Elleraden, for those who didn't, you could have learned much. I am young and he taught me more than any man ever has and ever will. We have not lost him completely, he is in our hearts and souls. Now we must continue our route, dealing with this loss in silence. But as Elleraden followed and finished his destiny, we must do the same. Let us go!"

The party mounted and rode into formation with the rest of the force. But as each member passed , they took one last glance at the final resting place of their companion.

[Nerindel]

The four friends said their last farewells to their fallen friend and went back to camp to prepare to move out when the order came. They did not wait long for on that same evening a tall dark haired man came among them, "Halwain!" Sorlas cried recognising the Dunedain man, he turned and regarded Sorlas with surprise in his grey eyes, "Sorlas, how comes it, that you are here, my young friend." Sorlas quickly told the ranger of the message from Rivendell and their journey from Mirkwood to the fields." "I am sorry for your losses, we too have been dealt a sore blow with the loss of Halbarad, but we yet have a chance to avenge our fallen comrades, for on the morrow we are to ride to our enemies very gates." Halwain excused himself saying that he still had other to inform, and that the four of them should ride with the Dunedain as is their place.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

March 18th - March 25th

So it was that on the morning of the next day, to the ringing of trumpets the four friends rode in the company of their kin, surrounded by the seven thousand strong army of the west. Before noon they came to Osgiliath. There they watched as all workers and craftsmen that could be spared set about strengthening the ferries and boat-bridges that the enemy had made and in part destroyed when they fled; they also saw others gathering stores and booty; and on the eastern side across the river the saw that hasty works of defence had been thrown up. The vanguard to which they were part passed on through the ruins of old Gondor, and over the wide river, and on up the long straight road that in the high days had been made to run from the fair Tower of the Sun to the tall Tower of the Moon, which now was Minas Morgul in its accursed vale. Five miles beyond Osgiliath they halted, ending their first day's march.

Sorlas spoke little that night, he cleaned and sharpened his weapons for he had not the chance during his stay in the halls of healing, he listened as Islist, Durvagor and Aravir, recounted their journey south to their new company, and the four rangers listened in rapture as their kin told of their own journey south, and their passage though the paths of the dead they spoke of only briefly.


The next morning they rode on and before evening they came to the cross-roads and the great ring of trees, and all was silent. No sign of any enemy had they seen, no cry or call had been heard, no shaft had sped from rock or thicket by the way, yet as they rode ever forward they felt the watchfulness of the land increase. They watched as Aragorn set trumpeters at each of the four roads that ran into the ring of trees, They blew a great fanfare, and the heralds cried aloud: "The Lords of Gondor have returned and all this land that is theirs they take back."

Sorlas had been disgusted at the sight of a hideous orc head that sat on the carven figure of a king of old, he and his three companions helped to cast it down and break it to pieces, while others raised the old kings head and set it again in it place, still crowned with the white and gold flowers that had grown round it, men laboured to wash away the fowl scrawls that the orcs had put upon the stone.

As Sorlas looked to the darkness in the west, and a shiver ran down his spine as he wondered if they were to assail the dark city before continuing north, he knew not of the counselling of Gandalf and the words of Faramir, but he felt a great desire to continue north and not to enter the foul city. It was later told to them that Aragorn, with Gandalf and most of the vanguard had went to the entrance of Morgul Vale and looked on the evil city, and there they broke the evil bridge and set red flames in the noisome fields.

The next day, being the Third day since they set out from Minas Tirith, they began there northward march along the road. It was still some hundred miles by that way from the cross-roads to the Morannon, and what might befall them before they came so far none could tell. They went openly but heedfully, the four friends saw scouts before them on the road, and others on foot upon either side, especially on the eastward flank; for there lay dark thickets, and a tumbled land of rocky ghylls and crags, behind which the long grim slopes of the ephel Duath clambered up.

Every so often Sorlas and the other would hear the trumpets blow and the heralds proclaim the coming of King Elessar and the command to leave this land or yield up, but none answered the challenge. Although they marched in seeming peace Sorlas's heart was downcast, and with every mile that they went north foreboding of evil grew heavy on him and he could see too that the same was true with most of their company.

On the second day of their march from the Cross-roads, a strong force of Orcs and Easterlings attempted to take their leading companies in an ambush. But the captains of the west had been well warned by their scouts, Skilled men from Henneth Annûn; and so the ambush was itself trapped. Sorlas and the others accompanied the horsemen that went wide about westward and came up on the flank of their enemy and from behind they destroyed them and any that survived fled east into the hills.

The victory of this battle did little to enhearten the company, and as they rode on a deepening shadow seemed to loom out of sight and a feeling of dread that could not be shaken off fell upon them, Upon the fourth day from the Cross-roads they came at last to the end of the living lands, and began to pass into the desolation that lay before the gates of the pass of Cirith Gorgor; here Aragorn halted the company and bade the faint hearted not to go on but to go south west and retake Cair Andros and hold it till the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan.

It was now less than six thousand that slowly advanced, and Sorlas expected at every hour for some answer to their Kings challenge. At nightfall of the fifth day of the march from Morgul Vale they made their last camp, they set fires about it of such dead wood and heath as they could find. The four friends passed the hours of night in wakefulness and were awake of many things half-seen that walked and prowled all about them, they heard also the howling of wolves. The wind died and all the air seemed still. They could see little, for though it was cloudless and the waxing moon was but four nights old, there were smokes and fumes that rose out of the earth and the white crescent was shrouded in the mists of Mordor.

The next morning was cold and the wind now can from the north, and soon it freshened into a rising breeze, the noises of the night were gone, and the land about them seemed empty. But as they looked south they could see the great rampart of Cirith Gorgor, and the Black Gate amid most, and the two Towers of the Teeth tall and dark upon either side. The four Rangers now turned to each other and Islist imparted a few last words of wisdom, before they all resolved to see this journey to is bitter end, rejoined the host of the west and followed their King to the Black gates.

[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor reined Pernolë to a halt as the Black Gate was visible through the wall of morning mist. The ranger’s breath caught in his chest as he took in the spectacle. It was a wall of iron that ran, what seemed to be a quarter league, between the walls of the dark realm. It was as thick and impenetrable as the very rock it connected to.

“How does it open,” whispered Dûrvagor to Sorlas, his northerly accent tremouring with the slight fear he sheltered. The ranger narrowed his eyes and answered slowly.

“There is some sort of giant force, like a mechanical pulley on the other side. No living force could budge this open.” Dûrvagor nodded, satisfied with the explanation. Mounted on a horse whose rider had been taken in the previous battle, Aravir shifted uncomfortably.

“You are not nervous then, eh friend?” asked Dûrvagor, trying to resist the shadow that disheartened Aragorn’s militia. Aravir relaxed slightly, shaking his head.

“No because now that you’ve cut into my thoughts so abruptly, I cannot remember what it was I was nervous of.” He adjusted the reins and flipped his cloak from under his seat. Dûrvagor looked again towards the gate of Mordor.

He thought of what it would be like to be in the company of Ravenwyn instead of where he sat now. To have his feet propped up upon the railing of The Raven’s Nest as it coasted into Harlond, full of trade goods from the south. To sing and joke, listening to her pearly laughter, and enjoy her very presence. He yearned suddenly for the taste of the jasmine tea she favoured. He also wondered what Jem, her adopted son, would be doing. He’d be aloft, no doubt, Dûrvagor thought with a smile. That boy was always anxious to learn and please the Captain, his mother. The ranger had taken an instant liking to him and vise versa. They got along well and what ignorance Dûrvagor held towards the sea, Jem tried to teach. Exactly opposite then, the ranger taught the boy sword play and weather-sense, the latter of which Jem was constantly congratulated upon learning and was greatly useful on board.

A gust of wind then passed over the army, the flags beating and cloaks loosing themselves from where they were tucked under seats and saddles. Dûrvagor was brought back to the present and caught Aravir’s eye as they waited. Waited for whatever was to come from behind those looming gates into their midst. Fate, thought Dûrvagor somberly. Fate was going to unleashed; fate and all its terror and merciless. Though he hated to be there when it did, he stayed steadfast in his place, drawing his sword. The effect rippled through the crowd as ally weapons were drawn and the metal reflected the waning light.

From within the realm of the shadow came a low drumming sound that echoed inside. The sound, barely audible to the rangers’ ears, was dismal. The outcome was unknown to him at the time, but what was soon to begin was the final row between good and evil. Entering unknowingly into the circumference of where the battle was to take place, Dûrvagor waited for what was to come…

[Burzdol]

Islist strode to Aragorn's side, "We are Middle Earth's last hope,"he said, "Thank you for coming into this peral with me."

"It is an honor to fight along side you, more than you can imagine...." his sentenced drifted off as a squeal of iron against iron echoed the silence. The Black Gate started to open. Slowly, but as it went, it gained speed. Soon it had swung completely open and orcs poured out. A ghastly yell rang out, and the Uruks charged. All the enemies brandished their weapons as Aragorn called them to arms. They were only paces away, and the battle for good began...