Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[piosenniel]

Arvedui III's post

He always liked this time of day best, and a thrill ran down his spine as the rest of the scout troop crouched among the shrubs and underbrush. The uncouth sounds of metal and iron shod moving in unison and the familiar but slightly harsh sounds of a force breaking came, filling him with mingled excitement and dread. This was a hunter's dream, this abundance of game. And yet, it was also quite disturbing that a troop he could not see the end of was moving near Mirkwood. His blue eyes flickered from one orc to another, not lingering on the grime and blackness of their arms, armor, their very skin.

Targil lithely rubbed the grey pommel of the dirk that hung by his side, taking care to make any noise in the dewy morn, grinning quietly at the prospect of the hunt to come. Well, if the captain thought it well to hunt. There was a great many of the foul creatures, but Targil had learned long ago that a good elf was worth at least twenty orcs. Perhaps he was being far too keen, and mentally berated himself for jumping to conclusions again. Whatever Calenvasa thought best to do was what he would do. Yet, of all the officers he has served with, that one was the most pensive. It tried his nerves sometimes, but most of the time the captain was right, so Targil was grateful for the exercise in patience.

A figure with golden armor passed and joined a party of about ten other similarly clad forms, apparently forming up for drill. Targil frowned. Orcs were one thing, but men were an entirely different matter. Now he gave up any thoughts of a hunt this morning. It would be folly to go after such a large party, he finally realized. His brow knotted in frustration as he sensed this troop of orcs and men were far beyond his area of expertise. So much was lately, it shouldn't have surprised him. If orcs and men were marching together, the reason for their marching had to be great, and so too must be their numbers. The group they had spotted today was probably naught more than a detachment in a host far more vast. The thought sent chills down his spine.

Quiet suddenly, he sensed his captain moving, and quickly looked over to see what was happening. Calenvasa glanced briefly around at the small band he commanded, and then motioned to withdraw further into the woods. Targil couldn't have been more grateful for the respite from the tenseness of the underbrush. He turned and tread softly back, making sure to give distance between himself and the other scouts. Relaxing and trusting his ingrained sense of stealth would protect him, Targil glanced back toward the vanishing camp, fear now being replaced by apprehension. He stopped, crouching between two roots, and looked to his captain, and then around at the others. All of them glanced nervously around at each other, each elf not daring to brake the silence, wondering what was to be done about the day's discovery.

Targil only hoped one of them knew, for he surely did not.

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Firefoot's post

The Orc army was illumined in the late-morning sun - but not him. He was crouched in the dense underbrush of the forest, hidden in the shadows and invisible to all save the other Mirkwood scouts nearby. Careful not to make a sound, he crept forward and slightly to the right to get a better view of the Orcs he was watching. Cold hatred gleamed in his gray eyes. He reached up and fingered the feathered end of an arrow in his quiver. It was of no use at the moment, but later... then the Orcs would die, pierced with arrows.

Thorvel refocused himself on what he was supposed to be doing: observing the Orcs. The army stretched away in both directions, and from his vantage point he could not see either end. He had never seen so many in one place before. Smaller bands of Orcs, those could be dealt with relatively easily. But this? They had no facts as to what the army was planning on. Thorvel didn’t, anyway. So what are we going to do about it? he wondered. Fight them off, of course. Defeat them. All of his senses revolted at the sounds of thousands of Orcs all arguing in their uncouth languages and the clank of metal on metal.

As he turned his head away to the right, the large group of men garbed in golden armor caught his eye. Southrons! They were only slightly better than the Orcs, in Thorvel’s opinion. If at all. They were better fighters, too, not like the Orcs who delighted in and knew little more than killing. Suddenly the significance of this hit him. They must have some kind of great cause to be gathered together in such a way, and he wondered at that. They obviously had no intention of failing in what ever it was.

He supposed then that their first goal would be figuring out what the army was going to attempt. Were they going to attack his home in Northern Mirkwood? Or would they go after nearby Lorien? Either way, he was determined to fight them to the death.

It wasn’t long before Thorvel perceived his Captain moving in the stillness of the forest. He looked back around to Calenvása on his left and saw the other scouts doing the same. Calenvása lifted his hand and motioned for the scouts to retreat deeper into the forest to their meeting place. He saw some of the other scouts moving slowly away into the forest, disappearing even from his keen Elvish sight. He turned and followed them stealthily away, curving out to his left in order to maintain his distance from the others.

Thorvel came upon the other Elves and stood against a tree. His muscles were tense and he was at attention, aware of everything that was going on. His face was hard and his chin was set firmly, and his eyes, though flecked with uneasiness, held a smoldering fire. He took note of the other Elves waiting around. All of them were on edge, ready for anything. The final stragglers wandered in, and last of all came Calenvása. Thorvel considered him a bit queer, but he trusted that Calenvása could come up with a solid plan against the Orcs. The silence was complete but for the sounds of the forest around them. He almost spoke, but thought better of it. He could express his opinions later, after the Captain had said his piece.

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Hama of the Riddermark's post

Lómarandil was hidden under a carpet of leaves. Seeing Calenvása raise his hand, he slid backwards slowly and crawled on his stomach out of earshot of the orcs, then he stood up to a crouch and ran as fast as he could, his light elvish feet making little imprint on the leaves and twigs beneath. Reaching a clearing he sheathed his two knives that he had kept drawn since the orcs had been sighted. He kicked a tree in disgust, “Foul creatures! Utterly worthless hunks of meat!” he spat the last word out with bitterness as he turned to face Dol Guldur. “Damn Morgoth to the deepest pits of misery for creating them!” he said with a sad look on his face.

He sat down and took his bow off his back. He took out a knife and began to carve a design onto it. He smiled as he saw all the others he'd carved over the years. This time he cut out the shape of an orc, incredibly detailed, and carved an arrow going through its head. Chuckling he stared into the woods. He heard a faint crunching sound, like a clumsy foot breaking a twig...

Lomarandil was gone in a flash, up a tree. He looked over and saw an orc, closely followed by two others. Lomarandil smiled as he heard them start to talk, listening intently for any more information.

"Bloody trees!" he heard the orc say, "I hate them, I hate elves as well...stupid bloody animals." Lomarandil couldn't supress a grin as he heard the orc say this. He raised a single eyebrow in mirth, as the orcs continued to talk.

"We gotta stay 'ere for a while." a second orc said. "Them elves mustn't know that we aren't attacking them here." a second orc grunted loudly, "Yar, stoopid elvish tarks can't know we goin' for tha' uther wood, tha' big one!" he said, obviosuly pleased with himself for making this deduction. Lomadrandil nodded slowly. "They are heading for Lothlorien..." he said quietly...

"Hur?" he heard an orc say, "I heard something, stoopid tarks hiding in trees..." he looked up and started to turn in a circle, scanning the treetops for the elf he'd heard. Failing to find him, he grunted loudly and turned back, shouting at the others to follow. Lomarandil breathed out heavily. That was close...he dropped to the ground when he was sure the orcs had gone. Silently he made his way to the designated meeting place, as he entered the clearing he saw the others. "Mae govannan." Calenvasa announced. Lomarandil nodded and walked up to the group...

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Amanaduial’s post - Koran Cenrbyt

Koran Cenbryt brushed at a curl of dark hair that crept from behind his ear as he leant over his pack, checking for anything he may have forgotten and running over in his head the route that the army would take. West verging a little South from the North side of the fortress, towards the Wood of Golden Leaves, where...

This was not by any means the first expedition he had been on, and neither was it one that he especially wished to be involved with; but, ironically, it was the one that would probably be most important in the future. The young Haradrim warrior shook his head wryly at the thought, his hand reaching to the beaded necklace he wore, feeling the delicate carving of the flame on the central bead. ’I won’t let anything go wrong…the Cenbryt clan is mine, mine by right, and so it shall remain, no matter what my cousins plot and scheme together…

Koran was not against the rest of the clans, of course: such a thought would be foolhardy, especially when his was waning so much, especially in the last few weeks and months – his cousins, although set to gain his clan for their own, were nonetheless slowly eliminating by sending off on foolhardy missions many of the older warriors who were close to Koran. At this rate, if Koran as to fall, they would inherit a clan without any warriors left! Still, although it was of course a diplomatic move that he saw the sense in, Koran nonetheless felt uneasy about the mission – there was something not right, something that was being hidden from him in all this, even though he was commanding the separate force that would then split off from the main army. That would, of course, include orcs – he curled a lip slightly at this. He detested working with them – he steadfastly believed beetles to have more intelligence than the filthy Uruks. And when he was actually meant to be commanding as an equal with one of them…he shook his head again bitterly. If my brothers were still alive…

“Koran Cenbryt?” The words made the warrior look up to see a younger man standing nearby, at a respectful distance. He rose from his crouch to be level with him, squinting against the sun from the high outpost. The man looked to be several years younger than Koran, and had a surprisingly boyish face, although it was currently all seriousness. As Koran rose, wiping one hand on the back of his trousers, the younger man touched the back of two knuckles of his right hand to the centre of his forehead - a respectful salute. Koran inclined his head - the man was obviously not his superior then, although he still didn't know who he was.

"I am Ehan Fazian," the man continued by means of an introduction. "I will be joining you in the force that splits off from the main army and we will, I gather, be together for most of the journey."

Koran nodded again. "Koran Cenbryt," he added, just to introduce himself personally, although the other obviously knew who he was. Ehan grinned suddenly. "Not a man of very many words, hmm?"

Koran, surprised at the casual tone and phrasing, raised an eyebrow, and the other man raised his chin very slightly, defiant if it came to it. Then he grinned. "If we are to fight together, you may think differently by the end," he replied, his voice soft but more friendly now. "Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?"

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Aylwen's post

"Come, we must join the rest of the force - I suppose you know the route already?" Ehan relaxed visibly as the man called Koran began to speak in a more friendly manner. The younger easterling let did not hide his amiable expression anymore, though he had already begun to wonder how well his personality would match Koran's. Ehan feared the worst, perhaps a head-on collision and clash between Koran's persona and Ehan's light-hearted simplicity. Still, Ehan pulled himself from the short look into the future and back into the present where he knew his head always belonged, and decided to cross all bridges when he got to them.

"Of course I do, sir!" Ehan cried gallantly, drawing his rapier dramatically and pointing it in the direction of the pathway that led down to where many easterlings had set up camp. Where the orcs were, Ehan did not know, but the thought intrigued him anyway. Seeing such ugly monstrosities brought rise to the blood-thirsty warrior in Ehan, despite the disappointing fact that these 'ugly monstrosities' would be on his side in this whole expedition. What a shame...to think how much fun I could have slaying those things. But there are other enemies. Snapping out of his reverie and realizing that he still stood motionless with his rapier held in the air, Ehan chuckled, embarrassed, and continued, "Yes, right. Onward!" and sheathed his sword.

Ehan led Koran down the path that went downward from the slight hilltop they had formerly been standing on, even though Ehan realized that Koran must have known the route as well. Trying not to kick up dirt on the excursion to the campsites. Ehan looked back once to see Koran looking off into the distance, and the young man wondered if Koran was in another time and place. When the two reached the bottom of the rocky, dusty hill, Ehan turned to face Koran once again. This time, the man hit Ehan with a question before Ehan could say aught else.

"How many has your clan sent with you?" Koran asked, looking at Ehan momentarily before stealing a glance at the sturdy men (and some women) behind Ehan, all the warriors from different tribes and clans.

"Well...I would imagine close to five and ten men...or, well...maybe almost twenty men and women. You know, the Fazian clan has rather strong-minded and strong-bodied ladies, as well. My sister-" Ehan stammered at first, but what should have just been a simple answer turned into a lengthy explanation. When Ehan noticed that Koran didn't seem to have much time for stories, Ehan quieted. "Yes. Well, I would say fifteen strong men and women come from the Fazian clan."

"Right. Good," Koran mused, a light smile playing on his lips.

This is going to turn out to be very interesting...Ehan thought. Yes, I can tell already.

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Orofaniel's post

The rays of sun hit Herding in the face. He spit and looked down. His eyes needed some time to get used to the light before he looked up again. It wasn't hard for him to imagine a world without any light, not just a little. The thought was ever tempting, he figured. Maybe it would come too pass? he thought as he got up. He smirked. His hand moved to his forehead and he then removed his yet black hair that was ruining his vision. Now it was clearer.

The sight that met him was the usual; Haradrims. He didn't like the look on their faces, but he knew that they were excellent to use for his own purposes. And since he, himself was a powerful Captain everything was perfectly fine. Although Herding was a cruel man, he was respected by his followers. Well, after all, it was expected of them to respect their Captain. He moved slightly from his spot and he noticed that a Hardarim was now walking towards him. "Captain," he said as he approached him. His face was slightly miss formed (probably from earlier battles), and his voice was harsh and unfriendly. His armour was dirty and slightly too big for him, which made him move slower than usual Men - It wasn’t hard to spot. "Who will lead the force that splits of the main army, sir?" He asked now sounding a bit friendlier than before.

Herding looked at him for a moment. "Koran Cenbryt, will lead them, if I remember correctly," he said stiffly even though he had no difficulties remembering who was going to lead them. His voice inflicted nothing but jealousy. Herding was jealous indeed; he had hoped that he wouldn't have to stick around with these foul men for eternity, but it looked like he would, even though he wanted to or not. "Why do you ask such a question?" Herding asked suspiciously. "No reason, sir," the man said and was about to turn away from Herding. But of course, such an answer wasn't acceptable with Herding. "I want a real answer!" he said sternly and looked at him with great disgust. The sweat from his forehead was now pouring down his face. He used his hand to wipe it away. The man looked astonished by what the Captain had said, since he didn’t mean anything is specific by the question. He kept quiet for a moment.

"We, me and the others in the camp, were just discussing it, that’s all, sir," he forced unwillingly. He was also sweating now. It was probably because of the big armour he was wearing, but Herding wasn't certain. Herding didn't want to discuss the matter anymore so he raised his hand and told the Haradrim that he was free to go. "Thank you sir," he said calmly and bowed.

Herding was left alone again as he watched the Haradrims slowly awakening from their deep sleep.

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Kransha's post

One cold eye, a narrow slit set deep into the bare skull of the eye’s owner, scanned the tranquility and peace around them. The eye, though icy like winter frost, bore a shrouded fire behind it that glowed like a dying ember, still persistent enough to glow with pale and sickly light. The limpid orb moved from side to side, over viewing the surrounding area, the eyelids that held it narrowing further each time the looker saw something that displeased him. His single dark pupil would focus and shrivel into a precise dot as it scoped out the undesirable object obstructing his line of sight. The hill of Amon Lanc was devoid of trees, a piece of barren rock and earth jutting up from the forested plain of Mirkwood not too far from where the orc squatted contemplatively. From that hill spurted Dol Guldur itself, the malevolent fortress, its reaches stretching upward into the cloudy sky and its shadow looming over all things nearby. Unfortunately, some trees, though in their final days of life, still stood at the bottom of the hill.

Like many other of his kind, Thrákmazh hated trees, even the broken, dead ones. He hated all trees, every solitary leaf, arching branch, twisting root, and wooden knothole, everything about them. There were too many blasted trees in Mirkwood and Thrákmazh had long dreamt of taking a sturdy ax to all of them. As he knelt, rough-skinned knees creased beneath him, he could almost here the snapping of splinters from great trunks and the whistling in the wind as each column on natural beauty plummeted from its niche in the earth and crashed into Mirkwood’s rich soil. Slowly, the uruk’s hand lowered, the gnarled branches jutting from his dangling hand, which some might call fingers, and his jagged-nailed digits dug thoroughly into the dirt, closing slowly and drawing a handful of the crumbling substance out, lifting it into the air and letting stray particles slide out of his ruthlessly clenched fist and back onto the ground.

Slowly standing, Thrákmazh’s fist tightened around the dirt, stopping the meager slippage. He stood fully, still hunched over as he took a step forward, letting all the crumbs of earth fall. He was surrounded by others of his species, still lingering and talking in tense whispers in the dirt, just below the vaguely looming mound of the hill of Amon Lanc far off. They were slowly gathering, with the reinforcements of wretched men in the service of the Lidless Eye who had camped on the dusty, forested plain some unknown distance from the fortress of Dol Guldur. It was to be a great force indeed, rivaling many armies rallied in the Misty Mountains and the South, but still not as great as the grandest of Sauron’s hosts. To Thrákmazh, it was merely an event, an event in which he could shed all the blood he wanted, ever standing out from the blind, raging hundreds of orcs who swarmed into this foully shrouded clearing of what had once been Greenwood the Great, on the slope of Amon Lanc. They were to depart shortly, heading from the place that very few of them had ever considered calling home to the detestable woodland home of the Elves, Lorien, which Thrákmazh had already fantasized about razing to the ground, severing every one of the grandest trees from their hold on Arda and setting flame to the land. At this shadowy thought, he grinned, lips peeling back grotesquely. He let the rest of the gripped dirt loose, opening his palm to the ground as he began to speak aloud.

“This earth lacks something” he growled through a mouth of dagger-like teeth, his raspy, deep voice resonating like the hiss of a serpent and the croak of a toad as its volume slowly swelled. The other gurgling uruks, perhaps fifty who heard, turned to him, his cold and grim tone too recognizable to many of them. Thrákmazh, as if he hadn’t noted that their deep-set eyes had turned to him, continued with a kind of excited sobriety, “…It lacks the seasoning of blood…This soil has gone too long without tasting death upon it.”

At this, the other orcs nodded in agreement, some smiling horrible smiles, other simply acknowledging his ‘correctness’ about the matter. Many responded with orcish jubilation, thumped their hands and weapons on the earth to signify their support. Those orcs sitting or reclining sluggishly out of earshot still picked up the brief reverberation, and answered with thrilled grunts and roars of their own. Thrákmazh’s grin widened murderously, but it was brimming with an unusual self-satisfaction as he continued pacing, kicking up the dust. Making these melodramatic tirades against the foes of Sauron was a gimmick, one that furthered his persona. At first, it had been a morale booster, which was something the conniving uruk was good at, but soon enough the habit swelled into a method of casting a new façade over himself, which made him all the greater in the eyes of those around him. He could cultivate his persona, re-inventing it daily, and bring more eager young orcs to him seeking advice on who to slay elf scouts, or to ambush patrols from the north, all because of the pseudo-epic mythos he’d allowed to spring up. The orc captain did not care for glory, but the feeling of hearing orcs behind him and only him, comparing the number of kills they had to his own, heaping praise upon him for things he new to be false, but still filled him with that same satisfaction of knowing that, to a world of villains, he was a hero. As he paced away through the ranks of resting orcs, seemingly countless in their number as the dotted the innards of Mirkwood, he feigned serious contemplation as he shot a roving glance back at the orcs behind.

Some of these, Thrákmazh knew; orcs who’d followed him for a longer length of time than these new recruits, who seemed to be spilling into Mirkwood these days, but Thrákmazh didn’t care. He had orcs to do the will of the Eye, and he had himself to issue those commands that the Eye required. He had all he needed in Mirkwood, all he needed that his masters in Mordor would ever give, and was content as long as he could still kill men and elves and dwarves as the monotonous days passed. One thing he did not need, or want, were the foul things that had infected Mirkwood…men, Easterling men, suddenly spurting up from the ground like those confounded trees. They had mostly populated this camp, were the army was preparing, and more came by the second. Their forces were not as great when compared to the numbers of the uruks, but they were formidable all the same. They had gathered in camps that speckled Mirkwood, mostly centered on a single camp where the weak mortal clans were congregating.

‘Too many filthy men.’ snarled Thrákmazh mentally, breathing harshly like a furious predator after his prey has eluded him. ‘When this is over, and we have the blood of the elves on our blades and our bolts they can fall too. The Great Eye has no need of traitorous mortals in his service. Slaying them would be a service to Lugburz.'