Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Kransha]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[rutslegolas]

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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Meneltarmacil's post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

Veryadan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Primrose Bolger]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Alaksoron]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[rutslegolas]

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

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

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