Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Saurreg]

Loudewater got up slowly eyeing the grotesque orc's had that laid a few feet from him, it yellow glassy eyes staring defiantly at him. A shudder went down the farmer's spine. That could have easily been his fate.

Loudewater approached the ranger who had saved his life warily. The huge man's shoulders were rising up and down with each ragged breath after his hard fought fight with the last great orc. Another younger looking man stood not far from the first and from the looks of it, he too had been fighting hard. Loudewater stepped closer gingerly before stopping two arm's length away from his saviour.

"Erm... " he began hesitantly , "You, you saved my life back there mister. I guess that puts me in your debt. Sir."

Not sure what to do next, the farmer introduced himself,

"I am Andas, Andas Loudewater. Very pleased to meet your acquaintance sir."

From the edge of his eyes, Loudewater could see two figures coming into view. They were the fair folks he had seen back at the tavern - the shorter female and the very tall male.

Loudewater wondered what their intentions were...

[Nuranar]

Tarondo looked bleakly around the hilltop in the weak light of a clouded afternoon. Orc bodies were scattered all about. Only their slight movements distinguished his companions from the slain, as they sat grim and silent. This place is far too exposed, he thought. He had been talking to the groups, about their prior investigations as well as about the battle. Apparently there had been one attack, then another in support of the first. We need to move off. He felt a sudden chill. It is far cooler up here than at the Whittleworth Farm - he shoved the ghastly memory away with an effort.

His eyes searched, found his sister, leaning against a stone, weary eyes gazing into the distance. Her bow was cradled in her good arm, while her left hung in a sling. "Luinien," he said, joining her. "Did you see someplace to camp out there, close by?" He pointed out to the east.

She thought a moment, eyes narrowed as she called up the memories. "Yes, I noticed a nest of boulders just beyond the foot of the hill. It is isolated and hard to approach without being seen."

Tarondo nodded approvingly. "That is good. Come on," he called, louder. "Time to leave before we are attacked again. You come too, Loudewater," he said to the erstwhile farmer. As the companions stirred with the sluggish movements of tiredness, he helped Luinien to her feet. "How is your shoulder?"

She smiled wanly. "It hurts, but I can feel my arm now. I'm not going to keep it in the sling much longer or it will get too stiff."

"How close did that club come?" His eyes were very intent. She had not told him much.

Luinien met his gaze for an instant. "Close," she said with an arch look, and turned away to join Silrûth. The pair made a piquant contrast: one strong and fair, the other lithe and dark.

--------------------------------------

Veryadan's wounds were by far the most serious. They secured him with the uptmost care onto Luinien's mount, and the sure-footed mare carried him gently down the hill to their new position. Now the Ranger lay unmoving, wrapped in blankets, while Menecar built a fire to heat water. The horses of Veryadan, Osric, and Aidwain had bolted when the trolls first attacked, but the rest of their mounts were still safe.

"We need to get Veryadan to shelter," Tarondo said. "He needs healing and care that we cannot give in the wild. Bree is the closest, but we need to know where our enemies are before we try to take him there."

"If we make a run for it we may get through," Osric volunteered, but Tarondo shook his head.

"We're not going to risk his life on that possibility. Don't be fooled, Osric. They only surprised us because they were watching us, and they are most certainly watching us now. If we left now they would know it. And if they ambushed us along the road, Veryadan would have no chance."

"I agree," Menecar said. A few others murmured in assent.

Aidwain spoke up, "Bree is not the only place to find shelter, and for healing, where is better than Rivendell?"

Thoronmir shook his head. "Much too far," he said.

Tarondo held up his hand. "Let us discover our enemies before we decide our route. Silrûth, would you please scout the road behind us?" The Elf rose without a word. Luinien looked meaningly at Tarondo and picked up her bow, but he shot her a stern glance and continued. "Menecar, take the road to the west, if you would. I want to know if there are any orcs or trolls within a mile of either road." The Ranger nodded, and the pair faded into the dim late-afternoon haze.

Thoronmir and Osric began attending to Veryadan, cleaning his wound with the hot water. Aidwain nursed his ankle and kept an eye on Loudewater. Tarondo turned to his sister and found a decided glare fixed on him. Refusing to rise to the bait, he decided not to be the first to open the subject.

She could not wait very long. "Why wouldn't you let me go on scout?" she said in a fierce, low voice. "I'm quieter than Menecar, and I know the land better. Besides" -

"Besides, you're hurt," he interrupted. Continuing over her protest, "I know that you're very slightly wounded, certainly no more than Menecar. And a scout shouldn't need to fight. But that is no assurance that you wouldn't have to. We know there's an enemy out there." Luinien pursed her lips sulkily, but the resentment was fading out of her face.

"Most importantly, since Veryadan is hurt I need to discuss the situation with you. I have considered the reports, but I would like to hear your thoughts."

"It seems clear that orcs and trolls are behind what has been happening," she started at once, then thought for a bit. "I would say the trolls were the primary force in the violence," she resume, more slowly. "The crude brutality we saw is more their characteristic than the orcs'. But although they could carry out such acts on their own, I doubt they would have the persistence for a lengthy campaign. Even less do they have the intelligence to conceal their presence, even if they thought of it." She paused again. "Since it seems clear that the trolls are working with the orcs, I would guess that the planning and intelligence belong to the orcs."

Tarondo had been watching her with a gratified smile. "That is exactly what I concluded," he said. Luinien looked at him, startled, then blushed with pleasure. "But why would the orcs be organizing the trolls in the first place?"

"Love of destruction?" she hazarded.

Her brother shook his head, dissatisfied. "They would do such a thing once, themselves, on a whim; or perhaps to avenge a loss or a grudge. But an entire campaign? There must be a more unifying motive behind it."

"Perhaps someone is getting a big head."

"Perhaps." Tarondo mused. Unbidden his mind fled back to the Whittleworth's, but this time he remembered something. Abruptly he turned to his sister. "Silrûth went inside that farmhouse, and she found a small hiding place in there that was empty. What could have been in there?"

"Trolls like valuable things... like gold... and then they cache it..."

"And what one hides, another can find." Tarondo nodded. The pieces were falling into place.

His eyes fell upon Andas Loudewater, sitting at the far side of the circle. Instead of being terror-striken, he now looked sheepish and uncertain. He had been looking at Tarondo, but looked away quickly when the Elf's gaze met his. Tarondo remembered him from the Prancing Pony, and he had talked to Thoronmir.

"Loudewater." The man rose reluctantly at the command in the other's voice. He walked across to Tarondo and stood uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I..."

"Look at me."

Loudewater's eyes ventured back to him timidly. "I, um, I heard you came to do something about the killing 'round here. And, uh, I kinda thought I could help. So I followed you to Weathertop. On Killer." He gestured vaguely at the little brown mule without looking away.

Tarondo looked intently at him. He saw apprehension in the man's eyes, embarrassment and a little fear. But more than that, there was a genuine concern that supported his halting words. And not a vestige of concealment. He glanced at Luinien.

Luinien nodded slightly, and Tarondo turned back to the farmer. "Well, Andas, it seems that you will be staying with us regardless. With those orcs and trolls out there, I would estimate your chances on your own to be nil." He smiled slightly to take the menace out of his words.

The farmer stammered out his thanks and sat down hesitantly when Tarondo gestured. Soon, his shyness forgotten, he was telling the Elf all about Helga and his life back in Bree-land. Luinien excused herself to help with a meal, listening all the while.

[Envinyatar]

Esgallhugwen's post - Silrûth

The tall Elf stood smoothly without a word at Tarondo's command to scout the road that lay behind them. She took her horse quietly by the reins and led her down the east slope of the hill.

Falma's hooves treaded surprisingly soft against the earth as if she knew their need of stealth. Making their way down the path Silrûth strained her ears for any slight sound that could mean the enemy.

The horse stopped abrubtly ears flattened against her head. Knowing what it meant Silrûth dismounted, "now I don't want you running off" she tapped her finger on Falma's soft muzzle, the mare perked up her ears before plastering them back to her head.

Silrûth crept along warily, and with her skills focused on guile and swift movements she was unaware of how long it took her to reach the orc camp. A small mound of boulders and shrubs was close by and she used it to her advantage.

I musn't get too close in case they pick up my scent, but luck was with her the wind was blowing into her face away from the camp. Tentatively and carefully she peered from around the corner of a boulder.

There they were, laughing and hacking up a storm in their vile tongue, the Elf could not help but sneer in disgust, a voice spoke out in her head.

Do not over stay your welcome, they are moving can you not see it?

It was true they were beginning to stir and grunt and with that last thought Silrûth hastily made her way back to her mount. Taking up the reins, she nudged her horse lightly in the flanks with heels.

[Envinyatar]

At the little camp . . .

Veryadan swam in darkness and in pain. He could hear someone moaning in the distance, the voice was familiar. It might have been his own . . . yes, it was his own, though strangely he had no control of it. Hands lifted him up, to a horse. He could feel the movement of the best’s muscles beneath him, sending jolts of pain through his left side. His left arm, in contrast, felt numb. The blow from the Troll’s weapon swam up out of his memory. Hands bore him down from the horse after an eternity, or so it seemed. And he was at last laid down, and made somewhat more comfortable. Someone had moistened his mouth with a trickle of water; there were the flutterings of hands laying something cool against his wound and binding it securely. He drifted off once again.

It was very late in the day by the time he came round; the darkness of mind exchanged for the darkness of night. He could make out the pinpoint stars against the black sky and the flicker of the small cook-fire nearby. The soft clip-clop of hooves drew near; then, the quick light footsteps as the rider dismounted and passed by him. He could just hear the low conversation. It was Silruth, come back he gathered from a scouting mission, giving report to Tarondo and the others. There was no safe passage back to Bree from what she had found. The Orcs and Trolls, licking their wounds for now, were blocking the way west. The company would have to move east, toward Rivendell. Silruth nodded her head toward where Veryadan lay, his eyes closed. Lowering her voice a little more, she asked if he would be able to make the trip. Tarondo was about to answer when the Ranger’s voice rasped out.

‘Don’t plan my funeral yet, you two! I don’t intend to die from these trifling wounds.’ He attempted to sit up and gasped as the pain tore through his left side. Someone had packed the long gash and bound him round the trunk with strips of cloth. He fingered the dressing, noting that it was wet, sticky in places, as the blood seeped through. ‘Bring me a little tea, if you will. My throat is parched.’ Luinien had come to his side by then, assisting him to a seated position. Veryadan pressed his right hand against the wound, splinting it as he moved. ‘I heard we were cut off from Bree – the Trolls and Orcs. We’ll have to head toward Rivendell, don’t you think. There is no other choice. It will take us at least a week of long days’ riding.’ He took the mug of tea and sipped at it, holding it in his right hand. The feeling was just returning to his left arm and he could just barely wriggle the fingers of that hand. As far as he could tell, the limb did not feel broken.

Veryadan leaned his head back against the packs and blankets piled behind him. Someone had put a little poppy in the tea, masked it with honey. He just now recognised the underlying, cloying taste. The pain from sitting up was receding, but so was his grasp on consciousness. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, through closing eyes. ‘We need to make haste. We are too few. Tomorrow . . . go . . .’

He sighed as hands laid him down once again and the blanket was pulled over him. ‘So tired,’ he mumbled, slipping into welcome rest once again.

[Alaksoron]

Osric had just finished poisoning his own arrows and was sharpening his sword when Veryadan sat up. Osric watched him carefully, as he tried to sit up and failed, as Luinien helped him rise to a seated position. Or more truthfully Osric watched the bandage he had made. Veryadan talked for a moment, but Luinien put some poppy in his tea and presently fell back asleep.

Osric sheathed his word, waited for a moment untl he was sure Veryadan was asleep, and gently checked the bandaging. Tarondo smiled, bemused, as he did so. Satisfied, Osric rose, bending his neck so his head wouldn't brush the top of their makeshift shelter. He headed for the exit.

"Where are you going?" Tarondo demanded. "It will be dark soon." Osric replied levelly. "I am going to find my horse." Tarondo gently explained that there was almost no chance that his horse would return, even if he hadn't been eaten by the Orcs. Tarondo sounded sympathetic.

Osric listened patiently, then returned as evenly as he could manage, though his gaze probably gave away some irritation. "Shadow is a trained warhorse. I know he is alive. You will see." Osric was gone before Tarondo could say anymore.

Osric was out a grand total of perhaps a quarter hour. He returned, a satisfied, triumphant grin on his face. Shadow was trotting behind him. Even he looked giddy. Osric walked right past them to where the other horse's were and tethered his horse.

[Nuranar]

When Osric turned around Tarondo was standing before him, not a foot away. "Come here," he said crisply, and walked past the horses out into the dark. Osric hesitated for a moment, then followed.

Tarondo led the way around the edge of a towering boulder away from camp. "When we met in Rohan you asked to join our errand for the King. You said that you were greatly indebted to him and wished to be of service. Our errand is now in grave danger, and instead of assisting, you are further imperiling it." His voice was low-pitched but sharp, his words biting.

Osric flushed angrily, opened his mouth, but Tarondo would not give him an opening.

"By leaving camp on an errand for yourself, you endangered everyone left behind. You would not have troubled even to tell anyone, if I had not stopped you.

"You were thinking only of yourself and what you wanted. Did you not even consider finding the horse of Aidwain, which fled with yours? What about Veryadan? That man may die. He, above any of us, needs a horse.

"I want you to understand this very clearly: I am leading this errand. As the leader, I am responsible for ensuring that we work together. If everyone does as he pleases, those orcs and trolls will wipe us out.

"Thus far you have been a valued companion. But I expect you, as I expect everyone else, to follow my decisions. Tonight you did not. It must never happen again."

Osric met his gaze belligerently, tauntingly. But Tarondo did not look away, and soon Osric's eyes fell.

"Go back to the fire." The cold command in his voice left Osric no escape. He stalked back, sullen and silent.

Tarondo stood alone, back in the darkness beyond the boulder. Luinien stepped out of the shadows and moved to his side. "He's not happy."

Tarondo grimaced and shook his head. "Of course he's not. I would have preferred to leave him alone. But after the position he put me in, I had no choice. Veryadan's life - all of our lives - are worth far more than his self-love."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Luinien said softly. The brother and sister stood silent, side by side in the windless night, listening, thinking.

Luinien gave a sudden low laugh. "It just occurred to me," she said in reply to Tarondo's inquiry, "that Osric didn't bother to offer me any poison for my arrows. I wonder why?" Again her laugh rippled out through the night.


Meneltarmacil's post

Thoronmir sat with the others as they discussed what to do. Thoronmir was not seriously injured; the orc's hook had pierced the skin but hadn't affected the deeper areas a whole lot. It had been treated with healing herbs and then bandaged, and Thoronmir was definitely going to be fine.

However, the others were not as lucky. Veryadan in particular was severely injured in the battle and could die if he wasn't taken somewhere where he could get help soon. The party had decided to set out for Rivendell, which Thoronmir had reasoned was too far away, but the road to Bree was probably cut off behind them. They would have to try for it anyhow, regardless of distance.

Thoronimir had been talking to the man he had saved earlier, Andas Loudewater. They'd gotten to know each other fairly well by this point. Andas had told him about his home life, how his wife had always yelled at him until he had left on this journey. Thoronmir in turn talked of his life, the battles he had fought, and how he had become the leader of a sizable group of Rangers in the Hills of Evendim. It seems that he'd encountered Loudewater several years ago, when the Ranger had been on a patrol and had caught Loudewater as a child playing much farther away from home than he was supposed to be.

Osric later left to find his horse against Tarondo's orders, and Thoronmir noticed the Elf calling him away so the two could speak privately. As the Ranger was poisoning the last of his arrows, Osric returned with a dour expression on his face, Thoronmir could tell the man had been reprimanded rather harshly. He decided not to ask Osric about it and went to sleep for the night. They would have to leave the next morning.

[Envinyatar]

It was Aidwain who took the last watch before morning. The campfire had burned down to a few smoldering coals and the others were all drowsing in the small camp when Veryadan called softly to the Elf. ‘The sun is nearly up, I see,’ he said raising himself slowly onto one elbow. ‘There is enough light, I think, for you to look for our horses.’ He grimaced a little as a painful spasm gripped his side. ‘The first two Trolls panicked them, as I recall. And they went running back down the track up which we came.’ He pushed himself up further, leaning his back against the flat face of a large rock. ‘I think if you find yours, mine will be near. He’s the sort who likes to stick with his companions.’

Aidwain woke Silruth, saying he would be back directly. The horses, he thought, had probably gone back to their previous camp, across the road a short ways, among the shelter of the trees. Tarondo had awoken by then and took the watch himself, sending the other two Elves on their errand.

It was an hour later when they returned, leading Veryadan’s horse back between their two. They had indeed been down by the old camp, near the little creek where the low growing bushes along the streamside still had a few wizened berries clinging to them.

The companions were all up when they returned. The fire had been put out, a cold meal taken in haste. Veryadan’s bandage had been reinforced, a binding made tight about it to allow him to sit upright on his horse. Aidwain had dismounted from his own horse and given Veryadan a leg up, so that he might mount more easily. By the time Veryadan had settled himself in his saddle, a fine bead of sweat had broken out along his upper lip and his face had turned quite pale. A new fellow, whom Veryadan had not met, rode up alongside him. Andas, he introduced himself as, Andas Loudewater of Bree. The man’s lengthy introduction of himself kept the Ranger’s mind focused on the unfolding of the story and off the discomfort whenever the horse’s gait jostled him.

+^+^+^+^+

The company kept to the East Road as they made their way toward the Last Bridge. It was wide enough for them to ride several abreast of each other, and the view to each side of the way was for the most part unobstructed. Enough so, that they could keep a wary watch for any enemy who might pursue them. With several short rest breaks on each day’s journey, and a late afternoon stop time, affording a long night’s rest, Veryadan was able to muster the strength to keep going each day.

It was on the second day, when they had just entered that part of the road that made its way between the low wooded, rolling hills to the south and the flat plains to the north with their scattered thickets of oaks and maples that they had the sense of some menace following closely along behind them. The watches were doubled that night as they made their camp and settled in for an uneasy rest.

[Nuranar]

Tarondo awoke instantly when the racket broke out, hardly needing the terrified whinnies of the horses to know what had happened. As he buckled on his sword, a movement across the encampment caught his eye. "Hold it!" he snapped at Menecar, about to pursue the stampede. "What is it?" he demanded of Luinien, who came dashing up from watch on the far side.

"Trolls," she gasped. "They cut the picket line and stampeded them off to the east. Thoronmir says no one's out there right now."

"We need to get them back!" Menecar insisted, worry creasing his brow.

"We will. You come with me, you and" - he glanced around the circle - "Silrûth. Everyone else stay here. Do not leave until morning, but don't wait for us, either. This could be an ambush, or we may need to go a long ways. We can find you. Luinien is in charge until I return."

Without another word he strode away from the fire, Menecar and Silrûth behind him. Luinien broke the silence first. "Aidwain, will you take the rest of my watch? I'll wait up until morning and perhaps scout around a little. The rest of you had better go back to sleep until your watches."

Aidwain left, and slowly the camp settled down again. Luinien sat, wrapped in thought, by the dying embers of the fire. Finally she rose and went out into the night.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Menecar volunteered to follow the horses straight along the path they took, while Silrûth and Tarondo shadowed him on either side. They slipped silently through the rocks and trees some distance from the path, keeping up with his brisk walk.

Tarondo, on the north side, had actually outdistanced the Ranger some fifty yards when he heard a rumbly murmur directly ahead. Instantly he froze, then crept noiselessly toward the sound. Soon he discerned words as the voices carried more clearly. And they were definitely Troll voices.

"Are they here yet?"

"No. Be quiet."

One second passed.

"Why don't they hurry up?"

"I told you" - interrupted by the first.

"Somebody's coming!"

"Where?" Tarondo thought he could see a darker shape move up ahead, straining down the dark path for a glimpse of the approaching Ranger.

"There's only one, brother. Is it her?"

"Naw!" the second growled, disappointedly. "It's too big. But let's get it anyway. Come here. Now... heave!" Grunts and groans from ahead. Tarondo had heard enough.

He stood up and dashed to the road, running to cut off the Ranger before he reached the danger point. "Menecar!" he shouted. "Menecar, stop! Off the road!" Behind and to his left, hoarse Troll-bellows heralded the rush and crunch of the boulder as it left its bed. "Silrûth, get back! There are Trolls, starting a rockslide!" In a flurry of dead leaves he slid down onto the path, directly in front of Menecar. Grabbing the Ranger, he hurried away from the road, angling back to the west. Behind them a growing roar heralded the approach of the slide...

[Kransha]

“C’mon. Lemme kill ‘im.” whined Búbkûr, a grimace maligning his already grotesque features. He was tired of listening to the rumble of commotion that issued from the trees beyond his reach. The trolls were doing their duty, of course, but that did not mean that he had to be pleased with the progress of the ridiculous plan underway. It was not his style, this hit-and-run harrasment of the enemy. He preferred head-on engagement, simple, blunt, crude, barbaric combat.

“Show some patience, will ye?” Gráthgrob snapped back, irked and cross, “This is a gradual process, one that takes time.” He was, as always, the voice of cold, ruthless orcish reason, which was not exactly to Búbkûr’s liking. The other orcs, though, worshipped his oversized brain, a fact that severely nauseated Búbkûr. He had never wished for intelligence, or the gratuitous gift of pretty speech. His own tongue was a fine tongue, and a tongue that suited him fine. Knowing big words and how to properly use them did not impress Búbkûr, and he thought it ought not to impress any other orc. As the orcs nearby, squatting, sitting, kneeling, and reclining on the forested earth, nodded in agreement, Gráthgrob continued. D’ya want to have fun with the fools, or just plain kill ‘em?” He was pushing his luck, assuredly, but Búbkûr was in no mood to get physical, or overly emotional about his opinions. Bâzzog had doubtless placed his affiliation with Gráthgrob, and thus, inadvertently, defeated anything the Búbkûr could think up.

“I’m quite partial to killin’ ‘em, actually.” The other orc retorted, wittily, for him. He grinned in an oafish manner, looking away to conceal the expression, as he considered the cleverness of his comment, but his moment of mental glory was severed and abruptly beheaded by a quieting growl and words from his commander, Bâzzog, who was peering darkly through the gnarled, low-hanging tree branches at the opposing camp far off. “Quiet!” he roared, though stifling his thunderous bass voice and is rippling, throaty undulation, “Ye want to wake the very dead with yer voice, glob? You’ll rouse the Elves and the tarks, that you will.”

This annoyed Bubkur further, but he thought back to the trite specifics of his wishes. His eagerness was fueled primarily by anger, and a want for vengeance. He’d never been as vilely injured by any man as he had been by that foul ranger. In fact, the most grievous incident and wound he’d experienced did not come from a Dúnadan, thus making the injury he’d been dealt all the greater to his easily inflatable ego. He was, within, filled from his bulky head to his talon-tipped toes with mad, incendiary rage at the nameless Ranger. This had been long considered since the skirmish at Weathertop, and afforded Búbkûr no little amount of grief and anguish, though only the kind of fiery, molten grief that an orc can experience.

“They’ll be up anyway, soon ‘nuff,” the lieutenant grumbled, sitting again, “…Jus’ lemme kill the one tark: the one who gave me this.” He indicated, coldly, the wound he’d been issued in the last combat, which now bore a ragged, tattered cloth bound across it tightly, stifling the flow of black, near-acidic fluid. “Lemme fill my hook up with his flesh and then ye can do what ye want.” He clawed and raked the air in illustration, but Bâzzog waved him down again. “Ye can have ‘im later,” he responded, unemotional and void of real feeling, “when the time is right.”

“It’s the bloody right time now! Sha!” Búbkûr cursed loudly, springing to his feet and sweeping his rusty hook hand in a simple arc, “If we don’t get to ‘em, the bloody ologs’ll kill ‘em!” Bâzzog turned, nearly swatting at him in his rage, and the mere look in his eye stabbed through Búbkûr, and the orc crumbled back into his seat feebly. “Worm!” Bâzzog spat, “The trolls couldn’t kill a paralyzed ox. They’ll just soften up the goodies for us, they will.” Búbkûr was, obviously, subdued by the statement, but he was determined to resist another defeat, and so, after his captain had glumly turned, he struggled to his feet, with a meeker air, and waddled over to the gangly orc bowman, Kransha, who stood erect in his usual place, somewhat distanced from the clump of orcs at this fringe of camp. Kransha’s calculating eyes were occupied, but a couple of rude pokes in the arm alerted him. Búbkûr, thinking of a vague, but workable possibility, posed a question to the seemingly mute uruk.

“Kransha, you figure you can hit one if’n ya get in a tree or somethin’?”

Eventually, Kransha nodded.

“See?” Búbkûr exclaimed, turning and yelling excitedly to Bâzzog, “‘E could hit ‘em! ‘E could kill ‘em as easy as those trolls! We oughtto jus’ let ‘im stun ‘em, or wound ‘em, or somethin’ and we can have ‘em all to ourselves!” Bâzzog spun again, moving, despite his rugged bulk, like a shadowy wraith borne on the winds, and flitted right up to Búbkûr, to within an inch of his flat face. Shocked, Búbkûr staggered and slipped into the dust with a heavy thud. “Pushdug,” the orc captain rasped, “o’ course ‘e can hit ‘em. But, if ‘e does it, we can’t ‘ave no fun. Now then, sit down and shut up. When they cross the Big Bridge, we can hit ‘em. Then ye’ll get yer chance. Ye can have all the tarks if ye really want. Kransha and I’ll handle the Elves. If all goes well, the trolls’ll get killed in the fray, and we can get back to Bree-land.”

Búbkûr nodded dumbly, questioning his own action, and scooted back into his place. After the outburst, the camp seemed dejected, and many eyes fixed on Bâzzog, each pair set before a different thought, a different contemplation. Some might have even been entertaining the possibility that Búbkûr had the right idea. Their voices dwindled, like the withering light in there eyes, and they turned their minds and words to other things, speaking in morose, conspiratorial whispers. But, Bâzzog did not seem content with their inaction. Suddenly, his dank grimness turned to a sickly merriment, and he swiveled and trounced forward and back, past his troops. “Don’t be down, lads.” He said, a smile twisted onto his face, and gleaming teeth peeking out of his mouth, “T’night’s a good night, with a sky of red, the kind that Gundabad was under. We’re in luck, boys, I assure ye. Let’s ‘ave a song fer the night, fer they’ll be blood in the mornin’.”

[Primrose Bolger]

While the fun of the night’s adventures was not to be denied, especially not to His Malevolance, Bâzzog, Grimm and Broga were growing restless. And hungry, very hungry. There had been no raids in the past few days, no lovely sheep, or goat, or stray creature of the four legged or two legged persuasion to roast on a spit or boil up for stew or just gnaw on raw. Broga had hoped to drag one of the Elves off as a prize from their last encounter, but he’d been denied this toothsome delight; his poor reward being a poke in the eye with an Elven arrow, instead.

‘I wants food . . . great hunks of meat . . . not anymore of these Orcish, dried-up travel-meats,’ grumbled Broga from under cover of the trees. Grimm’s belly rumbled loudly in the night, drawing snickers from several of the Orcs standing near. Snickers turned to squeals as Grimm grabbed up one of the creatures, grinning wolfishly at it. ‘I’m so hungry, brother,’ he crooned to Broga, ‘I could even eat one of these nasty tasting bugs!’ He clacked his great, snaggly teeth at the whimpering Orc and heaved it up into the branches of one of the nearby trees. Broga, a wicked gleam in his eye, reached out toward another of the Orcs, all of whom then quickly scattered well out of the grasp of the Trolls.

‘What say we get on down the road, like the Chief wanted,’ Grimm whispered. ‘Find us something fresh to eat.’ Grimm motioned for his brother to follow. Broga’s brow beetled. ‘The Chief?’ Grimm nodded, pulling his brother toward the eastern perimeter of their little stand of trees. ‘Little sneak attack, remember?’ Grimm prompted, his arm linked firmly with his brother’s. ‘The bridge . . . just before the Shaws?’ Broga’s face had gone blank; no flicker of recognition for these plans shown in his eye. He shrugged and followed along beside Grimm. No use in trying to dredge up facts that had leaked from his brain. He trusted his brother - If Grimm said it was the Chief’s plan, then the Chief’s plan it was. And besides . . . the thought of fresh meat caught along the way had set him drooling. Visions of marrow filled stag bones quickened his pace.

The brothers kept well off the road as they ran along. To their left and now just a bit behind them were some Elves and men haring after the spooked horses. The last of the rocks that Arald and Dim had pushed clattered down ineffectively to a resting place behind them. Broga and Grimm could hear the thumping of the other two Trolls as they ran from their ambush site. Arald, it seemed, had been thwarted in his attempts and was bellowing out his frustration. Grimm wondered aloud if those two would manage catch up to them. Four Trolls would mean more than one deer would need to be taken.

He was pondering this question as he ran along, when the jarring sounds of Orc voices rent the night air. Broga shook his head and urged his brother to an even faster pace. ‘Can’t stand what passes for Orcs singing,’ he snorted. ‘Like two polecats tied in a bag, what with all their hissing and yowling like.’ Grimm laughed at his brother’s assessment. ‘And those noises they always throw in at the ends of verses – like some buzzard choking on a day old skunk. No proper rhymin’ at all. Gives me a headache!’

In a low voice, Broga sang out a few lines from an old Troll ditty. Grimm grinned and joined in, the cadence of the verses making their feet fly.

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by . . .

-----
- from The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, ‘The Stone Troll’, J.R.R.Tolkien

[Kransha]

The twanging of bowstrings resounded and the whistle of arrows, rending the wind and air, resounded through the dank corridors of the fir forest. From the thickets and ample cover of the furry shrubs in the forest, uruk archers rained down an assortment of narrow, jagged bolts onto the company of their opponents. Before, beneath, and beside them rang the clang of hoof against earth as the enemy group’s horses bolted and panicked, though they were soon set under control by their riders. The riders galloped swiftly from the open and into the checkered shadow of the trees, concealing their silhouettes from the orcish archers. But, the archers persevered, firing frantically into the woods. They did not lose their organization, but maintained order, and fired in the direction of the horse’s neighs and maddened whinnies, their arrows puncturing the hanging branches and rustling the higher bushes. Arrows, tipped with liquid red, stabbed harshly into the soft earth and cracked asunder the stones that lay by the wayside with their strength. Many bolts pockmarked the path of the riders, filling up the earth where the tracks of their horses were printed mere moments after they passed by, gallivanting forward at great, hurried speeds.

“Fire! Fire!” Búbkûr’s voice continued to speak, crying out in its raspy, thick tone that burnt the ears of those who heard it with its vileness. Not disposed to ranged weaponry, Búbkûr had busied himself with the exercise of leaping up and down, to and fro, and brandishing his hook profusely, stabbing and hacking in the supposed direction of the enemy. Hotly, he jumped forth from the trees, jabbing forward and back, as the nine orcs crowded around him fired a single, unending volley, a hail of arrows falling from their crude, short-bows. Some, who were not apt with bows, were armed with other weapons that could be shot or thrown. Two had a small supply of crude javelins, short hunks of wood with sharpened tips that fell gracelessly and lacked accuracy, but would be deadly at close range. Two more of Búbkûr’s nine bore crossbows, probably stolen and not of orcish manufacturing, for they were more lithe and comely, though they had been tainted with stains of blood and mud by the orcs who bore them.

Not too far off, on the other side of the trodden path that the enemies were taking, was the troop commanded by Kransha. Bâzzog, who had again not deigned to engage in combat, had split the force of twenty-five uruks that was to corner and lure the opposing force into a trolly trap into two distinct parts. One, consisting of ten orcs, including Bubkur, was the melee unit, technically, whereas a group of orcs who had been trained specially by Kransha had been put under the command of their silent educator. They were providing the more precise, and efficient archery from the cover of the trees. That company numbered fifteen, to Bubkur’s ten, which was a point that made him mildly irate, but did not distract him. He was busy enough thinking about what he would do to that tark-dug who’d dared to hurt him when he got his hands on him.

“Keep them down, boys!” cried Búbkûr, his fervency still fresh and full, “Fire low!” He maneuvered to the side, and his section of the orcish troop moved gradually with him, edging towards the destination they had been assigned. They were drivers, meant to direct the tarks and Elves to a designated locale, one where the trolls, who now lay in wait at the ready, could overcome and subdue them with relative ease. In addition, the orcs would be able to spread their forces and herd the fools right into the area, so they’d be hopelessly surrounded. The very thought of this cruel but satisfying action brought a grim smile to Búbkûr’s wretched face, and he licked his lips, balling his one hand into a tightly clenched fist. With a number of gestures, he pointed his men towards the clearing where the trolls bided their time. He caught obscure glimpses of the other troop of orcs, who were still raining fire down on the orcish quarry.

“Thrakul!” he bellowed in the Black Speech, his voice carrying through and over the dense underbrush to Kransha’s company, and then turned to his own men. “You four,” he said hastily, indicating the two orcs with crossbows, and two with bows, “keep firing. The rest of you, get moving. Drive ‘em to the clearing.” The four remaining, as well as Búbkûr, turned tail and ran, dashing recklessly through the forest, past various woodland obstacles, attempting to head off and herd the Rangers and Elves, and their mighty-voiced mounts. They surged toward the clearing, where slivers of vague light from above penetrated the shade of the forest, and the dusty beams shone down on a trio of figures, who stood stock still, their outlines blazoned against the darkened greens and browns behind them. Búbkûr ignored to still figures, though, and concentrated his weak mind at the task as hand. He crowded his own men, who put up their ranged armaments, save for the two javelineers, who turned their weapons up in their grasping, wrenching arms and waved them as stabbing spears. The orcs poured forth, with the hail from the other orc troop raining on their foes before them.

“Take down the horses!” roared Búbkûr, “Attack!”

The orcs, not mounted, ruptured their ranks and dove at the braying steeds. In the first moments of the direct combat, one of the orcs was kicked full in the face by the iron-hard hooves of a horse, and, bleeding and twitching fitfully, the first casualty rolled limp into the dust beneath a weeping shrub. Only slightly irked, Búbkûr carried on. The company was not yet in the clearing, not yet near enough the trolls. Búbkûr, as his men charged forward, followed by the four archers from behind, still firing without aim, turned his head towards the outcropping and slopes where Kransha’s orcs were perched and cried out, “Find Kransha! Gimbata!” at the faces he saw poking out from between swaying branches, slipping into his own tongue again as the command flew out of him. Moments later, the arrow rain had increased, and the bolts grew in accuracy. In a flash, one horse of the many had gone down, riddled with arrows. As his eyes returned to the fray, Bubkur recognized the rider as that tark who’d injured him.

Before he knew it, his legs were carrying him in huge bounds forward towards the man as he rolled from beneath the empty ruin of his still flailing steed.

At this moment, the second troop burst through the trees, and the battle began in earnest. From behind the Stone Trolls, and the forested objects opposite the orcs, five trolls issued, roaring madly and gleefully as they fell on their prey. The battle moved too swiftly from the trolls to the opened clearing as orc, Ranger, Elf, and Troll clashed at the central point. The arrows abruptly stopped whizzing, and their swift sounds were replaced by the loathsome cackles of orcs as they strove forward. One of Kransha’s troop, a surly fellow with a curvy knife and a shield that looked as if it might be have been a table-top once, tackled the Rohirrim from his horse, and the two wrestled in the dirt as the other orcs closed in, with trolls a-clobbering on the other side of the field. The battle had begun…

And, up on the sloping hill from whence the orcs had come, stood Kransha, searching for a target…

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir urged his horse faster. The orcs had come out of nowhere and were now gaining on them. He had just reached the huge petrified trolls in the clearing when his horse fell to the ground, dead from several arrows. was in serious trouble. His horse had been killed off and was pinning him to the ground, and he was now in the middle of the Stone Trolls facing off against a big orc, the same, in fact, who'd fought him earlier at Weathertop. The orc, violently enraged even by orcish standards, raised a gigantic curved butcher-knife of a sword over his head and swung. It hit the ground right next to Thoronmir, who barely managed to twist away in time. With a lot of effort in a fairly short time, the ranger pulled his long knife loose from under the horse's body and jammed it into the orc's foot, who howled in pain and rage. Thoronmir got out from under the horse during that brief interval and turned to face his attacker, who had just pulled the knife out of his foot. Thoronmir swung at the orc with his sword, but the stroke was blocked by the orc's falchion. Thoronmir tried to duck away, but the orc managed to hit Thoronmir in the side with his hook, knocking the wind out of him. Suddenly, the orc was hit by an arrow as Menecar dashed onto the scene followed by Andas Loudewater. More orcs appeared, and Thoronmir managed to get back his strength, pick his knife back up, and fight. He slew two who were trying to get at Loudewater, using the three stone trolls as cover before turning back toward the huge orc who, if it was even possible, was even angrier than before. Menecar tried to tackle the orc as Thoronmir swung his sword, but at the last second the orc flung Menecar off him and ducked Thoronmir's swing. Thoronmir looked and saw that Menecar had crashed headfirst into one of the stone trolls, probably dead. Thoronmir, in grief and rage, hit the orc so swiftly with his sword that neither one was aware of what had happened. The orc staggered backward, blood oozing out of a gaping wound in his stomach. He ran at Thoronmir in a murderous rage, not knowing anything except that the ranger must be killed at any cost. Thoronmir ducked and rolled to the side out of pure instinct to avoid the orc's rage. The orc, however, couldn't stop his momentum and plunged at full speed into one of the petrified trolls. The weathered stone behemoth rocked back and forth from the impact, then toppled over, crushing the huge orc along with several others of his kind.

Thoronmir got up, turning to fight the still-numerous orcs. Suddenly, he saw one on a nearby hill, taking aim with his bow directly at Andas Loudewater.

"Look out!" the ranger said, pushing the farmer to the side. The arrow from the orc's bow, meant for Loudewater, instead scored a direct hit on Thoronmir's left arm...

[Saurreg]

Loudewater got off the gravelly path bruised and sore. The second ambush had unnerved poor Killer so badly that it reared, threw his master of its back and bolted in the direction of the fords in blind terror. Poor simple beast never made it – cruel orcish barbs founded their mark in Killer’s girth and the mule crashed and tumbled into the side hedges with a sickening thud.

Loudewater grimaced with pain as he attempted to get on his feet when a humongous troll killed by Luinien crashed onto the ground not far from where the farmer was, earth shaking tremors sending the loose-limbed farmer sprawling again. Loudewater cursed at himself and at generally anything that came to his mind. The day was turning out to be more interesting than he had hoped for.

Loudewater got up again in even greater pain and was rewarded with the view of a miserable-looking orc standing before him. The orc seemed to be a little smaller and bent with age than those that Loudewater have seen before. It’s grey skin was incredibly wrinkled and spotted with blemishes and molds. Unkempt patches of grayish white hair dotted its head and the thing seemed to be missing teeth – lots of them.

Loudewater never knew that orcs could look so old or rather, could live this long.

The wizened old thing appeared to be mesmerized by the bloodshed and chaos going on around it that it did not notice the farmer from Bree until the moment the latter got up. Shrieking with surprise, it spun to face him brandishing a pathetic looking scimitar that has seen much better days. The beast’s movement was not fluid and it appeared to be extremely hestitant and uncomfortable confronting a foe of another race.

For his part Loudewater was in no mood to fight any way. The novelty of killing died soon after the battle of the Trollshaws and as of then, the dirty and tired farmer simply wanted to make his way to the fabled dwelling of the elves in one piece as soon as possible. A combat was not high on his list of things to do. Nevertheless Loudewater introduced the orc to his own dagger.

Both gladiators stood facing in crouched positions waiting to pounce on the other as soon as one made the wrong move, but as both combatants were so reluctant to fight (one was unused to using its brawn than its brains and the other was just to dogged tired), both simply stood at their spots not moving.

This is ridiculous… Thought Loudewater as he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet. The tensed orc yelped and readied itself, mistaking that the farmer was about to make his move. Loudewater could clearly see that his opponent was just as unwilling to fight he was. It seemed that a compromise could be reached. Loudewater tried,

“Hey you!”

The nervous yellow eyes continued to stare in attention.

“Do you understand what I’m saying buddy?”

The orc gave a sharp quick nod of its head which surprised Loudewater. Whoever thought parleying with an orc was possible?

“Look here, you don’t want to fight me and I don’t want to fight you either. So let’s just call it quits. I am going to count to three… Do you understand one, two, three? Good! And we are going to step back slowly and turn away from each other. Understand?”

Intelligent eyes continued to stare at loudewater intently even though the orc nodded his head quickly, almost eagerly even.

“Good, one…” begun Loudewater as he started to countdown. But even then the orc was starting to retreat. It did not really bother Loudewater that his opposite was not adhering to the stipulated terms of agreement – the faster he was rid of it, the better.

“Two…”

Just then the huge troll slain by Tarando crashed onto the ground and its huge wooden club bounced and ricocheted across the battlefield. Young and nimble orcs leapt out of its way as if they were engaged in a game of “dodge that club” and the huge heavy weapon continued its path straight towards the old orc who was so focused on Loudewater that it failed to see it coming. The club smashed into the wretched creature and took it along for the rest of its journey, leaving behind a trail of black orc ichor and bits and pieces of bewildered orc.

Loudewater raised a surprised eyebrow to the unexpected freak occurrence.

[Primrose Bolger]

Look just like ants, don’t they?’ whispered Broga, watching the Orcs pour in to battle the men and Elves. Grimm grunted and rose to his feet, motioning for his brother to follow along. He had spotted a likely looking target – two men on a horse and one looked wounded, from the way the man behind him held him upright with one arm.

The wounded man’s companion spoke a few words in the other’s ear. The wounded man, bending low over his horse’s neck wrapped his fists tightly in the mane. The other man had gotten down from the horse and given the beast a whack on the hindquarters, sending it flying through the melee of blades and clubs, toward the water. On foot, now, the man had drawn his blade and now stood back to back with one of the Elves. Orcs ran, tripping over the fallen of their own number, after the wounded man on the horse.

‘That’s our prize!’ cried Broga. ‘I want that horsey for supper, I do!’ He galumphed after the Orcs, scattering them right and left as he swung his club.

Grimm left his brother to the crunching and crushing of Orc bones and ran after the escaping horse and rider . . .

[Kransha]

Gráthgrob was dead, or rather; he had disappeared into the fray, and came out a pile of orc body parts thanks to an ill-aimed troll club. Bâzzog was now doubly injured, with two arrows in him as he charged. He’d fallen, but persevered as a proper; brute of an orc ought to, and continued to saunter, at a less sprightly pace, forward, towards the thinly-spread ranks of the enemy. He was lumbering about, almost drunkenly, with a disorderly entourage bumbling over the earth in front of and behind him. He managed to yank out one of the two offending arrows, but got no farther than that before he was again engaged, this time by a She-elf from afar. In the midst of the muddle of battle, Bâzzog was lost to the orcs, assimilated onto the other side of the field. Many continued to doggedly believe that he would be victorious, but he was too far from his own troops, and was already gravely wounded. He was no match for Elf-kind, not that day. So, it was not a great surprise to anyone when his severed head, mouth hanging limply open and his blackened tongue lolling out, was discovered in a shallow ditch later.

From that point forward, Bâzzog’s personal battles were his own business. Kransha, as usual, was scoping out the field, in disarray, searching for a target, a mark, or anything he could shoot. With both Gráthgrob and Búbkûr dead, the orcs had become confused over time, and some were routing, but the heavy numbers involved were still able to overwhelm the opponents, despite all their hacking and slashing and erroneous combat techniques. Kransha himself, one eye pursed and the other squinting delicately, meandered in a careless fashion, his fingers tightly constricting around the cold wood of his bow and the bolt fitted to it. He tried to hone in on an adequate target, but the plane as it sloped into the river was clouded with battle’s mists. He had managed to salvage a bow from the last skirmish, though it was not as proficient as his last, and he was not yet accustomed to it. He would have to find a close target, one who was not moving too fast, too nimbly, or too erratically. At long last, he found one.

The gangly orc recognized this one. It was the leader, probably, who he’d put an arrow into at the Battle of the Stone Trolls. He could only reckon that the man he saw was the leader, out of his complex figuring over the length of several minor skirmishes. The fellow had a commanding air in him, not one of a grand general, but of a captain of men all the same, and struck Kransha as the sort of man who might lead an expedition of sorts. Squinting further, Kransha leveled the jagged shaft balanced on his hand and nocked to the bow at the unnamed man, searching for precision and the perfect moment, waiting with distinguishable orcish patience for him to be completely vulnerable. Suddenly, the man’s eyes fell upon him, and widened momentarily as he continued to rage through orcish lines. Realizing that he had no time to spare for aim or concentration, Kransha loosed the bolt from his bow. It soared, like an aimless shaft of light, or dark, over orc heads and at the man. But, the enemy leader was quicker than Kransha had assumed, and Kransha’s aim with the new bow was flawed. The shaft nearly fell short, and the man simply had to maneuver lithely to his side and break into a mad dash towards the opposing orc. Kransha now knew he could not fire again, for the time it would take for such a motion could dearly cost him. Somewhat dejected, his dropped his empty bow to the ground and ripped out his two red-stained blades, not hesitating to shoot off from the ground in a head-on sprint.

He charged, and the two collided at a central point between them, frantically flurrying their blades. The force of the first collision threw both combatants back, and they staggered for a fleeting second, before Kransha lunged. As he fell on his prey, the man dodged again, swinging his leg and shoulder about to the side so that the orc pouncing fell instead upon rocky ground. As quickly as his skeletal pair of legs could carry him, Kransha flung himself back as the man’s sword pierced the earth three times in succession, drawing nearer to him each time, but never reaching the orc form, since he leapt out of the sword’s stinging path each time. After the third mighty swing, Kransha stabbed forward, but his blade was knocked aside and retaliated to with another series of flourishing arcs by the enemy sword, one of which cut a swath through Kransha’s shoulder. The orc grunted, a bubble of bracken blood bursting from his lips as thin rivers of reddish-black welled up and ran down over the orc’s chest. Only annoyed, Kransha picked up the pace, his efficient movements turning to a hammering rain of heavy bashes dealt onto the man. The enemy parried, but could not dodge around the assailing orcs, and was forced to take each maneuver on the chin, almost literally. He backed up, towards the river’s immediate banks and past orc, man, and elf alike as they tore about the field.

The battle between the two quickly grew harsher, and both poured a greater well of their energy into it, each sustaining wounds that grew heavier in weight and number as time passed. Kransha was stabbed twice in one arm, and was dealt a great wound to his hip. The muscle burst and blood coursed over his flesh and leg, causing his steady, swift movements to become ragged and disconnected as it became harder for him to stand. One of his arms swung, more disjointed, and his grip on that arm’s weapon was loosened by a foul mixture of sweat that secreted his rough palm and warm blood that now covered his hand. The orc was the very model of bloodshed, a portrait of battle’s wrath as he became himself more erratic and less connected with his usual profound tactics. The man, on the other hand, was bashed about himself a great deal. Bruises and stab wounds soon found a home on him, the brunt of a punch from Kransha’s steely hilt gave the man a great wound on his forehead, which pulsed with painful energies and caused the man to slow his pace as well, his senses swimming and his agility dulling. Still, though, both warriors were equal in their combat.

That situation was abruptly ended when Kransha got the upper hand. One arm’s limpness could be used to an advantageous end, as he discovered. Numbness has distilled in his limb, but it was now unfeeling, and so he had leeway to flail it madly, without fearing for his arm’s safety. Several times, the arm itself struck the man, dealing him bruises, but also several times did the blade, practically hanging from the arm’s stiff fingers, slash across the man’s chest, drawing more thick blood. With a groan of stifled pain, the man collapsed backward; onto the hard ground, clutching at his wounds were they lay and his sword fell ignobly to his side. Kransha, not even able to comprehend the fact that he might, in truth, win, bore up both his blades into his hands, aiming down at the man, and plunged them down, ready to impale the fallen figure and nail him to the ground. Both of his weapons fell simultaneously, shooting downward, but the flesh they yearned for was not found.

The man beneath him, ignoring his wounds, sprung upon his legs and rolled again, pulling himself away from Kransha’s falling weapons. Just as they had before, the pair of long knives dug into the dirt instead of into man-flesh. Kransha did not notice until he heard a vague windy whistling from the patch of earth to his side, letting his grip on both weapons slip away, and his dangling arms, numb and useless through and through, fall to his side. He turned, half in awe, half in confusion, and half in anger, to see the man swinging his sword in a huge arc. The blade flew like a warm summer gust of air on a cold day, and then rested, hovering in mid-air, opposite of where it had begun.

At first, both warriors were breathing hard, standing stock still in their places. A second after that, Kransha’s chest stopped heaving, and then drifted away from the point beneath it. Slowly, the orcs upper half fell away, and all of Kransha above the torso clattered noisily onto the ground. After the passing of a moment, his two legs had crumbled in the opposite direction. The man did not linger over his kill, and quickly leapt over the two halves of the orcish whole, not tarrying to aid those who followed him...

The orcs were now in full disarray...