Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Nuranar]

In the initial charge into the clearing, Luinien's mare had displayed an unexpected belligerence, striking down the first orc in her path. But the creature's weapon nicked her at it fell, she bolted into the trees.

It was only the surprise, however, and the mare responded gradually as Luinien reined her in. Suddenly she twisted and ducked under an small branch. Luinien, concentrating wholly on her mount, never had a chance. It struck her right across the body at shoulder height and knocked her clean off the horse.

For some time Luinien lay flat on her back, gasping, staining to get the air back in her heaving lungs. After some time her eyes focused on the branch above her, still quivering slightly. It was a young branch, she saw; young and supple. If it had been any bigger, I might have broken something, she thought. Or have I? She rolled to her side and used her arms to push herself to a sitting position, then grasped a nearby sapling and stood up. So far, so good, she thought shakily.

Her dizzy gaze steadied and Luinien took one step toward the clearing, now a hundred yards behind. For some reason she glanced back. There was her horse, standing only a little beyond the unlucky branch. The mare took a sheepish step towards her as Luinien turned. "I hope you're ashamed of yourself," she told the mare. Ten seconds later she was riding back to the battle.

The clearing was littered with bodies, mostly orc - she was afraid to look closer - and the fragments of two petrified trolls. Even as she rode up three trolls were lumbering away. But there were still two - two? - and a handful of orcs. Silrûth was still mounted, as was Aidwain. A quick glance spied Veryadan and Thoronmir on the ground, clearly wounded.

"Luinien!" Tarondo was leaning against a tree, barely able to stand. "We need to get out of here!"

She quickly rode to him and slid down. "Where are you hurt?" She tried to make him sit down, but he shook her off.

"An arrow in the leg. I will be all right for now." He lurched away from the tree and grasped the saddle. "If I go get the wounded, can you keep the enemy off with your bow?"

She frowned. "You need help, you cannot help them. Stay here with the bow while I get them."

Tarondo looked at the bow, shook his head. "I can get Andas to help me. He is not hurt. And you were born to use that bow. This is your place, and mine is down there." With a sudden effort he hoisted himself into the saddle. Sitting almost sideways, letting his injured leg hang free, he rode swiftly down into the clearing.

Luinien shouted, gaining the other two Elves' attention, and gestured to her brother. As he and Andas labored to get Thoronmir into the saddle, Silrûth and Aidwain threw themselves upon the remaining orcs. When the two remaining trolls prepared to charge the group, Luinien began shooting at them from the top of the hill. Her position was ideal, commanding the entire area. There had stood the orc who shot both Thoronmir and Tarondo. Great archers think alike.

The Elves were being pressed back when finally Tarondo gave a shout. Three horses, one carrying double, broke for the road, followed by Loudewater's little brown mule. Silrûth and Aidwain were retreating slowly across the clearing, still occupying the dwindling orcs.

By now the Trolls, thoroughly enraged at the persistent little archer, were halfway up the hill. Belatedly realizing that she was about to be left behind, Luinien gave a parting shot and took off diagonally down the hill. Cutting through the trees, she reached the path just as Silrûth and Aidwain made a break for it. Aidwain gave a shout and gestured. As he came by she swung up behind him. Looking back, she saw the orcs give chase, but none raised a bow and they soon vanished around a bend in the path.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater rode silently along side the wounded Thoronmir as killer struggled to match the pace of the ranger's greater steed. The farmer was concened for his friend who was still ghastly pale and alittle wobbly. But at least the poison on the arrow was mild and Thoronmir's condition was not deterioting. The ranger caught Loudewater staring at him and gave the latter a tough man's wry smile.

The battle was going very badly for the investigators and their troublesome guest from Bree, but somehow a dispute between the orcs and trolls arose and that together with the spectacular skill at arms of the two warriors - Aidwain and Silrûth made escape possible - but just barely. Loudewater smiled to himself when he recalled how he nearly turned and struck Thoronmir in the face when he forcibly pryed him off the dead orc - his dead orc.

But the novelty had worn off and now the man from Bree rued that he smelt of dead orc. The dark gooey orcish ichor had also coagulated, staining his brown tunic badly. But compared to the rest of the ocmpany, he was in good shape.

Veryadan was the worst off. He had fought magnificently whilst already badly injured and now his injuries had worsen. Osric was riding on the same mount as him, holding the semi-retired leader of the pack in his firm arms and trying to avoid jolting the saddle as much as possible to reduce any potentially fatal discomfort to his ward. Loudewater feared for the worst.

Tarando was also injured but not as severely as Veryadan. Loudewater suspected that his elven constituent helped for the new leader still rode at the front, upright and alert with his sister Luinien by his side. The air of calmness and self-confidence this warrior of the older race exuded was reassuring.

Menecar was dead and chances were, the orcs were having fun with his corpse now. Loudewater shuddered to imagine that he might one day see the same troop of orcs displaying a pole with the dead ranger's head stuck on top of a pole as some sort of a bizzare trophy.

[Envinyatar]

They had ridden toward the Bruinen all the rest of that day, and through the night. It was a desperate flight with horses and riders exhausted from the pace. Sturdy as he was, Andas’ mule was hard put to keep up with the others. Long before the sun had risen the small group had strung out along the road from fatigue and flagging spirits. Should the enemy come upon them now, they would be easily picked off.

Veryadan rode with Osric; the strength of the man from Rohan’s arms had kept him upright and the sound of the man’s voice speaking low to him as he fought his way back to consciousness swept back the grey veil that had overwhelmed his senses. He was weak, very weak. His thoughts were muzzy as they rode along, and the searing pain where his side had been reopened was so constant now that it, too, proved difficult to think beyond it.

Someone called a halt just as first light broke over the trees that lined the road. The companions gathered, slipping off their mounts gratefully. Their muscles ached from riding; their bellies grumbled as those who had not lost their packs in the battle hauled out dried meat and fruits and skins of water to slake their thirst. It was a small quiet moment that would not last. All too soon, Tarondo was urging them back to their lathered mounts.

Motioning to Luinien, Veryadan gathered his thoughts about him as best he could. Osric had recounted for him the events of the battle. ‘We cannot stand against them another time. The Trolls, I understand, still remain at four, and though we downed a number of the Orcs, still I doubt that was the whole of their host that came against us.’ He drew a ragged breath and jutted his chin toward where the Bruinen lay and Rivendell just beyond it. ‘Send one of the Elves who was not wounded in the last battle to Rivendell for help. Silruth or Aidwain. Their horses are Elven bred and can find the reserves needed to bear their rider in haste.’

Luininen spoke with Tarondo. Aidwain was sent off, his mount’s hooves tearing up the road as he made his way east to the river. ‘Help me up,’ said Veryadan as Osric brought round his horse. The Ranger lurched to his feet, steadied by Osric’s hand. Then, grasping tightly to the horse’s mane, he leveraged himself up once more with a boost up from the other man. ‘We have a good half day ahead of us to reach the ford,’ he heard Osric say as he took his position behind. Veryadan handed him the reins, his own hands holding tight to the edge of the saddle to steady himself. ‘Let us hope we reach the river before darkness falls,’ he heard someone say on a nearby horse as they started off. ‘Let us hope’ the Ranger said quietly to himself, ‘that we reach the river at all.’

[Primrose Bolger]

Harry was dead. Not so much as a bite of stew had passed his lips when he gave a great gurgle, rolled up his eyes, and slumped to his side. ‘Well, that’s it, brother,’ Broga said, giving his cousin a poke with his finger to see if he’d come round at all.

Grimm shook his head. ‘Shouldna happened!’ he rasped out. It was not often that Trolls were bested in battle.

‘Bad luck for our Harry, wasn’t it?’ returned Broga. In Troll fashion he’d already been picking over the few things of interest that the dead Troll had on him – some linked metal chain wrapped about his wrist, shiny once when it was newer; a long sharp knife in a ragged sheath, the handle big enough for a comfortable Troll grip; and there, by the now congealing pot of stew, a lovely metal stirring spoon, heavy, long-handled, serviceable as both weapon and cooking utensil. Broga tucked it in his belt, or rather in Harry’s belt which he’d acquired for himself. He heard Grimm muttering near him and a brief moment of guilt assailed him. ‘Here,’ he said, offering the treasured spoon to his brother. ‘Take it if you like. And quit yer muttering. I didn’t mean to edge you out of what there was. G’wan now. Take it.’ He held out the spoon to Grimm.

‘It ain’t about the spoon,’ Grimm said, pushing it away. ‘And it weren’t bad luck what done Harry in.’ His eyes narrowed and he spit a great gobbet on the ground as if to rid himself of something nasty tasting. ‘It were them Elves and tarks – pokin’ their noses in our business. It’s them what started it. But stone and bone, it was them dumb as sheep Orcs what made the final blow. We was on their side, and they turned on Harry.’ He snorted. ‘They shoulda let us pound them others when we had the chance.’

‘Never liked them Orcs all that much, anyways,’ nodded Broga. ‘Though they was good at finding gold and such.’ The dislike of Elves and Rangers was a given, not requiring a comment.

‘Well, I say we thump ‘em all, brother,’ said Grimm, a feral look lighting his eyes. For emphasis, he drew his hammer from his belt and whacked it down hard on the ground, startling a small group of crows who were beginning to take charge of the downed Troll. The crows rose up in a black cloud, cawing their displeasure. Broga looked up at them then turned to his brother with a questioning look on his face. ‘How we going to do that, Grimm. We been left behind. They all moved on – man, Elf, and Orc.’

‘Run, brother!’ Grimm took off eastward, motioning for Broga to follow along.

The endurance of Trolls is legendary. They ran at a steady pace, their long strides eating up the miles. The men and Elves would head for the shallows that crossed the river on the border of the Elven land. The Orcs, they reckoned, would want to catch them before they stepped foot in that foul Elf place. Too dangerous by half, those hard-eyed Elves and their nasty bows. The Trolls kept north of the road, running through the familiar hills and forested tracks. It was nearing evening when the saw the river through the trees. A wide band of shining silver, the last light of the sun over the tree tops glinting off it. A small thicket of poplar and scrubby bush afforded them a vantage point to the north of the ford. They would see whichever group came first. Plenty of fist sized rocks were scattered about, handy for hurling.

Grimm and Broga hunkered down, their eyes peering through the tangle of leaves. Broga’s thick club was in his right hand, thumping softly against the hard palm of his left . . . waiting . . .

‘You know,’ he whispered, nudging Grimm on the arm. ‘I been doin some thinking while we ran.’ Grimm looked at him in surprise, wondering what his brother had come up with. ‘That north place was big enough. No reason we can’t take over some of it for our own. Let them Orcs do their own work.’

Grimm chuckled low. ‘That’s my brother!’ He rubbed the side of jaw as a thought came to him. ‘Wonder if old Arald and his brother might want to get in on it? We’ll have to see once we get this here over and done with.’

The distant sounds of some group moving through the trees as they approached the wide bank of the river silenced the two Trolls. They waited to see which group would come first . . .

[Meneltarmacil]

They had ridden hard for the last couple of days, and Thoronmir was barely hanging on. The poison was weakening him slowly, although the ranger was trying not to notice it. Menecar, his companion and admirer of many years, was now dead and the grief weakened Thoronmir much more than the poison ever could. Riding Menecar's horse since Thoronmir's own had fallen, it was all the ranger could do to keep going. Andas Loudewater kept talking to Thoronmir whenever the ranger was straying into unconsciousness so as to keep him awake.

They crossed several hills and valleys and passed a number of streams, but no orcs or trolls had appeared. Nevertheless, Thoronmir knew they were out there. After a while, they drew near the Ford of Bruinen and Thoronmir grew more hopeful. Rivendell was not far away. However, Thoronmir could swear he had heard some kind of large crashing noise not too far away...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

The last days had become something of a blur to Arrald -- for Dim, they were more of an opaque haze through which he could no longer see without squinting. The fighting had been good, and the running, but the plans and the plots. . .these were all too much for him. Arrald was little better off. He had, at first, tried to keep up with the developments, but it had proven beyond him. All he clung to know was what he'd been told by the orcs who'd been sent to them by that orky chieftan, the Big One now in charge. "Wait here," they'd said, "and crush whoever comes down that road!"

This was easy enough, and so they sat and waited. Arrald could smell Broga and Grimm somewhere about but he didn't care to speak with them. In the last battle, they'd been of little enough use to him when that Elfy girlie had come at him so hard with her nasty arrows, and he wasn't about to forget or forgive that. He rubbed the wounds in his behind and shifted once more to make himself comfortable. No matter what else happened this day, he would crush that Elf. . .

"Brother," Dim said beside him.

"What!" Arrald was brittle with anger and the desire to kill, and in no mood to answer his brother's questions. Dim seemed not to notice.

"I'm not so sure brother that this is going to work out for us."

This caught Arrald's attention. "What do you mean?" He glared at his brother. "We'll rip these nasty creatures to pieces and then we can get out of this cursed Elvish land and go back to our nice cave. Oh, I do hope that the wolves haven't got to that last nice piece of mutton as we stored away in the back."

"It will have gone all rancid now, brother. We'll have to cook it extra long to burn out the rot, and maybe flavour it with sommat from the ground."

Arrald made a face. "You eat nasty plants that grow in the dirt. I'll sticks to mutton. The rot is what gives it flavour after all."

They were silent for a time with the hunger. Dim spoke again. "But like I said, brother, I do hope we can get back to that mutton. I have an odd fear of what's going to happen to us. Twice now we've gone after those invaders and twice we got a bit worse than we gave. If we really go at them a third time like the orcky's say. . .well. . ."

"Well what?" Arrald barked.

"Well, I don't know as we'll be able to enjoy that mutton." Arrald no longer seemed to be listening to his brother. He was staring hard down the Road, his nostrils flaring wide with the scent of approaching prey. "Brother," Dim began again. "If we don't make it back to our cave, I'd just like to say. . ."

"Sssh!" Arrald hissed between his teeth. He pointed toward the Road with his club. "They're coming!"

[Nuranar]

The road ran steadily downhill, but their horses were stumbling with weariness. Tarondo and Luinien both rode on Menecar's big horse. Luinien's mare bore Thoronmir, picking her way delicately down the path to spare the wounded Ranger. Silrûth, inscrutable and implacable, brought up the rear.

Tarondo knew that the enemy was not done yet. As they drew nearer to the Ford without seeing hide nor hair of orc or troll, his certainty grew. The blow would fall just before the Ford.

Red rock walls soared up on either side of them. They were in the cutting, scarcely a mile from the river. Tarondo turned his head slightly, caught Luinien's eye. She nodded. They were ready.

When they rode out of the cutting, there was the river. And running down from the north were orcs, trying to cut them off.

"Ride! Ride now!" Tarondo shouted. "Get across the Ford!" Spurring their horses, they managed a wavering canter. The orcs were mobbing right across the way, but more and more were joining them... Tarondo's eyes followed the stream of them to the left, fixed on the one figure not running. "There's the leader! Can you get him?" he called back to his sister. She shouted something, but he couldn't hear, shook his head. They were virtually on top of the orcs now.

Suddenly the pressure of her hands disappeared from his waist. Even as he turned his head he knew what he would see: Luinien was rolling to her feet, drawing back her bow, aiming at the leader, as he had asked. Just that One glance, then his sword was in his hand and he was plunged into the skirmish.

Luinien could shoot from horseback. She had seen the head orc, calculated the shot, and rejected the chances even before Tarondo had finished speaking. The only way to make it would be from the ground. Some movement to her right meant the orcs had spotted her, but Luinien ignored them and took careful aim.

The orc should had frozen, then fallen with the arrow in its throat. Instead, it made two quick movements: One, a half-step of irritation at a fool who couldn't understand directions, and two, a jerky spin as the arrow drove into the muscle of its arm.

Luinien exclaimed sharply in disgust. As she drew her bow again, a blur thundered by in a cloud of dust - Silrûth on Falma! Luinien shifted position, trying to keep the Elf out of her line of sight. A flicker of motion at the corner of her eye - the orcs! She whirled and released.

The ear-splitting bellow that followed belonged to no orc. Luinien stepped back. "Not again!" she moaned. Two trolls - the same two trolls? - were lumbering toward her, one limping with her arrow in its thigh. She fitted another arrow to the string, alternately rejoicing that she had the foresight to count her arrows and deploring that she had so few. It would take more than six arrows to bring down two trolls.

Luinien hit the first one again, in the same place, trying to cripple it. But they still moved fast. It was like a desperate game: the Elf shooting, then scrambling away, having to keep far enough ahead to aim properly. It was hard enough without trying to work back to the Ford, closer to the rest of her companions. After her last arrow, she would have only her dirk. And what if there were no companions left?

It took three precious arrows to bring the first to the ground. Even then the brute was up again, dragging its leg, falling, but always coming on. She tried for the throat on the second, but twice her shots only pierced shoulder and back muscle. Bow drawn, last arrow, she waited. It charged down on her, raised its club, and she shot. Nearly straight up, into the hollow between the collarbone.

The troll's body stiffened in the midst of its charge. Momentum carried the huge bulk over, and one of the legs sent Luinien sprawling as she tried to get out of the way. Gasping, she looked up into the vicious beady eyes of the second troll, reaching for her. Rolling away, she drew her dirk and slashed at its grasping, rock-hard fist. The troll roared and jerked back, then swiped at her, claws extended.

The huge fingers caught her around the back, flung her aside. Luinien slammed into the uneven end of a flood-deposited boulder, heard - or felt - a snap. The shock of the impact blurred all sensations together...

Menecar's horse had gone down fighting. Tarondo's bad leg had collapsed when he first tried to stand on it, but Osric had covered him. Then the two fought together, back to back. Tarondo had no idea where anyone else was, and he had no chance to look. He did not think anyone had made it over the Ford.

For some reason Luinien's cry, barely audible above the din, penetrated to his consciousness. He shot a sudden agonized glance back up the road; no Luinien, but the looming bulk of the troll was enough.

With a sudden attack he drove through the ring of orcs, hewing down those who did not clear. Tarondo saw the troll sweep his sister onto the rocks. He covered the last few yards at a dead run.

The troll did not want to be any nearer the biting little blade. It found a nice rock and raised it over its head.

Tarondo's sword sliced straight through the tough muscles on the back of its leg. As it fell the troll roared, dropping the stone. It tried to lunge for its new opponent but toppled on its face, hamstrung. As it struggled to raise itself, Tarondo leaped up on its back and stabbed it in the base of the skull.