Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Esgallhugwen]

Silrûth had purposely lagged behind in order to prevent the Orcs from gaining too much of an advantage if they were to come from the rear. But that wasn't the case and as they rode on she became all the more suspicious and cautious of the foreboding in her mind.

The red rock walls rose up to meet them she was reminded of the sun before they left Bree, she was reminded of blood.

To the North they came, a filthly current that contrasted too sharply with the glimmering silver river.

With the reflexes only capable in an Elf she nocked an arrow and drove her heels into her horse sending the mare head long into the fray. With a speedy delivery the golden arrow found its resting place in the forehead of an Orc that dared to get too close to Luinen.

Falma's hooves thundered across the ground crushing one or two Orcs not nimble enough to get out of the way. Her target was chosen and she would not relent.

An arrow already stinging him thanks to Luinen, the thick black ooze known as Orc blood was trickling down his dark hairy arm. Quickly taking preference over her bow she grasped the handle of her sword.

Unsheathing it from the leather scabbard she swung fair enough at the squinting black creature only to come up short scalping him instead. The Leader yowled out in anguish clasping at his head, but he soon was overcome with rage snarling and spitting at her.

The black blood was dripping into his ferocious yellow eyes, he knashed his teeth and swore at her in his inaudible tongue. He made a daring slash which barely grazed her leather boot, she took her foot from the stirrup and knocked him in the head with a swift kick to the jaw.

He was sent reeling, but sadly Silrûth's luck was not meant to hold out, an Orc arrow had found its way into Falma's right flank, the horse screamed and reared unexpectantly. Silrûth toppled from her mount, Falma raced off towards the Ford after Veryadan.

She cursed to herself as she steadied her legs preparing for foot combat. The Orc smiled fearlessly, "so the little She-Elfie has gone and lost her horsey", he glared at her the blood tinting his yellow eyes.

They ran at each other simultaneously effectively countering eachothers blows. But as she sliced open his left arm, he struck her just above the hip on the right, Silrûth grunted in pain, the wound was not life threatening but it stung badly.

Her left hand quickly covered the wound trying to stifle the bleeding. For her brief moment of bewilderment had passed a second arrow was now protruding from the orcs rib cage, her eyes widened in disbelief as she caught sight of Thoronmir.

He was soon dislodged from the saddle by the heavy swing of an oncoming Troll. She cried out but was tackled to the ground by the gasping Orc.

He grabbed her by the hair and started to bash her head into the ground, as her vision began to cloud and blur she reached for her boot, and there hidden within it was a cunningly sharp dagger. Silrûth through her dizziness missed his throat and instead penetrated his abdomen.

A sharp gasp escaped his lips as he rolled over onto his side, they both lied there choking for air despite the chaos that swept about them. It was Silrûth who rose first despite her heavy swoon, she wobbled to her feet and gained her balance with the help of her sword.

Unsteadily she suantered over to the heaving Orc and raising her sword, in one swift motion she decapitated him, "too good of a death for you!" she countered before edging off towards where Thoronmir's body lay. Her hope was that a horse would be near by to make a quick escape with Thoronmir's body intact.

Where is the Bree Farmer?

[Saurreg]

Loudewater shoved aside two little orcs and got behind their leader who was about to slay Thoronmir with a skull-crushing blow to the head. Almost without thinking, the farmer drove the tip of his dagger into the base of the orc’s head and twisted it. The orc gave a cry of pain and collapsed dead. But as it fell, the dagger broke and left Loudewater weaponless.

Discarding the useless hilt, Loudewater reached out and grabbed the still body of the ranger and feared the worst, but Thoronmir was still warm and Loudewater could see that he was still breathing weakly. Smiling to himself, Loudewater gently laid the head of the gallant ranger on the ground and borrowed his sword. Drawing the heavy blade out of its scabbard, the farmer turned around and faced the inevitable.

The orcs have regrouped and were encroaching slowly, pointing their sharp weapons menacingly at the odd-looking farmer whilst baring sharp fangs and growling. There was no escape this time– not unless he abandoned Thoronmir, and that was something Andas Loudewater was adamantly set against. He would try and deliver Thoronmir from danger, or die trying.

Just then a silhouette appeared to the left of loudewater’s peripheral, the farmer looked and saw that it was Silrûth, the other female elf. She was also badly injured but still holding her ground defiantly. At least now Loudewater knew he wasn’t alone and he felt his spirits rise a little.

Loudewater shifted his weight and readied himself. Who could have thought that hen-pecked Andas Loudewater from Bree would die fighting orcs, hundread of miles away from home, along side the best fighters of the land.

“If only Helga and Prand could see me now…” He whispered to himself softly.

The enemies drew closer and closer.

[Envinyatar]

There was a fire in his side as he bent over the neck of his mount and clung tightly to the horse’s mane. The wound had completely reopened, he could feel the blood run in thick rivulets down his side. He was dizzy, his thoughts slow. He wound his hands tightly in the mane and focused his mind on a single thought.

Cross the river . . .

His mount flew over the long flat mile that led to the ford. He could hear the sounds of the battle grow dimmer, though he wondered if that were just a trick of his increasingly foggy mind. He groaned as the horse’s hooves struck the uneven ground, jolting him cruelly. The water was near, he could see the silvery band draw closer, the currents splashing against the streambed rocks, sending up small white capped waves and feathery spumes as it beat against the larger rocks.

There was a booming echo that swelled behind him, a rhythmic heavy slapping that trailed in his path. Daring a look behind, Veryadan caught sight of a Troll . . . no two, Trolls hurrying toward the river, hunting, drawing closer with their long strides. Their gazes were on him, great threatening hulking creatures, and he their prey. The horse had already smelled their presence, needing no urging from his rider. His long neck stretched out, nostrils flaring as he galloped into the broad expanse of water; stride impeded only by the height of the river as it hit him well above the knees.

Warily, the Trolls entered the River, their great feet and legs stirring up the waters as they surged forward. With each stride they seemed to gain confidence as they doggedly pursued the Ranger.

The waters grew shallower as the east bank neared. Veryadan felt the quick heave and surge of the horse’s body as it left the river and struggled up onto the stony path. The Ranger clung tighter to the horse’s mane as it climbed the steep bank at the river’s edge. He had made it across the Ford.

At the top of the bank, he halted for a moment, bringing his horse about. Across the river he could still see the Elves, men, and Orcs engaged in the chaotic action of the battle. Closer still were the Trolls which pursued him, they had reached the shallower waters of the east bank. A few more strides and they would be clambering up the bank. Veryadan’s horse was winded; his sides heaving from the exertion of the flight. He could feel the trembling of the creature’s muscles beneath him. Pushing himself up as straight as he could, Veryadan drew his sword, preparing to make once last stand. The faces of the Trolls were now near enough that he could see the leering grins on both their faces.

From behind, the deep cries of some host urged their mounts onward. Veryadan’s heart sank at the prospect of more foe behind. But the looks of surprised dismay, turning to terror, on the faces of the Trolls made him turn his head. And there came Aidwain, spurring his horse toward him, followed by a small company of Elves and Rangers. Fifteen greyed-eyed riders, their weapons already drawn, their faces grim as they looked across the river. One of the Rangers spoke low to Aidwain, who nodded his head in reluctant agreement.

‘Come, Veryadan,’ said the Elf. ‘You are given into my care by your fellow Rangers. Let me lead you to the stone bridge that crosses the upper bend of the river and thereon the short path to The Last Homely House.’ Aidwain reach over to take the reins, but Veryadan waved him away with what strength he could muster. ‘Leave me. I know the way. No foe will pursue me in your wake. Ride to the aid of our other companions.’ He put his hand on the Elf’s arm. ‘The foul Orcs will overwhelm them if you do not reach them soon.’ Aidwain hesitated for a moment, but Veryadan had already begun to urge his mount down the path and away from him.

Aidwain trailed the ten Elves and five Rangers who had already entered to ford and were speeding west across it. The two Trolls who had menaced Veryadan had already run off, their escape taking them down the river to the south and there into the woods that lay along the western bank. No need to pursue them, Aidwain thought. They were running in a panicked manner, away from the battle.

The tide of battle turned as soon as the mounted company of Elves and men burst onto the strand and bore down upon the Orcs . . . blades slashing and deadly arrows finding their marks . .

[Nuranar]

Tarondo's wounds bled freely. The ugly knot on his forehead throbbed with the beating of his heart. Pain shot through him with every move. But as strength drained away, willpower possessed the body. With a terrible, pitiless intent he fought, grim and cold.

There were simply too many orcs. His duel with the orc archer had drawn him apart from his companions. Now the lesser orcs, leaderless and desperate, abandoned order and mobbed them. Parrying, riposting, dodging, lunging at an opening, he had nary a chance to break out. An image of Luinien, crumpled on the rocks where the troll had thrown her, sprang to his mind. He knew not even if she lived.

When the orc in front of him froze in mid-parry, Tarondo lopped its head off. Whirling, he faced the next antagonist, who was - already running? Startled, Tarondo pivoted warily, glanced across the river. Riders! Riders galloping across the Ford, arrows whizzing, blades flashing red in the setting sun. The sudden onset rode down the nearer enemy, while the outliers scattered in terror. Tarondo's heart soared at the sight, and he laughed aloud. Joy's exhilaration sung through his veins.

He ran down to the main body. But the Elves and Rangers knew their work well and needed no help. Swiftly the remaining orcs were dispatched, too slow or too injured to flee. Tarondo halted amid the slain, head whirling. The energy was draining. He could nearly feel it pooling about his feet. The scene seemed distant and dim, lifeless without the bitter struggle of battle. Then he flinched as the pain returned, striking with redoubled force after being forgotten.

Someone grasped his arm, said something, but the words failed to penetrate. Tarondo set his jaw and forcibly cleared the mists in his mind. Still more to be done. No time for palaver. “Most of us are wounded,” he rasped. “Help them to Rivendell, as soon as possible.” Without waiting for an answer he stumbled off to find his sister.

It seemed that she had not moved. He knelt stiffly, dropping his sword, saw the darkly-glimmering dirk ready in her hand. Her serene eyes looked out from a face lined with pain and weariness. “Are we safe?”

“We are safe,” he whispered, stroking her dark hair. “We are safe.”

She sighed, closed her eyes. His eyes slid down her motionless body, saw the right leg twisted beneath the other. “I heard it break,” she said. Tarondo glanced back to her face. Suddenly he saw the rigidness in the calm, saw her will staying the pain that fought to possess her. His mouth twisted in a sudden spasm of grief. Turning away, he called for help.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The moon lit the water when they finally forded the Bruinen. Some of their rescuers had bandaged the most severe wounds, while others quickly made litters for those who could not ride. It was a slow, silent journey, following the path marked by white stones.

When they finally drew up in front of the doors, Elves were waiting to help the weary and the wounded in to care and rest. Tarondo pulled himself together and dismounted. As he clung to the saddle, willing his head to clear, a tall Elf robed in grey stepped forward to meet him. “The Ranger Veryadan arrived here in safety,” she said. “His wounds are grievous, but he will live. We will do all we can for you and your companions. You may rest here as long as you will.”

Tarondo nodded dimly, struggled to form the proper phrases. “Thank you,” he said. “We all thank you for your assistance.” His voice sounded far away, as if it belonged to another person. Someone was standing at the horse's head, ready to take it away. Releasing his grip on the saddle, he stepped back carefully. Slowly he raised his head, as if a great weight was dissipating. He stood motionless, relief washing through him.

Finally he turned to the doors of the house. The darkness seemed to have deepened; perhaps the moon was behind a cloud. The Elf at his side was speaking, but the river had risen and its roar drowned out her words. He took one step into the gloom. It seemed to billow out around him, shrouding him in night and drawing him down into dusky oblivion...

[Envinyatar]

Epilog - a little more than a year after the return to Minas Tirith . . .

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Written this 8th day of Ringarë
Year 21 of this Age of the Kings


A light snow is falling. I can see the small flakes cling desperately, one by one, to the window’s glass. They are brave in their desperateness, but none survive the heat of the brazier that warms the pane even as it passes through it. It is an even battle, I suppose. The snow is undone and the heat in its momentary triumph must be lost itself to the greater cold of winter.

I keep my room warm now; my old scars and broken bones, though healed, protest the cold. Even now, wrapped in a robe of thick northern sheep’s wool, I am forced to hobble slowly like some old man. And with a cane, though the healers say the muscle and bone nicked by the Orc arrow will come round in time. I must say, have grown fond of my cane in a way. Andas sent it from Breeland, with the errand riders who brought back reports from the garrison at Annuminas. Made it himself, he said. The length of it is covered with small carvings of our ‘adventure’ as he terms it – from Weathertop to Minas Tirith. He is a welcome correspondent; seeing his letters makes me chuckle, even before I’ve opened them. His is a unique way of looking at things. His last two letters have made no mention of Helga, and I wonder what is happening in that regard. Best let him get round to it without my prying.

He has seen a few of the other of our companions as they passed through Bree, he’s told me. Osric and Thoronmir, now thankfully healed of all his wounds, ride with the troops the King sent shortly after he’d received our report. The two, with Silruth and Aidwain, had departed from Rivendell in the company of Rangers and Elves, seeking the remnants of those Orcs and Trolls. Now they keep the King’s Peace and a watchful eye on our northern allies. I wish I could write, here, that their only employ was the patrol of untroubled lands. But the shadow, I fear, though diminished in strength still clings to its old ways when and where it can and ever the minds of some men will be bent by the promises it makes.

Often I thank the One that Elessar was brought to the throne, even as I grieve those whose lives were spent to make it so. I only wish that more men were as he; their hearts proof against the darkness.

This will be a short entry, today. I’m finishing up a map of the companion’s journey – from here to Rohan and on to Breeland. The flight to Rivendell and the parting of the company, some back to the western lands, some to Minas Tirith. I’ve made an extra copy for Andas. The first Battle at Amon Sul is marked clearly on it, as is the Battle of Teryggond at the bridge, and the last one at the Ford. I’ve made notes of the man’s bravery in those fights, and signed and marked it with the imprint of my family’s ring. I hope he will be pleased. Errand riders are leaving soon for the northwest; I hope to have it in their hands.

Short, too, is this journal note because I am expecting a much looked for visit from my dear friends this afternoon, Tarondo and Luinien. They have come to celebrate my special day on the morrow.

I am to be wedded . . . 'wedded' . . . a word that for long years would not have entered into my considerations . . .

I know I have written of this earlier, but now I have surrendered my long fought series of skirmishes with my sisters! Almiel and Núneth, having appointed themselves the guardians of my well being since early childhood, have made a match for me. And I must admit they have done well. A gentle lady, with a quiet sense of humor. She has her own interests she announced to me not long after we met; the study of herbs and their histories of use. She wished to make it clear that she would need her own time to pursue this and would I mind. I was delighted, of course. A portion of my time is taken up with my mapmaking, I told her in return. We have spoken of a joint endeavor at some point. A tour of various native haunts of her herbs. She has enjoined me to try my hand at a map for others of her similar interests. I to draw the locations where they might be found with indications of the types of areas; she to illustrate it with the herbs in various stages. It is an interesting consideration. Perhaps we might think of it when winter has passed. It would put a different face on my perspective of the land – a place where things flower and grow in their natural courses; a shift from places of battles and strategic landmarks.

The sun has fallen just below the midday mark. Its pale light now falling at a gentler angle through my window. I’ll finish this now; those other, previous matters are now more urgent. A short note, then, to Andas, and the map will fly north to him. Then I have only to visit the kitchen for somethings tasty to accompany the old bottle of wine set aside for my friends' arrival.

- V –

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Hastily scrawled at the top of a new page . . .

Tomorrow will be another day, but I fear ( no, 'hope' is nearer to the mark) there will be no further entries then or in the following few days if my lady is of like mind as I . . .

[piosenniel]

~*~ Finis ~*~

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~