Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Alaksoron]

Peripherally Osric was aware of Veryadan crumpling from a blow by that massive troll warclub. He knew he would have to take some real action now. Even with an excellent Elven bow, Aidwain could never handle a pair of trolls alone. Falkur wanted badly to help the others, but the Orcs he was facing were no clumsy fighters. Even he, with his unrivaled sword skill, was having a hard time of it.

One of the cursed jagged blades had already bitten into his left knuckle, and his coat was splattered with blood, almost none of it his. He scored a blow on one of the Uruks across the shoulder, and the wicked orc-sword dropped from his hand. He turned to face the other, which was attempting to circle around behind him. He lunged forward and slashed with all his strength.

Falkur's slender blade landed across the neck where the armor was weak, cutting deep. With a bloody gurgle, the ugly creature fell. Osric felt a sharp pain in his calf, and turned to see the other Orc, already wounded, slashing with a kopis. He feinted a slash at the Orc's shoulder, and he fell for it. A quick thrust at the stomach, the blade driven clean through, and it was all over.

Osric turned and limped toward Aidwain, realizing his sword would do him no more good against the trolls than it had Veryadan. He pulled his own bow from his shoulders and fitted an arrow to the string.

[Nuranar]

After the discovery of both Orc and Troll tracks, they had covered the miles back to Weathertop as swiftly as they could. As they neared the rendezvous, the cries and bellowing from the hilltop only confirmed Luinien’s fears. “Follow me. Quickly!” Scarcely slowing her speed, she guided her mount up a narrow track on the steep eastern side of the hill.

When the track degenerated into a scramble over rocks, Luinien turned aside and slid down. Not staying to tether her horse, she snatched her bow and clambered nimbly to the top. Menecar and Thoronmir were right on her heels, swords drawn.

Even as she crested the hill’s edge Osric slew the Orcs he was fighting. Without seeing her, he turned and ran to Aidwain’s aid. The Elf stood alone, facing two Trolls. Luinien ran forward to a slight elevation and stopped, fitting an arrow to her bow. As the two Rangers stormed past her with fierce battle-cries, she released. With a roar, one of the huge creatures dropped its club and grasped its arm. As she drew another arrow Luinien saw Menecar dash in to the attack, while Osric and Thoronmir converged on the other...

[Saurreg]

Loudewater was still badly shaken by his “ordeal” at what was Whittleworth Farm as well as what he thought had come to pass at the part of the Great East Road where a huge beech had fallen. Chancing upon two places that have seen gruesome death on the same day was proving to be too traumatizing for the farmer. His shaking hands were clutching the leather reins of the mule so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his face was paler than usual. Large black mosquitoes that had followed Killer as they passed the marshes where the tree fell buzzed around them still, but Loudewater was impervious to them all. Too shocked to think coherently, he was in a semi-dazed state of numbness.

It was only when killer halted abruptly in his steps and nearly threw the in-alert farmer onto the road before him, did Loudewater break out from his daze and capture what was before him. Killer was reluctant to proceed further and the wide-eyed animal was thrashing this way and that in great argitating, snorting loudly and whinning in alarm and tension.

“Woooh! Wooh boy!” Commanded loudewater in what was the deepest and most reassuring voice he could master. But the frightened animal refused to budge and continued to shake its head in furious agitation.

Finally Loudewater brought the nervous beast into control by bibery with an apple he had taken along. He surveyed his surroundings to get his bearings right and it was only then did he realize that to his left, rising above the emerald green grass covered hill was the old fortress that people called “Weathertop”

The derelict ruin had been abandoned long before Bree was settled but that have not stopped tales of haunting spirits or some other demonic entities from adding to its already sinister reputation. The latest offering from gossipers and yarn-weavers was that Weathertop was now the bastion where brigands and other undesirable riffrafts resided.

Weathertop was supposed to be abandoned, but Loudewater could hear the clanging of metals and hideous cries from throats that do not sound human. Fear rose again from the dark recesses of the farmer’s being and engulfed him, but this time the Imp of Perversion that had visited him the night at the Prancing Pony’s returned with a new side-kick ; the Fairy of Unreasonable Curiosity. The combined influence of the said two overwhelmed the fear in Loudewater and the farmer felt an irresistible urge to see for himself what was happening up there in the ruins.

He looked around and judging what was the least steep of the hill slope, he nudged Killer onto it. But panic gripped the beast again and it refused to budge any further even when Loudewater continued to press at its girth with his boots. Frustrated, the farmer got off clumsily and tied the reins to the branch of a fallen log and made his way up by foot, head giddy with excitement and heart pounding nervously.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had released about a dozen arrows on the troll to no immediate effect ,but he could see that the arrows were infuriating the troll,at the same time Veryadan had cut him from several sides ,Osric was battling the four orcs alone .

But now he could see that one of the orcs had steadily made his way behind Veryadan,even before Aidwain could draw his bow to kill the creature it had slashed at Veryadan's arm,but the next instant it fell from Aidwain's arrow,but now one of the trolls gave a huge blow to Veryadan with his club who flew backwards uncounsicious.

The two trolls leaving their attempts to kill the ranger turned on Aidwain ,rushing towards him with Hammer and club,he released another arrow to the trolls neck but to no effect ,Aidwain thougth this was the last sight he would see the two trolls rushing towards him,but suddenly out of nowhere a whistling arrow hit the troll and the club fell from his hand , Aidwain sprang backwards dodging the falling hammer of the other troll and now he could see that at last his companions had come Lunien standing on the hill's edge was shooting arrow after arrow at the trolls and Thoromir and Menecar were rushing towards them with swords drawn ,in the meanwhile Osric too had come to his aid.

Without waiting another second he drew his arrow and aimed at one of the trolls eye,the arrow flew and hit it's mark,the troll howled in pain ,seeing that the troll's were injured he rushed to see whether Veryadan was alive ......

[Kransha]

“They’re all dead!” cried Búbkûr, “all of ‘em.”

His eyesight was not particularly good, but the blackened hue and shadowy, bulky appearance of the orcs on Weathertop was easily distinguishable, in contrast to the Elves, men, and monstrous trolls. Squinting and blinking, Búbkûr peered up at the ruins that marked the summit of the earthen lump of rock as it jutted from the plains below. He could see that the initial force of six uruks had been easily slain, though they had done some damage. Búbkûr, as usual, was suffering from a belligerent mood, and wished to be involved, personally in the battle. He was hungry for blood, an unsavory lust that came upon him often, and was practically salivating at the possibility of staining his jagged hook hand with Elvish blood. In Gundabad, it had become increasingly harder to find such an admirable living quarry as Elves, since those seldom ventured deep into the Misty Mountains. Of late, Búbkûr had only had access to wretched Bree men like the fool Fen Sheperdspurse, and roaming hobbits far from their accustomed element. Eager, with a thin line of saliva seeping from his crooked lips, Búbkûr glanced at his commander, who stood nearby, gazing at the battle.

“Doesn’t matter.” Said Bâzzog astutely, “We’ll send more.” He said this with a great deal of nonchalance, which was not particularly common for him. It surprised Búbkûr, and Gráthgrob as well, who sat not far off, contemplating battle stratagems with the assistance of a knobby stick and a patch of grassless dirt, that Bâzzog, the ruthless chieftain of uruks, had not already sent in his whole, massive force to overwhelm the few meager remnants of resistance against him. Instead, he was being incredibly coy and reserved with his tactics. But, he was not utterly altered. Slightly irate because of this conservatism, Búbkûr ventured a frustrated query to his commander. “How many this time?” he said, “The whole bunch?”

“Eight.” Bâzzog replied, turning on his heel, “Eight more.” He indicated a number of orcs, who leapt up merrily, with sadistic grins slapped onto their grotesque faces. Bâzzog then gestured to Búbkûr and Kransha, who had been carefully examining the hill above and scoping out the situation warily. “Búbkûr,” the uruk chief said then, pointing a thick stump of a finger and the tapered claw at its end toward Amon Sûl, “you lead this group. Kransha,” he shot a dank look at his gangly lieutenant, who turned dutifully to face him and nodded before he had even been issued a command, though Bâzzog proclaimed the order anyway. “Go with ‘em,” he growled, and then paused, smiling like a hungry wolf; “…Make sure you leave some for me, yes?”

Kransha nodded again, more promptly than before, and slid a red-tipped bolt nimbly from the quiver dangling at his side. He pushed it against the hard wood of his bow and nocked the arrow, holding it up as if he were about to fire. But, instead of taking careful aim and loosing the shaft, he broke into a dead sprint towards Weathertop. Búbkûr, after a grimacing glare from Bâzzog that incited him, rushed after Kransha, lumbering slowly in comparison to the swiftness and speed of the other orc. Behind him, the other six orcs, an assortment of large brutes, surly and muscular in appearance, began to run, until the group had arrived at the bottom of Weathertop’s slope.

It did not take long for the orcs to scale the hill and engage their foes in battle

[Saurreg]

The short climb up the hill was proving to be more exerting than Loudewater had initially anticipated. The hill was steeper than it looked and the wet grass and moss caused the clumsy farmer to trip. Cursing and panting, the farmer slowly labored his way onwards where the furious din of fighting got louder with every heavily planted step. Loudewater was about to give up and head back down when he reached a high elevation and saw what was transpiring on the opposite side of the hill between the woods and the hill clearing.

It was a skirmish among armed combatants, but not just a struggle of ferocious men. Loudewater saw the huge colossal trolls first, each as black as soot and clad in skins of dead animals. One of the monstrosities was bellowing in anger and pain, and cupping his left eye with an immense paw while thrashing his scaly arms wildly about, not caring what he smashed. The other was lumbering in a feral gait towards his target – a small lithe figure whilst brandishing an impossibly huge cruel club.

There were other combatants about also, some man-sized and many others a little more squat. Regardless of stature, all were busy crashing into one another and striking out to kill. Some of the stocky ones seemed to have detected Loudewater’s presence by smell from the way they abruptly stopped and looked his way.

The sight of two of the two huge fell creatures gave rose to primal fear that grasped farmer’s heart and crushed it. The din of battle and furry of motion was all too much to bear. Loudewater lost all sense of control and did what every self-respecting Loudewater men since eons have done when confronted by their worst fears.

He screamed.

It wasn’t a curt manly scream of frustration or agony, but rather an impossibly high-pitched scream that would make a world-class falsetto blush had it not being ear-piercingly shrill and deafening.

The emotional response took the breath right out of loudewater and he had to stoop to catch it. The sudden stop in noise caught his attention and he looked forward only to see that every combatant had stopped fighting and were staring at him dumb folded. Loudewater could have sworn that some of the stocky ones were rolling about on the ground, cupping their ears and withering in silent agony.

Realizing the peril he was in, the farmer did what he could only do in such circumstances.

He screamed again.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“SSSHHHHH!” Arrald hissed at Dim through clenched teeth. “We’re supposed to be sneaking up on them Elvses,” he said grimly. “Like that leader orcky told us, wait till the pointy-ears are too busy to notice, and then…” he smacked his club into his open palm and chuckled evilly.

Dim’s eyes lit with an unhealthy glow and his head ducked up and down. In a strangled whisper he said what he had been saying all the way up the Hill, “Oh, my brother, this is going to be such fun. I can’t wait to have at that She-Elf!” Dim had a particular tooth for Elves, particularly of the female variety. He swore that they tasted sweeter.

The two brothers moved with uncommon stealth; but still, had it not been for the battle, which was now raging at a fever pitch, their approach would have been noticed, for they could not help but kick stones and crack twigs as they went. That, and their bestial breathing and unwholesome sniggering, meant they were less than ghostly. Still, whether by stealth or by good luck they were almost upon the She-Elf before she noticed them. She was loosing arrow after arrow upon Broga and Grimm, and while Arrald quite enjoyed the sight of their misery, he knew that there wouldn’t be any booty if these interlopers were allowed to get the better of the trolls. The orcs were milling about now, doing about as much good as orcs ever did – as usual, it was going to be up to the trolls to turn the tide.

Arrald raised his club above his head, preparing to bash the she-Elf, but by some sound or feeling she sensed his presence and whirled about. Her eyes went wide with shock and horror, but still she was quick to bring her bow to bear. Dim lunged at her with his claws forcing her to dance away, losing her aim. Arrald roared with triumph as he brought his club down upon her, hard.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater was spent after screaming his lungs off for the second time and the appearance of two more bellowing and thrashing trolls did not help at all. The farmer's knees went soft and he fell onto the ground like an unstrung marionette.

"This isn't happening! This isn't happening!" Muttered the shut-eyed farmer to himself as he crawled aimlessly (and rather comically) on all fours in a small concentric circle where he fell.

I'm not here! I'm not here at all! This is all just my imagination. When I open my eyes I'll be at home sitting on my overstuffed couch infront of the fireplace. Nothing but me, couch and fire. Maybe Helga...

Helga nagging...

Oh my God! Oh my God! This isn't happening! This isn't happening!

A high-pitched dying shriek jolted Loudewater out of his stunned confusion and back into a grim reality. The battle raged on like an undeniable flood and the harsh sounds of death and suffering seemed to get louder with the tick of each second.

Andas Loudewater dropped onto his elbows, buried his face in the ground and covered his head with his hands and cried,

"God... PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!"

He was totally oblivious to the fact that an orc that had seen him earlier was now scampering towards him in great speed, marking him out as an easy prey amidst the lot of skilled elven and human fighters...

[Alaksoron]

Osric loosed arrow after arrow at the trolls, but all it seemed to do was agitate them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Luinien springing up the hill with her bow and taking aim at one of the trolls. Thoronmir and Menecar came roaring up behind her, swords in hand. Silently, Osric gave thanks to heaven for their timely appearance.

With surprise, and no small amount of satisfaction, he noticed that Luinien seemed to have wounded one of the hideous creatures. It was howling and clutching it's face across the left eye. Smiling, he slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword. He'd had little confidence in his sword when it had been just he and Aidwain, but he was inspired by the valor of Menecar and Thoronmir. His bow didn't seem to be doing much good, anyway. Perhaps three blades could give a troll pause.

He rushed one of the trolls alongside Thoronmir, though a bit slower for he was still limping. He hacked at the trolls thigh, and froze when he heard a shrill, inhuman scream from behind him. His head swiveled in the direction it seemed to be coming from, at first thinking perhaps Luinien had been wounded......

Osric's eyes went wide when he saw a squat man crouching on the edge of Weathertop, panting heavily. Osric was still more amazed when the man raised his head and screamed again. But there was no time to think. The trolls dismissed the pathetic figure and continued their attack. A large Orc charged the small man.

The orc fell as one of Osric's knives struck home in the center of his back. Falkur had honed the knives to a razor edge, and they penetrated leather armor like butter.