Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[Alaksoron]

Osric heard Luinien yelp and turned his head just in time to see eight Orcs crest the hill and charge into the fray. Luinien, her left arm hanging limp, slashed the last Orc's throat with her knife and wrenched the nasty orc-sword from his grip as he fell. Brandishing the heavy, curved blade she turned to face two trolls.

Falkur charged the oncoming Orcs, sword in his right hand and a knife in his left. With a wild battle yell he collided with the first Orc in line, slamming his shoulder hard into the creature's midriff and simultaneously driving his knife into it's stomach. Osric flung the creature from him, abandoning his knife. The massive Orc toppled and died.

Falkur slashed with his sword as soon as he had room to swing. He buried the blade deep in an Orc's head right across the temples, and drove his left elbow straight into the face of another. It didn't seem to faze him much. He brought his knee up and slammed it into the Orc's stomach, also to no avail. Abruptly there was another knife in Osric's hand. He drove it hard into the creature's throat. It gasped and brought up blood, then finally was dead.

Whirling, he realized there were no more orcs to fight. The rest had charged the small man at the corner, and were now being engaged by Thoronmir. Osric rushed, or as much as he could rush limping, to Luinien's aid. She was having trouble wielding that clumsy orc-sword, and with one arm useless, she was easy prey for a pair of trolls.

Lunging, Osric hacked at a massive, soot-black arm with his sword and opened up a shallow gash, but no more.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had bent down to see whether Veryadan was alive,and to his relief he had found his heart beating when he placed his hand on his chest,but Veryadan was seriously injured his left side was bleeding and he was uncounsicious.But before he could even get up there was a fresh set of orcs attacking them ,he also saw that another two trolls had appeared and were engaging Lunien .

Aidwain straightened but then he suddenly relaised he had only one arrow left,without thinking he took out the sword which he had bought from the armourer in Bree and rushed to the aid of Lunien .She had already killed an orc and was brandishing an orc sword but Aidwain knew that at best she could only parry some of the troll blows.

But suddenly out of nowhere he heard a scream ,he looked in the direction and he saw that it was one of the Bree men he had seen in the Inn and the man screamed again ,but suddenly realising his errand he rushed towards Lunien ,she already was injured one arm useless,he quickly scaled the cliff and saw Lunien advacing upon the trolls,Aidwain quickly cirlcled and came from behind one of the trolls he raised his sword and with all his strength he drew it deep in the knee of one of trolls .But the only effect it had was that the troll now advanced upon Aidwain ,the troll swung his huge warclub and Aidwain sprung back just in time ,now Aidwain dived and again slashed his sword at the same bleeding knee ,but this time he felt a sudden pain in his left ankle ,he realised that the trolls club had struck,Aidwain could at best now stand up with his broken limb,but the troll too could only limp but this time Aidwain felt sure that his end was near when ....

[Nuranar]

When fighting trolls, speed and agility is key. Useless though her arm was, Luinien had lost none of her balance or nimbleness. She lead the trolls on a lumbering dance, dodging around and between and occasionally crashing them into each other. Without the advantage of surprise, the trolls could not hope to catch her.

Quickness be as it might, it still takes time to wear down brute strength. Luinien's own strength was draining. The viciously serrated orc sword had scored jaggedly through troll scales numerous times, inflicting jagged wounds her dirk could not have equaled. But the blade was unwieldly and unbalanced, and Luinien knew she was only playing for time.

Suddenly Osric was at her side, hacking at one of the trolls. Beyond him Aidwain appeared and drew off the other. Luinien fell back for a moment, gasping; then as Osric's troll lunged at him she sidestepped and slashed at the massive leg. The sword ripped a ragged, shallow cut, but as the troll's blow went wide Osric's blade slipped inside and gashed its belly. With a roar the creature stumbled back, kept staggering away. It had had enough.

In the respite Luinien scanned the hilltop. On the far side Thoronmir was dueling fiercely with a hook-handed Orc; near him Menecar was keeping off two more. There was a cowering pile of clothes huddled off to one side, surrounded by bodies of Orcs. Veryadan was lying motionless near a heap of rubble.

Even as she looked she sprinted back to where she had dropped her dirk. Abandoning the vile orc sword, useful though it had been, she grabbed her accustomed weapon. "Hurry! We need to help Aidwain!" she cried to Osric, who was still menacing off the retreating troll.

The other Elf was on his feet - barely. His troll was slow and bleeding, but even as she ran to his assistance its heavy club began to descend.

Out of nowhere a golden-feathered arrow pierced the creature's forearm. For a second it stared stupidly. Then dropping the club, it took off after its companion, bellowing in pain and surprise.

Silrûth appeared over the crest of the hill, Tarondo right behind her. As she sent more arrows after the retreating pair, he dashed to the aid of the Rangers, who were decidedly getting the worst of it against the Orcs.

[Kransha]

The attack began well, despite the number of uruks that was brought down at first. Búbkûr and Kransha, with eight orcs immediately behind, swarmed as locusts onto the field and clashed noisily against their enemies. The eight orcs practically fell onto the hill, and spread out, as the troll reinforcements arrived and engaged the enemy as well.

It was a man who slew the first orc. He was blond, perhaps of Rohirrim descent, or one directly, though orcs did not care for genealogical quibbling. The man was armed with a dizzying array of ranged knives, sharp as the teeth of dragons, which he had at the ready. His soaring blades closed the meager distance between the man and his targets easily, piercing the back of an orc who had thrashed and bashed his way to the front of the squad, aiming his burly self towards a small, miserable form, curled up in a pathetic position at the edge of the hill. Writhing and grabbing at his inaccessible back just before he went pallid and stiffened, the orc, still in mid-motion, was thrown forward by the impact and rolled to a limp and lifeless halt on the ground. No sooner had he fallen when a second hulking orc leapt over the crumpled body and galloped, whooping and hollering darkly, towards a supple she-elf who had just severed combat with one of the trolls. The orc, fancying himself a master strategist, dodged and weaved about as he drew nearer, ready to pounce on his lithe prey, but the female spun with great, but expected, Elven agility, and drove the tip of her sleek knife through the orcs throat, killing it instantly. The wave’s second casualty fell, twitching fitfully, to the earth, and the fair Elven maid easily extracted the orc’s crude weapon from its chilling grasp.

The third orc to fall, along with the fourth, was taken by a dark-haired man, certainly a tark by orc standards. The man tore forward as the line of orcs, now consisting of only six beings, closed around him and his righteous brethren. He jumped and fell upon an orc, tackling the beast. The orc rolled and twisted away from the man and clambered frantically forward while the man, instead of finishing him off, turned to a second orc and, with a fervent blow, severed his bobbing head from his lanky shoulders. The orc’s headless body fell onto its knees, dropping the spiked club clasped in its useless fingers, and slumped, while the head rolled idly behind. The orc who’d been tackled, weakened but not slain, made his way towards the fair-haired Rohirrim. But, before he reached his quarry, the Rohirrim ran straight into him. There was a brief tussle, and the orc fell beneath the Rohirrim’s blade. The man then hurried doggedly onward, and, in a matter of moments, took out the two remaining uruk grunts. As he completed this grim task, the Rohirrim turned and swiveled swiftly on his feet, flying back at a great speed towards the trolls, who were now besieged.

Only Búbkûr and Kransha remained now. Both soon busied themselves. The Rangers and Elves became immediately preoccupied by the trolls, though some were still beleaguered by the duo of uruks. Búbkûr, searching, anticipating a kill and lusting for blood, at last found suitable prey in the form of the skilled tark. His brazen hook-hand flailing madly above, he plowed into single combat with the man. Grinning like a fiendish madman, Búbkûr swung his blade, and the cleaving falchion in his left hand, at the man, but managed only to rend the fellow’s clothes. Angry and inwardly steaming, the orc forced the man backward, towards the hill crest, berating him with further attacks, but the man soon got a swift strike in, in between the massive arcs made by Búbkûr’s fearsome arsenal of weaponry. The blow penetrated Búbkûr’s defenses, the tip of a broad blade slicing at his arm and cutting a thin gash, which oozed coal-black blood that began to well up, streaming down the length of Búbkûr’s left arm. Growling and gnashing his teeth, eyes ablaze with murderous fire, Búbkûr surged forward again, and began to stab with his hook hand, raking at the man. At last, he made contact, his hook looping over his enemy’s shoulder and, as he pulled back his muscled arm, impaling it. The hook pierced through the back of the Ranger’s shoulder, and the man cried out, and Búbkûr was instantly filled with the pompous belief that he had already won, but his fantasy was cruelly disrupted when, instead of melting into a quivering mass of fear-stricken man flesh, the Ranger whipped his own blade around, lopping a chunk from Búbkûr’s leg. With a dejected groan, Búbkûr pulled his hook hand from its place and began to stagger backward, fending the man off feebly as he fled.

As all this was occurring, Kransha, one eye carefully closed to further hone his aim, was searching the flattened roof of Amon Sûl for a target. An arrow was nocked to his bow, and vibrating minutely, as if it to was anticipating an impending kill. Kransha, though, held out little hope. He was not a creature who wasted perfectly good killing utensils, and did not plan on firing unless he knew he could hit a target. So, he waited, pacing along the edge of the hill, uninvolved in the struggle directly. He blinked, scanning the area, and raised his bow several times to fire, but lowered it again each time after he lost site of each target. In the muddled fray, he was able to get a good look at each combatant, and took a mental note of all faces, appearances, and the average battle prowess of most, until he had a rough idea, bottled up in his head, of the capabilities of his enemies. Once he resumed searching for a target, he finally discovered one who was not moving to speedily to be locked onto. It was a man with an unsteady, weaker build, and looked more like a farmer or a vendor than a warrior. He seemed to have no idea what he was doing, making him the ideal target. Licking his pursed lips, the orcs raised his bow and gently tugged the bowstring backwards, until it was pulled taught, and…

A cry rent the air, destroying Kransha’s concentration. “Retreat! Retreat!” It cried. It was Búbkûr.

Scowling, Kransha lowered his bow again, having lost his target again, and sprinted swiftly after Búbkûr, who was already retreating down the side of the hill.

[Saurreg]

There was the furious sound of pounding feet and it got closer to Loudewater with every passing moment. The farmer was suddenly acutely aware of it despite having his face on the ground and both hands covering his head. He was also intuitively aware of whom or rather what those footsteps belonged to. It was the insight that only those who are about to die possessed. And death was coming to claim Loudewater with every step, closer and closer.

Loudewater drew his limbs closed and braced himself for the inevitable, his body shaking like a leaf. His end was near and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing left to do but resign himself to fate.

The seconds ticked and the suspense become increasingly unbearable. Loudewater felt like screaming out again in anger and frustration all at once. But fear kept him in his cowering position.

"Hang on! I'm coming!"

The voice was loud and clear and it rose beyond the din of battle and reached the farmer's ears. It was the voice of a man, measured and strong. A man without fear.

The rhythmic pounding footsteps of doom came to an abrupt halt and there was the sound of feet scuffling about on moist grass followed by a whish the sounded like a bladed weapon swinging through the air.

Loudewater took his dirt-caked face off the ground and mustered enough courage to look up. Standing before him was a very tall man with an ichor dripping sword in his hands. He turned and regarded Loudewater with authoritive grey eyes that displayed both compassion and strength. Loudewater's mouth dropped open in surprise when he recognized the face.

It was one of the strangers from the Prancying Pony. The one he thought he had seen somewhere before when he was a child playing near the woods.

The man spoke again calmly but with great urgency,

Go back! Now! I'll cover you!"

But before he could finish, another being stepped into Loudewater's line of sight and started attacking the ranger. The newcomer was not a man...

"Get out of here!" Cried the ranger as he parried the powerful blows coming at him.

Loudewater nodded sheepishly and tried to get onto his wobbly feet. But the grisly sight of a severed orc's head on the ground not far from where the farmer was sent him tumbling back onto the ground again in horror.

[Alaksoron]

For a few dazed moments Osric stood perspiring heavily, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood was dripping from his left hand and flowing quite freely from his calf. The battle replayed in his mind, and Osric realized it hadn't been as long as it seemed. In the heat of the battle he had no time to think about pain, but now he felt as if he had run a marathon.

Wistfully Osric looked down at his fine coat, splattered in orcblood and grime. Wiping his swordblade with a handkerchief he produced from his back pocket, he bent over to retrieve his knives. Thrusting his sword back into it's scabbard, he began to wipe them too. Looking over at Tarondo, who was now bending over Veryadan, he asked "Is he alive?" Osric braced himself for the answer.

Osric let out a sigh of relief as Tarondo nodded the affirmative. "But" Osric winced as Tarondo continued "He is severely injured." A pause, and Tarondo raised his voice so all could hear. "He needs medicine. Is there any here skilled in the use of herbs?"

Osric was quick to offer his own limited skills. Retrieving his knives, he headed down the hill and into the woods to search for the right herbs. And since with orcs about none of them wandered alone, Aidwain accompanied him.

Falkur gathered the plants needed fairly quickly, taking care not to over-encumber himself with more than was neccesary. As he and Aidwain were nearly back to the base of the hill, Osric knelt beside a small shrub with red-tipped leaves. He slipped a pair of leather gloves over his hands before plucking some and stuffing them in a pouch.

Osric proferred the pouch to Aidwain "Rub these on your arrow-tips. They are extremely poisonous. Poison arrows are always a great asset to have." Aidwain took the pouch - reluctantly it seemed - and they began the ascent back to the summit of Weathertop.

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain was nearly finished by the troll when a whistling arrow well aimed at his arm stopped him ,Aidwain had felt sure that this would be his last battle when the troll had charged at him with his warclub ,but then Silruth and Tarondo their last companions had arrived ,Silruth had shot at the arm of the troll and saved him ,seeing that they were outnumbered the trolls and orcs had fled from the field.

Aidwain was totally exhausted ,all is arrows were gone and he had for the first time fought in close combat with a troll,his ankle was broken and he could barely stand ,Veryadan was uncounsicious and was bleeding ,Osric had several slashes ,Lunien's left arm was bruised ,Thoromir and Menecar were bleeding only Silruth and Tarondo were unhurt.

"Thank you for saving my life ",Aidwain spoke to Silruth as she came towards him,"Ah not at all you will have to repay my favour sooner than you think,come show me where you are hurt . ".Silruth tied a cloth to his broken leg .After the battle Aidwain collected his arrows scattered on the battlefield ,he only found ten of them .

Aidwain and Osric then went in search of some herbs for Veryadan who was seriously injured there Osric proferred the pouch ,full of red herbs to Aidwain, "Rub these on your arrow-tips. They are extremely poisonous. Poison arrows are always a great asset to have." Aidwain took the pouch reluctantly it as he never had used poison arrows before and they began the ascent back to the summit of Weathertop.....

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Retreat! Retreat!’ Grimm heard Búbkûr’s cry from atop the hill. ‘Smart ‘un, that,’ he snorted at his brother. Broga was leaning on Grimm’s arm with his right hand as they picked their way down the rocky track on the northern side of Weathertop. His left eye had stopped bleeding. Grimm had yanked the arrow from it. No use being careful he’d said, the eye’s gone. Despite the pain, Broga was already thinking how much more gruesome, that is Troll-handsome, he was going to be now. Should they ever manage to find any females of their own persuasion, he was sure now to be on par with his brother.

As if reading his thoughts, Grimm pinched the half-blind Troll hard on the arm. ‘Pay attention with what sight you got, brother. Fall off the hill now and you’ll not live to go dancing in the Shaws again.’

‘Underestimated the little worms, we did,’ Grimm went on, helping Broga across a particularly slippery, pebbly place. ‘That Orc chief has a lot of little grunts under him,’ returned Broga. ‘Why didn’t he just send all of us in to crush them? That’s what I want to know.’

The two Trolls picked up there speed once down on level ground, heading toward where the Orc encampment lay. ‘Don’t know why he didn’t,’ puffed Grimm as they thumped along. ‘But I know what I’d do now.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Broga, slowing the pace. The jarring of their quick steps was beginning to make his eye throb all the more.

‘We got to cut them off from getting back to the man town. Too easy for them to get plenty of angry farmers and the like to come after us. We got easy pickin’ around here. We don’t want ‘em knowing who’s doing it.’ Grimm scratched his chest as he thought this out. Nodding vigorously as his thoughts took shape. ‘So what should we do, you ask,’ he went on in a satisfied way. Broga looked at him with his one good eye and opened his mouth to remind his brother that, no, he hadn’t actually asked. Grimm, however, ignored his brother’s protests and went on. ‘You know,’ he said, giving a ghastly grin. ‘We got cousins back east. In the Shaws. Let’s see if old Chiefy’ll want to herd them that way. We can torture ‘em as we go. N’ stomp ‘em good once we had our fun.’

A wicked light shone in Broga’s lone eye. ‘I want to stick one of them Elf’s arrows in his own eye,’ he rasped out. ‘See how he likes it. Nasty Elf!’

‘Well, then, let’s go tell His Orc-high'n'mightyness what we’re thinking. We’ll need to get back soon and cut them off from heading back to the town. Part of us can do that, the rest can force ‘em to the Shaws.’

[Alaksoron]

Osric worked quickly administering medicinal herbs to Veryadan, but he couldn't do much. He managed to seal up the wounds and relieve the pain some, but he was no magic healer. Veryadan would heal, but it would take time.

"That's all I can do for him." Osric said. He brought a waterskin to Veryadan's lips. "You need rest." Turning to Luinien, he said "Let's have a look at that arm. You too, Aidwain. Bring me your ankle."

Again Osric could do little more than bandage and relieve pain, but the Elves were grateful. Producing another pouch from behind his belt that was full of the same red leaves he had given Aidwain, he proferred it to Silruth. "These are very poisonous. You may wish to rub them on your arrow tips."

It seemed to Osric that Silruth also was reluctant to take the poison leaves. It was understandable that Elves, or anyone for that matter, would not want to use poisoned arrows. They were a nasty weapon. But under these circumstances, facing trolls and who-knows-how-many-orcs with most members of their party injured in some way, it might be their only chance. A terrible thought, that.