East of Ered Wethrin -- Eithel Sirion

The spires of mighty peaks rise up, piercing the sky with their grandeur, their heights crowned with snow for much of the year. Forests of Pines, Elms, and Alders cover the lower flanks and foothills, their deep greens and browns providing contrast to the rocky greys and frozen, glittering whites above.
Directly to the north, sheltered hard against the rising spires of stone and ice, the glimmering blue of a mountain lake can be seen. It is small, but its waters dazzle the eyes like the sparkling of a sapphire whenever the sun shines down on it, and so deep as to seem to have sprung up from the very heart of the lofty peaks which all but surround it.
Just to the east of Eithel Sirion lies a mighty fortress of stone and iron; strong and proud it seems, with blue and silver banners flying from the topmost spire. Further to the east, the foothills of the Ered Wethrin drop down towards grassy plains that stretch out endlessly like a vast green sea.

Smoke fills the air of Eithel Sirion, fires from the orcish armies hastily made war upon the north of hithlum stains the air a sooty red. In one of the many valleys of this region the dark host lines itself, miles yet from the fortress of Barad Eithel, they find their first serious oposition. Facing these dark hosts of orcs a determined army of men stand firm across the valley. The Edain of Dor-Lomin, ready to defend the retreat of the elves for as long as they can.
At the forefront, in the middle of the ranks, of the army the banner of Hador Lorindol is found, held by a sturdy guardsman, and next to it, tall on horseback, golden hair streaming from under the Dragon-Helm, is Lorindol himself. The lord of Dor-Lomin wears a grim visage, eyes kindled with the mirror image of the fires which approach.

Already scouts have engaged the enemy pathfinders in what is left of the wood, or in another words only smoking trunk and heaps of mud and ashes, a pristine snow barely hide. There and there kindled by orcs and their monstruous allies, fire and smoke a east wind bends toward the defenders, diminishing their fields of sight but not their moral.
For sotut beside thier tall lord, the men of his household and of Hadorsford stands fast, waiting the onslaught of the dark army to brak on them like the waves of Belegaer on cliffs, indomitable, their chest a living battlement they wait. Removing his helm, Elagil turns toward the lords and the hight banner, he steps to them, casting a last glance to the black nothingness down in the valley.

Further down the ranks of Marachians, atop another steed sits Gundor, near enough to mark his Father well. Yet here his presence is felt by the men near him, as with the men near Hador, as if they where another suit of mail and are spurred by a more feirce flame.
A high helm sits atop the head of Gundor and strands of Golden hair hang out from it, yet even the little wind bothers to move a few whisps. Little light cuts through the mirk and ash to gleam apon his helm, his shining mail is dulled grime. Yet Gundors face is clean and his deepset eyes stare out at the coming host, they are keen and gleaming. In his hand a wide sword hangs, his arm seems almost lifeless, yet it is not.

Impatience sweeps through the ranks of the Dor-Lomin army as the men watch the initial skirmishes between orc and kinsman. Turning in his saddle Hador hilds his hand up, indicating that the proper time will come, patience. Turning back to the valley floor his 66 year old eyes blink, peering down at the situation. Larger groups of orcs are starting forward, trickling off of the front of the dark host, like raindrps from a larger, darker cloud. The strain of waiting weighs on Hador's head as well, but to attack before his people have the full benefit of charging down the valley wall to meet the oponent from a higher ground would be foolish indeed, and much more annoying than the slight inconvenience of patience.

Already scouts have engaged the enemy pathfinders in what is left of the wood, or in another words only smoking trunk and heaps of mud and ashes, a pristine snow barely hide. There and there kindled by orcs and their monstruous allies, fire and smoke a east wind bends toward the defenders, diminishing their fields of sight but not their moral.
For stout beside their tall lord, the men of his household and of Hadorsford stands fast, waiting the onslaught of the dark army to brak on them like the waves of Belegaer on cliffs, indomitable, teir chest a living battlement they wait. Removing his helm, Elagil turns toward the lords and the hight banner, he steps to them, casting a last glance to the black nothingness down in the valley.'.

Elagil halts between the double rings of men protecting Hador and their banner. Walking through them, he turns to the valley below, where Gundor his sword already out stands fiercely. "Our troops will be ready soon, milord, we will need but your word and they" he says lookign throught the gathering smoke, "The scouts wont be long to run through our lines, the orcs on their heels."

Hador's Younger son wheels his horse about and looks towards the men behind him. His eyes scan the ranks checking the archers stand ready to both move and fire and that the foot soldiers are on there mettle. The young Lord looks at the soldiers and plain men of Dor-Lomin both alike, his voice rises not, no smile he offers yet his face is set firm, unwavering. His deep eyes look into many of the men in his gaze, there eyes fixed on his. He turns his horse again without word, but the mood of the men behind him has changed again. Resolute now, firmer than ever, growing more earnest as the black tide slowly creeps in. The fire burns all the hotter in the Marachian hearts at this sight. As do the eyes of Gundor as they stare back and his warm breath clouds on the sharp and frosty air of the day.

"I pray we will be ready sooner than that. Look. They come." And indeed the trickle of orcs has become a stream, and that stream will certainly soon become a rush. The time is near. "When they reach the bottom of the valley we charge. Prepare your men Lieutenant." He turns to his retainer, "Bring my banner to the front! Let us strike fear into the hearts of our foes by revealing ourselves in full!" And so the blue banner is brought forth, the young guardsman carrying it trembling slightly, perhaps not pleased to be at the front of any charge. Hador places a hand on the youth's shoulder, "Be at peace. Together will we dare the teeth of the enemy."

Having stolen quietly from the gates of Barad Eithel, Lindis stands alone, apart from the hosts of Dor-lomin and the Elves. Swiftly, she surveys the ranks, judging whether or not her healing is needed here. Her gaze stops for a moment, over the figure of Elagil, quite far away. She makes her eyes leave him and continues to assess the needs of the army. Lindis waits unobtrusively, hoping that her skills will not be required, but really knowing better. Cries of battle come from a distance...

Further up the slope, beyond the forces of the edain, the quendi remnants of Fingolfin's host toil up the hill, already passing the Eithel Sirion and drawing near to the fortress. Yet of a sudden, cries ring out, and the clash of weapons, for orce hold the pass ahead of them. The elves of Mithrim charge forwards grimly, with Fingolfin in the forefront. And yet he looks around him, thinking of the force to follow, and he calls out in a clear voice, "Fingalad! Fingalad! Ride back down to the edain and warn them! They must hold the force below while we cuth through up here, else we shall all be lost! Tell Lord Hador... I will await him in Barad Eithel!"

Unaware of course and for good reason of the drama that is playing behind him at the back of the host of Dor-Lomin, Elagil is far more interested by the growing tide of dark shape wielding cruel scimitars and wicked mace.... Setting his tall helm on, the figure ornating his crest fitting well with Hador's, Elagil nods "They are milord" and he steps toward the outer rim of soldiers. Patting a shoulder there, givign two words of encouragement there, the young man takes his place, checking for his blade to slide well out of its sheath.

Hearing the voice of his Aran, Fingalad wheels his steed around, and understands the peril of which the King speaks. Spurring on his steed and galloping madly to warn the Atani, Fingalad gallops with sword drawn and calls out in a loud voice, "Lord Hador! I have an urgent message from Aran Fingolfin!" Seeing the banner of Lord Hador, the Chieftain spurs his stallion forward, and calls out to the Atani Lord, "Lord Hador! Aran Fingolfin has given me an urgent message for you! " Riding to the side of Lord Hador, Fingalad explains the need for the Atani forces to hold the orc army at bay, lest the two armies become outflanked.

As the banner of Hador makes it way up to the front of the host Gundor turns his steed again. He waves a gloves hand to the standard bearer near him. "Lord Hador's flag is raised, set your flag high aloft too. The filth flows quicker than we hoped, yet we need to stand here and freeze no longer." Again his breath clouds in the icy air as if to prove the point. "If this is the last you here over the battle din. For your Lord and for his, drive this filth away. And with luck the High king will make his fort." Gundors voice rolls over the men before him, "These vermin have no right to be here and we shall remove them." Gundor raises his right arm and points his sword at the moving tide. Again he turns his steed as another blue banner is lifted.

The story thus unfolded and hador nods his head calmly. "I see. We will do our part." And again he looks down to the valley floor. And now for certain the time has come, the first wave of orcs has begun the ascent towards to Edainish army. "Yes, we will do our part indeed." Hador's eyes blink, and at once they revert to the eyes of his youth, his fiery spirit rising. The Greatsword at his side leaps to hand and he raises it proudly above his head. "To me my kinsman! We go forth to victory! Lacho Calad, Drego Morn!" And turning with the answering roar Hador spurs his horse forward, sprinting down towards the approaching orcs.

Raising high his sword, the Noldo chieftain cries aloud and rides alongside Lord Hador. His longsword in his right hand, his shield slung over his back, he spurs his war-stallion forward, the wind whipping through his cloak. As the dark tide before him looms ever nearer, he hears not the cries around him, as a strange calm settles over him. Holding his sword aloft, ready to sever the first head from its' foul body, he feels his heart burn hot within him as he charges to the onset with all the valor of the Atani.

And the orcs do approach, crashing their blades upon their sheilds and slashing at all they encounter, hacking and mangling the bodies of the fallen. Yet the battle-cry from up the slope does not fill them with dismay,; rather, a glad, throaty shout goes up from the collective host, and like a black tide they sweep forwards towards the onrushing humans.
In the center of the front ranks of the orcs is Demalk, and he squints up at the cursed horse-riders, curses the pale maggot-skins and personally vows to feast on their corpses. He clashes his scimitar against his shield, charging forward, leering.

The orcs are nearer now, and Lindis watches as the Edain ride forward to engage them. She has promised Elagil to stay safe within Barad Eithel, but the danger is so very great - one Healer might make all the difference. Frozen against the darkening sky, another battle is fought within the golden-haired mortal... Elagil cannot be troubled if he thinks her to be safe, and it will not be difficult to stay out of notice until she is needed... She is deceiving only herself if she thinks that events will really be so simple, and yet... Lindis shakes her head, anger blazing in her eyes, and follows the Edain into war.

Like the glittering of stars is the drawing of the sword of edains and has the ranks of the opens to let room to Hador and his mounted retainer at the head of the attack, another warcry rises as their valiant lord goes fight the darkness, enheartened by the sight of his fiery crest... "Glory to the dragon of Dor-Lomin Shame to the gold worm of Angband !"...
His sword in hand now, Elagil joins in the clamor and turns to the elven warrior beside him, a woman clad in the garb of the men of Hithlum... "Good luck and I'll have more orc head today Xoria." and eh charges along, running, horseless since a day or more..

The horse of Gundor stamps impatiently it snorts yet more, and Gundors eyes stare out at the flowing lines of Yrch moviing apace now apon the plains below. The air around settles even the breath of the folk seems still, yet a roar grows rolling through the lines and lines of men, the wave rolls over this part of the host as the young Lord sees a rider move off now, and Gundor knows him well. Roaring above the cries of his men, his voice soars over the din "Lacho Calad, Drego Morn! For Hador!." A heal spurs the horse beneath him and the pair tear fourth, pelting down the hill towards his Father. His sword raised before him as if a pointer to his course. Again his voice screams the warcry of his folk, long it rolls and loud clear till his eye redden with fury.

Crashing now headlong into the approaching vanguard of the orc legions, Fingalad lets fall his blade many times. Suddenly, he is knocked from his horse by an orcish club, and falls crashing into a lethel melee. Quickly gathering his wits, he unslings his shield and wades into the writhing mass of bodies, slashing and hacking with desperate fury.

The orc-host charges up the hill, and Demalk is not any different. He looks carefully at his enemies ahead, judging who is the weakest,. the easiest target, anmd least likely to be set upon for the same reasons nby his fellow-orcs. And there, in front of him, a warriior is knocked from his horse, and Demalk chharges forwards with wicked glee.

The flying gait of his stead brings Gundor and his knights to the fore of the Orchish host. Scouts of there own kin are moving back a few orch running at the heals. The pointing longsword of the Lord is brought back high and it swing down smiting at the crooked skull of a beast before him. An explosion of blood the colour of the ash beneath him showers Gundor as his blade finds it mark. Without turning his stead Gundor races on towards his Father, his night follow as do the Soldiers behind. there arrows begin to whirl towards the hosts of Morgoth.

Burghash Naraka stands among his troops, a black mass bent on one thing, and one thing only-destruction. The black ranks are massed against the elven and mannish forces, readying for the charge. The orc smiles, a wicked, feral grin. His clawed hand twitches violently upwards, and he issues his command in the speech of the orcs. Lines of dark-clad figurres step forward, every other holding a black bow of horn. burghash draws his scimitar, and raises it above his head. Again he calls the command in orkish.

Like shadows, scouts moves through the rank of charging guard and reforms behind them, readying their bows and axe to support their kinsmen. And the host of Dor-Lomin, using the upper ground to its advantage meets the first lines of orcs. "Keep witht he rider" Elagil shouts and then throw himself in the fray, hacking his way toward the tall bonde rider. Leaving a red trail, his sword is soon put to hard work and contribution....

Having just thrust his sword into the mid section of an orc, the Noldo chieftain drives the point home, and as the orc collapses, Fingalad places his foot upon the beasts' face for leverage before withdrawing the blood-blackened blade from its' torso. Wheeling to find new foes, Fingalad sees now an orc rushing towards him, and he readies himself for the onset.

Burghash Naraka stands among his troops, a black mass bent on one thing, and one thing only-destruction. The black ranks are massed against the elven and mannish forces, readying for the charge. The orc smiles, a wicked, feral grin. His clawed hand twitches violently upwards, and he issues his command in the speech of the orcs. Lines of dark-clad figurres step forward, every other holding a black bow of horn. burghash draws his scimitar, and raises it above his head. Again he calls the command in orkish.
The curved blade drops, its weilder unaware of teh orcish flesh it cleaves-the master has servants enough.
Black strings of sinew twang, sending a hail of ebony darts toward the opposing foe. Simultaneously, the soldiers under Burghash's command charge forward, swords and spears and maces poised to kill, and kill, and kill...

Shadows throng, and blood is spilled wherever they meet. Dark chaos taunts the bright blades of the host. Lindis hovers on the outskirts of battle - the Healess knows that she is defenceless. Swiftly, the flash of a pale hand may be seen against a fallen man, or a cup pressed to another's lips as he turns away from combat for the barest of moments. Then Lindis vanishes, drinking the terrible fire of war with her sorrowing eyes. Oh, to wield a sword in this hour!

Demalk snarls at the elf in front of him, his teeth wide in a drooling grin. "Yaaah yahhh... effling!" he cries, his voice gutteral. He lunges forwards, his shield uplifted, his scimitar arcing sideways and then in at the elf's midsection.

As Gundor nears his Father arrows whistle in the air, lifting a small metal sheild in his left hand he covers his face. The clanging sound of darts bouncing apon the shield rattle in the air, yet one arrow finds his horse and another. Deep it burries itself in the kneck of the beast and its stride stutters and lurches. The beast skids to the earth leaving the rider just enough time to clamber off afore the Orch fly into him.

The Orchs arrows find not onlt horses, the men of Dor-lomin are peppered by the volley, wooden shields are lifted over the heads of spearmen who stiill approacn behind the riders. Shield in his left hand and sword flying in the right the young Lord moves at the Yrch afore him, his blade rakes the chest of a beast before him.

As his attacker approaches, Fingalad drops his shield to cover his mid-section. Feeling the bite of the blade upon the shield, the Noldo is thrown back a pace by the impact. As the orc lunges forward, Fingalad raises his sword high and brings the blade down, arcing towards the back of the orc's neck.

More arrows fall, black feathered shafts biting deep into friend and foe alike. Burghash waits, his face twisted into something halfway between a guttural snarl and a pleased smile. His curved blade dances, serpentine in it's venemous grace, drinking the blood of men and elves like the sweetest wine, burying itself in enemy necks like an empassioned lover. Burghash Naraka whirls through the melee, savoring each stroge and thrust.

Not having the longer reach of the elf, Demalk yet twists away from his aimed blow, and the elf-blade cuts through the leather armour on his left shouder, though the blade does not bite deep. Yet he lets forth a cry of pain and anger, and spits at the elf as he swings his blade again, this time lower, at his left knee,

The crash of the taller edain on the lines of orcs is devastating but where an atani fall, three orc jumps to dismember him and take his place. Yet even at this cruel game, the edain doesnt waver and gathers around their chieftain, rallying and shouting their warcry. The sight of some of their healers slippign on the rear heartens men and wounded and makes the quaverign smiles.

Biting back a cry of pain, Fingalad feels the orc-blade bite through his leather-studded armor, its' end slicing a shallow cut into his left leg, just above the knee. His anger grown great, he moves yet cautiously against this foe, seeking to use his height to an advantage. Circling, he holds his shield in front of him, mindful of the speed of the orc. Closing now with his adversary, he crouches somewhat, thinking to make less of a target. As he approaches the orc, he makes a tight and controlled thrust at the orc's mid-section with his longsword, hoping to find the beasts' vital organs with his blade.

The two hosts roll into each other now, as two beasts locking horns. The dark host the larger begins to push the men back, slowly but certainly. Those in the centre of this tumult are squashed together, bloody death rages. Those at the fringes stamp on over the fallen friends and foes or whirl aroows till they are all spent.

And arrows rain down still at Gundor, his fine main repells many and his lungs boom in pain at each of these arrows. Yet one comes and finds his left arm, the shaft drives clean through his wrist. The metal shield falls to the ground with a clang. Pain ripples through the arm of th young Lord a great shout ripples out, yet it rolls into the words of the warcry again, as if to lift the men about him. Still the arrows rain and still the right arm of Gundor flies, now at close quartes the blade finds many marks and rats fall to its stroke. Blood runs now down the broad blade of his sword and down his face, a blacker stain bothers his garb now than mere ash.

Slipping through the massed of orcs and men, Burghash peers at his foes wth those unearthly burning eyes. his gaze catches on a young edain, wounded in the arm by the archers. The orc smiles and leaps at his foe, even as teh man places another thrust into an orcish chest.

Cries are louder now, and the orcs press even more insistently. Lindis finds herself thrown into the midst of the pulsing battle, where the air is thick with smoke and with the stanch of blood. Dropping to avoid an arcing blade, she attempts to reach a wounded warrior, when an orc stumbles and crashes over her prone form. Struggling to be free, she eventually rises, and staggers towards the Adan - when with snarling cries, three more orcs break through, and he falls. She cannot even begin to grieve - Lindis spins and runs towards another man in need.

A booted footed lashes out a leaping Orch, Gundor spits in his face and his eyes shoit with blood from the roar of his voice and the strain of his fight. The Adan taks a step back another arrow shrieks at him and this time finds a chink in the mail he wears, his left shoulder is now barbed by the black feathered dart. His arm hangs utterly lifeless now and a deep cry rings out, yet as a hound kick Gundor rages. His right arm raises and the broad blade arcs down to answer the swirling scimitar, fell stregnth falls with that blade.

"To Hador, the dragon of Dor-Lomin" shouts Elagil and strikes an orc, unfortuante enough to find itself in the path of the man. Cleaved to the nose, the orc dies and blood stains Elagil mail, and yet carried by his anger, he looses precious seconds to remove the balde from the skull and he moves on, unaware of what happens behind, yet.

The elf-blade finds a mark, slicing again into the armor, and scoring a long gash on Demalk's side. He snarls in pain and yet presses forwards; the hundreds of his kin behind him give him little choice. He charges again at the elf, running straight at him, ytrying to trip him now with a low-placed slash at his lower legs.

The Noldo sees the orc-blade sweeping towards his legs, and pushes hard back. Avoiding what surely would have been the loss of at least one leg, Fingalad nevertheless feels the blade catch him on the outside of his left calf. Feeling the warm blood ooze out of the shallow cut, the chieftain wheels and around to his right and brings his sword in a side-long arc, the blade whistling through the air as it seeks to find purches on the orcs' neck.

A heavy blade crashes down against burghash's scimitar, knocking it into the mud. the orc takes a step back, then advances, red eyes shining with madness and fierce delight. A clawed hand twitches nervously, and, quicker than you can say knife, the orc is holding one in each hand. He cackles venomously, trying to circle round gundor and hamstring hhim as the man is distracted. Catching what he thinks is an opening, he jumps, and his black dagger darts toward the back of the knee.

Gundor whirls about a boot heading to meet the stooping Orchs face, yet one of the knives meets its mark and blood runs now from the hind of his thigh, yet neithertended was slit or muscle paired deeply. With handel gripped firm in his hand, the fist of the young Lord rains down at the the malformed skull of the orch, the pommel at its base. Shouting with the pain of the cut and with the fell effort of his own blow Gundor strikes.

The blade finds purchase in the orc's shield, nearly cleaving it, and Demalk takes the chance to drive the shield upwards and backwards, trying to breakl the elf's sword-arm in the process. And with his own scimitar he stabs forward towards the elf's stomach.

The man's backhind blow connects with teh back of Burghash's head, and the orc crumples to the ground. He strugles to get up, but a heavyy booted foot steps on the small of his back. He grunts, and teaches for his sword where it lies in teh mud.

Distant horns rise apon the air, not craven rude instruments of the enemy but Elven. The song they sing is not reinforcements or victory, but sweet enough, the High King has made his keep.

The ears off Gundor are caught by the sound and the message to he reads. The Orchish host drive the men back slowly still but they fall and many men fall too, Gundor steps back for a moment from his foe, his voice roaring out loud over the battle din. "Men....the King is safe! Hold your ground no longer, yet do run afore these dogs. We have...." The last word is halted as another arrow stings into the right thigh of Gundor. Pain. Yet the Lord holds firm his eyes fall back to his foe.

"Back" Elagil shouts as he too reads the horns of elves. "Back, hit and run, like river lads, like the.." he shouts again and parries barely the mean strike of a beast near. Yet other arent as many and fall to the orcish blade. But steadily, they retreat, in order. Felling is last orc, Elagil lingers, awaiting the dragon to follow.

As his nemesis throws him backward with his shield, Fingalad is able to avoid the main thrust of the orc blade. Yet the point of the blade does stab him slightly, in the upper right chest, as it penetrates his armor lightly. Recoiling and falling backward, the chieftain rolls and regains his balance. Arising, he again approaches his opponent cautiously. Guarding himself with his shield, he makes a tight and violent thrust at the mid-section of the orc.

Burghash's clawed fingers close about the hilt of his sword, and new strength rages through him. His swings the scimitar up, slashing a nearby edain and nearly scevering the body in twain. The orc lurches to his feet, madneess writ in his expression, and turne back towards gundor. He screams out a challenge, but his words are lost in hte chaos of battle as he leaps, his blade leaping out towards the Edain's chest.

The sign of Fingolfin understood and the shout of Gundor heard the forces of Dor-lomin begin to roll back steadily. The fight is as hot as ever at the meeting of hosts yet the men of Hador are retreating, there purpose fullfilled. Still arrows and blades whirl alike blood flows and muddies the groun where trampled corpses begin to multiply.

Overwhelmed at last, and feeling his age finally, the lord, ex-lord, of Dor-lomin slips to the ground, exhausted. The greatsword drops from his hand, the Dragon-Helm falls from his head, and his eyes close slowly, yet he still seems to be gazing upwards at the sky, smiling at the battlements of Barad Eithel, wishing he could yet have had time with Aran Fingolfin, a true friend. Somehow the young man at his side has remained through, and this scoops up the Dragon-Helm, subconciously charging himself with delivering the news to Galdor, the Lord of Dor-Lomin.

"Blow... blow," murmurs the orc Demalk, his head jerking up at the hateful sound of the horns. A momentary distraction, it allows the elf enough chance to stab deeper through his armor, and Demalk screams in rage, slashing his scimitar wildly at the nearest exposed bit of elf possible.

Lindis hears the pained, strong voice of Gundor calling the retreat. Turning from the foul legions of orcs, she tends to the badly-wounded soldiers beside her, before attempting to reach Gundor himself. The Prince is locked in dire combat, and his wounds are severe. Pressing against the Edain, Lindis tries to push through - but the way is closed. Suddenly, the growl of a dark creature is very close, and the maiden feels a sharp pain tearing at her back. Gasping, she staggers low and turns away, coming up a moment later to see Gundor fall to his knees in the distance. Mute, her eyes staring in agony, Lindis stumbles out of the battle, running desperately towards the Tower.

As The Orch approaches the eye of Gundor is caught, his father falls to the ground. Screaming out, fury and pain tears through the heart of the young Lord. There he would have fallen in grief, had not the blade of the Orch afore him rang apon his own mail. Pushing Forward with his barbed shoulder Gundor raisess his right again and its acrs down, its keen edge singing towards the Orchs left arm. Yet he moves on past the Orch paying no more head to him. The legs of Gundor asre ledden but they pound on towards his Father. Streaked with red and black the Lord moves on to his father. His sword still flies and it still cleaves the beasts in its way, thus he comes to his Father body and the lad at his side. "Run Lad take the helm." Gundor's sword whirls and holds the orchs from his body, men rally to him. Yet another arrow flies and another, his chest now is breeched and his right leg again.

As the horns sound, and his blade bites deeper through the orc armor, the Noldo has little chance for glee as the orc scimitar slices at him. As he turns to avoid the main attack, the blade bites into his upper left arm, piercing the armor and slicing a gash that burns like fire. His blade dipping somewhat for the pain, Fingalad nevertheless charges his enemy, and thrusts his sword again at the mid-section of the orc.

Gundor's blade slices through the air, and Burghash raises his right arm to block it. He screaches in pain as it bites into his muscle, and the snakelike orc flees back into his own army.

The beacon Elagil was looking for falls and disapears. A terrible anguish crush the heart of the man and trully for the first time of the day the host wavers and doubts. "Back Back" yet the heart isnt anymore. Cuttign his way through, Elagil arrives near the corpse as well as another blonde man, one of an ominous size even for the tall men of Dor-Lomin. "Get his body, dont let him to the claws or teeth of those" he orders, his voice thundering with anger and pain. "Gundor" he calls, the voice familiar even if muffled.
Observing the tall Marachling with awe, Elagil nods and directs the few men resting there, going to stand with Gundor.

The sword once more hits, home, not cutting deep, and Demalk squeals in anger. Let the others finishe the elf off! He thrusts his shield at the elf, and then darts off to the side, saving himself from the elf's fury. But more taske his place, many more, for the orcs yet advance upon the mountain-path.

Seeing his opponent retreat, the Noldo, now drenched in blood, some his own, most his enemies, sees the legions advancing towards him. Turning at the sound of the horns, and knowing the Aran is safe, he himself retreats, occasionally checking to see if an Atani lives or is dead upon the ground. Retreating steadily, he is completely and utterly exhausted.

Standing over his fathers body, the blade of Gundor acrs hither and thither, yet it slows. The helm now safe, Gundor seems to sigh. No heed he pays to Elagil for the young Lord is fixed now apon his purpose, as the orch fall afore him so do the arrows.

Many they are, they seem almost to focus apon the area. Many still bounce from the armour of Gundor and now many jut from his flesh and yet more sink deep into his legs. His bright mail runs read and the helm of Gundor roles from his head. Still his blade flies, yet an orcen archer nearby with no real craft nocks a black arrow to his string and lets it go.

The shot is ugly, it snakes in the air and its path is unsightly, yet it drives through the throat of the Lord, lodging there and he falls to the ground, next to his own Father. Blood rushes forth and the sound of drowning fills hills throat and through this sound the battle cry is spoken once more, though none may mark it.
His right hand lets loose the deadly grip apon the sword he holds and it reaches out to his Fathers. And thus Gundor passes from the world for ever holding his own father hand.

Arrows now all spent, the scout Baradil moves towards the meeting of the hosts. His own battle started hours ago when the scouts of Dor-lomin hindered the black hosts approach. The tide of the marchians seems to be as a rule backwards, but he picks a way through and finds a terrible seen afore him. Tear well in his eyes yet he runs forward to a man in a Dwarven helm, yet not Hador. "Let us move them now Elagil. Quick I will try to keep these wrtches off." The scout steps forward his spear held out afore him. The spearmen of Dor-lomin seem to have matched the scout already and a ring of keen speartips froms amid the sea of death.

Crushed byt the horrible spectacle of his father and brother falling, a loud voice rises over the melee. "Death, fight to the ruin O atani, to the ruin" and in a swift and yet suple motion, the new lord of Dor-Lomin lifts his father in his arms even as all around stopped the instant of a blink. And again the black uniform and the light blue of Hador knight gathers and makes a fence of their bodies againt the eager blades of their foe. Helped of a comrade, Elagil taes care of Gundor, hastening behind Galdor, none dare to halt or look.

Stepping back with the fallen pair and there carriers the spearmen come, affording both shield and van through the bodies, if one where needed. Where the spearmen had been more rush in, fury and grief fills the hearts of the Marachians. The retreat continues, yet the men of Dor-lomin fight with zealot fury as they creep back up the hill towards the fortess.