A Narrow Rescue

Road on the High Moors

You are standing at a point where the remnant of the Great East Road turns to follow a cliff. The crumbling stones lead off toward the west, and downhill, and also to the north along the cliff. Nothing but grasslands surround you, not even a shrub to break up the horizon line... well maybe one or two. You see the Misty Mountains rising in to the east. It looks like you could reach the nearest in a few hours if you go go that way. But more importantly, you feel the cold wind that comes blasting down from them.

Here where the howling air is endless, where the Hithaeglir loom as fangs born of the intent and Iron-will of the nameless one that made them, there is action in the dreary night. There is no summer, no well of spring blossomed into the greens of Kementari, there is only doom and decay, ruin and memory of stories long kept and haunting thoughts long forgotten. Upon the face of the mountains, crawling slow, low and camouflaged, a small group of figures meanders a path westwards, down and towards the sprawling Moors. Cold. Desolate. A pang of remorse ever whispered in the whistles of the wind.

No moon kisses down silver blessings, covered as it lies in deep drifts of ominous clouds. Nearly no light and little to see save for those eyes born most keen, or most engendered to darkness. Yet to the north, near the road that runs ragged along these fields, more Elves approach - and determinedly.

Dust rises beneath even the lightest of footfalls, the crumbling earth swirling in a dismal cloud of gray as the second party of elves crosses the barren lands in near-silent haste. Grey eyes peer out from beneath the drapes of their hoods, not even the occasional flicker of starlight present within those solemn, ever watchful depths.

From the front of the cloaked faction, a lone figure steps apart from the others. With the slightest lift of a slender hand, those behind her halt as she reaches the crest of the old worn road, stepping up with fluid grace not lost beneath the urgency in her focus. Half pushed back by hand, half blown by a gust of cold wind, the lady's hood recedes to reveal flaxen locks framing eyes steeled by age and the task at hand. The Silmaethor Eryndae moves little from her study of the periphery, gaze settling nowhere for long.

Stealing down the steeply sloping feet of the Hithaeglir; three figures can be made out, hardly to be seen in the darkness, clad as they are in ever-shifting grey, fleet-footed yet silent, creeping like grey-white whisps of mist down onto the moors.

Even elven eyes might struggle to glean much of their bearing, though; the moon's face is hidden, the stars are dim in the cloud-strangled sky. But they and their leader are tall and graceful beyond the ken of men, and he at their head seems to walk of himself as if in a shimmer of light, either through some enchantment, or some virtue of his rainment; they make good headway to the road, but are some way off as yet.

From South, One of the Uruk walking with the man looks like a big shadow, wearing a black cloak with face unseen in its hood. Its piercing red eyes shoot open. "That's Elf. I can recognize that stench. It burns my nostrils," the Orc says. "And I, Gragnarsh, won't rest until I see one of my arrows pierce one of their hearts," he adds in a hellish hiss. He sniffs once again. "Yes, no mistaking it. It's Elf," the Orc reassures, still keeping a steady pace behind the man. He looks back at his Orc companion. "'Ey! Do you think differently?"

Near the back of the small group, reluctant steps carry a tall dark-haired elf westward. Frequent glances are cast over his shoulder, back towards the bleak implacable mountains looming against the bitter sky. There is one less in the returning party than there should be, and Lothdaimoth's feet move more slowly the farther he goes. Cloaked in grey and hooded, his head is bowed a little; now and then to be drawn upwards as he looks around, and inevitably back. Across the hunched shoulders of the hills, ever closer to the plains, the small group makes its noiseless way.

The newest party of elves bears an outsider, or so it would seem. Swarthed in a grey cloak of the Galadhrim craft he moves with the rest, slent footfalls amongst the background of the dreary, lifeless moors. A black cowl shields his features from the cruel biting winds, drawn high up on his head so that none but shadow fall across his countenance, steely and resolved as they trudge endlessly along. Longbow and quiver adorn his back, ready at hand.

Heeding the signal to halt from one that goes before him, he does little but stand shock still for the briefest of moments, his pale hands flexing rigidly. He finally steps foward and glances about him, no more than fleeting looks towards his flanks and at Eryndae.

"Does something trouble you, Eryndae?" he asks, breathless whisper barely raising above the howling of the cruel wind. "Perhaps we should ready our weapons, danger lurks about us !" Taking his own advice, lithe digits stretch behind him and bring his bow into his right hand.

Shaking his head silently, Gorgo rears back his upper lip to reveal his sharp teeth at the sight of the putrid Elf smell. "It is Elf. My nostrils burn at the mere thought, and this is even worse. I will behead them, eat them, and rip them limb from limb, and then I'll get ugly," he finishes, twisting one of his lips up in a dark half-smile at the thought of bloodied Elf bodies littering the countryside. "What should we do?"

"<Sindarin> I will bear this burden in death-born lands no longer," whispers Galindrion, hood full covering the misty-eyed gaze he has kept locked within. Silent and poorly fit for watch. Wrapping his cloak closer with weakened arms, he plods along amongst the trio, encumbered by unfamiliar shield kept slung over back, the missing fourth its appointed bearer. Lifting his head to peer upon the dreary wastelands he sighs, scanning slowly left to right.

And stops abruptly, gathering shoulders but making no overt signal. Again he breaks the silence that has enveloped him within the last day, saying in raspy whisper, "<Sindarin> I see not our appointed keep; but others. There." Finally he points, to their southwest, and turning to the pair beside he swallows, and croaks, "<Sindarin> Shall we run?"

Though a deep furrow rests heavily upon her brow, a dark shadow of pensive thought upon a face otherwise remarkably fair, Eryndae's reply to Erucolindo is of crystalline tone. "<Sindarin> Naught that I have discerned from the shadow of the Hithlaeglir thus far," she intones softly, eyes never departing from the land even as her words go to the Galadhrim Knight. "<Sindarin> Yet something feels colder here." Though clear is her voice, slowed motions as Eryndae casts a fleeting glance to the company once more foretell of truth behind the lady's concern.

Not yet does a weapon grace her hand, and yet a faint glint of silver from beneath the crimson drape of her raiment remains, a slender hand hovering above its hilt. "<Sindarin> The others are surely near. Alas, I wonder how much further we must proceed. The bringers of such a chill that haunts these slopes are not those I would rush to encounter."

From South, Garhalk snickers wickedly. "Ef's good eat's.... stringy, but good inna stew." he whispers to his companions. Swinging his arm back sharply, the scraggly human slapping Gragnarsh on the shoulder then points north and to the right. "Go git... ready yerself ta take em down." he hisses. "Ya git ta eat what ya take down. Ah git anything they carry." he adds patting a buldging pouch hanging from his hip.

Eying Gorgo and his horrifying expression, the human grins and snickers again. "Well git yer sorry carcass to the left then. Just don't ruin any of their toys." he hisses as he waves to the left. Then, snarling in a human version of the Uruk's own, Garhalk hisses a warning. "Ya ruin anything sellable... Ah will take it frum yer hide."

"<Sindarin> We must travel only so far as we can, Silmaethor. One lost party is a blow to all, but for two to wander aimlessly through these lands is folly. But while hope remains in my heart I shall press on. You will forgive me though, if you I feel a need to defend myself. Cold and desolate this place may be, but chance encounter with those who seek ill on us is something I am always wary of."

Rearranging his rainment on his fair Silvan head, he sweeps his cloak around him once more, still clutching bow to one hand. "<Sindarin> Come, I anxious not to remain standing in this place any longer than neccessary." With that, he takes off once again, slightly albeit measured step registering little sound as he walks.

"<Sindarin> Yes, I see them;" comes the answer from the trio's tall leader, and it is Elladan, son of Elrond; his grey-eyes glitter like stars in the darkness, and his raven hair is as a streaming cloud. He is that one whose effulgence might very well their position betrayed; "<Sindarin> They have been watching us for some time now; for these are their lands, and even the cloaks of Lorien cannot hide us from their eyes in the darkness that they know so well. Do not run! You are weary from the road and much sorrow; but the more I fear a trap, and at any rate, to run is to lead them to our fellows;" he points down toward the road, a good ways distant still. "<Sindarin> Look there; aid comes, not unlooked for. We shall stand here and make our defence on the high ground; when the dawn comes we shall be safe, or fallen. But hope remains at least while you have courage; now bend your bows and make ready!"

Gragnarsh's nostril's flare and his glowing red eyes narrow as if considering the human's order. The muscles on his shoulders ripple as he wields his deadly black bow. A black tongue lashes out and sweeps over his gray lips and sharp fangs appear from his open mouth. "Fine, as long as we drink blood tonight huuuman." he growls low and harshly. Turning, the Uruk crouches low and weaves his way through the grass to the right. As he moves away, the bulky Uruk blends quickly into the shadows. Long moments pass and to the north a creaking sound whispers over the moors. Death waits for any traveling north.

From South, snarls slowly in a chattering mourn, then cracks his neck both ways and silently but swiftly drops into the grass, fluttering in the wind. He crawls low to the ground around to the left of the Elfs. As he begins to leave the vicinity of the human, he growls a quick comment..."I feel hungry..."

"<Sindarin> Both determination hope are to be admired," Eryndae concedes in silvered notes of nearly whispered answer. "<Sindarin> We will indeed press on... until no longer are the lands familiar, though ominous they may always be." Rather than matching Erucolindo's step at once, the Vintner and Warrior rejoins her party, only to press them forward with no more than a few words. "<Sindarin> Make haste, Maethori, yet take care to maintain silence beneath the whistle of the winds. Any more would betray us."

No sooner than these whispered words slip past pale lips, a stir amidst the unvarying grey of the bleak lands to the East draws Eryndae's eyes. The Herion and his two traveling companions are no longer so easily missed once keen eyes focus in from afar. Thus with renewed determination unspoken beyond the new fire kindled in aged eyes, the Silmaethor presses on with the Imladhrim company at her back.

Lothdaimoth's grief and abstraction has not slowed his reflexes, for his bow comes swiftly and easily to hand at Elladan's words. And an arrow follows almost without thought. From looking oft to the rear, now his gaze is fixed on the figures that crawl in the distance - yet not distant enough. "<Sindarin> At your word," comes his voice, near silent in the gathered gloom. Chilled by more than just the knife-edged wind that snatches hungrily at his cloak, he quickens his step and closes the small gap that has opened between himself and his two companions.

Gragnarsh's nostril's flare and his glowing red eyes narrow as if considering the human's order. The muscles on his shoulders ripple as he wields his deadly black bow. A black tongue lashes out and sweeps over his gray lips and sharp fangs appear from his open mouth. "Fine, as long as we drink blood tonight huuuman." he growls low and harshly. Turning, the Uruk crouches low and weaves his way through the grass to the right. As he moves away, the bulky Uruk blends quickly into the shadows. Long moments pass and to the north a creaking sound whispers over the moors. Death waits for any traveling north."

"<Sindarin> Then to the end as all," answers Galindrion, lowering hood and trailing cloth across his face. From its cross angle atop and at the most ready he retrieves the black longbow of his keep, of history and family and all things carried by this moment, swallowing deeply as he centers it and peers again into the darkness. The right hand creeps across to finger a white-feathered grey arrow, grasping it then in palm and sliding it from within.

To the string it fits, eyes narrowing as he sets his shoulders - the wind measured in patient ears. Yet his hand trembles the slightest as he takes a deep breath, and holding it awaits command.

Glaring suspiciously at Gragnarsh's retreating back with no hint of trust. Garhalk reaches for his sword and slowly draws it as he begins to move northwards. The grass waves softly around him and sounds from the north become clearer. Using his sense of hearing alone the shadow moves closer to it's prey. Pausing, he tilts his head to listen for any hint that their presence is detected.

A cruel smile appears upon Garhalk's lips and he tightens his grip upon the hilt of his weapon. Lowering himself into a crouch, he awaits the moment to attack.

A stunted, red eyed and bow legged goblin marches his way from the southwest. The creature' vile snout moves indepedently about sniffing the air for intruders of his land. As the foul (to this ignorant scum) stench of the pointed eared folk flows through his filthy nostrils the orkish soldier clutches his two-handed axe proudly and, however impossible it may seem, bends his legs even further to squat. And so the goblin lays in wait...

From South, Peering over the top of the harshly swaying grass, Gorgo lifts his forehead, then eyes over to see whether he should continue or wait. Seeing the Elfs near, he hisses low, so that it was inaudible even to himself. THe dark shape lowers itself back into the grass and creeps somewhat towards a spot behind the Elf troop, the better to surprise them.

Elladan's hand strays to his waist, and, parting his cloaks there, with mail shimmering mercurial beneath; then on to the tall hilt of his sword, which it grasps, loosening the blade in its scabbard. "Waste no arrows!" He rasps underbreath, fair voice hushed that he might better sense the precursors of impending danger. "We may have need of them yet, this long night!" With that, he draws forth his weapon, steel ringing clearly in the chill air, the edges glittering like ice.

Elladan draws his fell sword Nallaklaure from its scabbard at his left hip.

Sprightly step does the Silvan Knight exude as he makes his way forward, at the head of the company that follow behind him. Light footfall after light footfall he pervades until the cry of Elledan rings clear in his ears. Hurriedly he moves forward, espying his kinsmen as they stand prepared for the oncoming danger.

Muted are the rescue party's footfalls across the dull green matted grasses barely hiding the dusty ground beneath. Their pace is conservative, their determination clear through poise and steadiness. Yet as nearer they draw to those tirelessly sought through the darkening night, raised bows and tense faces are mirrored in their own. Perhaps the only exception, unless the veil of serenity over fair features is naught but a facade, is Eryndae herself.

As Elladan's sword brings a glimmer of light to the deepening shadwos, a word from the Silmaethor brings more drawn weapons. Bows sigh audibly against the night, the whisper of steel matched in tone as the lady draws Gwathoanir, a sword stained both by tears and blood in years past. "<Sindarin> Foul things are all but upon us, Maethori. Cunir, ready your arrows! Magor, your swords!"

"<Sindarin> An arrow loosed by Galadhrim hand be no waste," come words of desperate grimness from the locked lips of Galindrion, unmoved from the reaction of his compatriot. "<Sindarin> I aim not to die, so aim I shall. And fire," he hisses then new wave of liquid salt burning from his eyes as he sends the first dart streaming through the wind. A second is quickly lifted as heedless of practice, heedless of the words he indeed wastes an arrow, the second poorly steadied and to his eye immediately off course.

"<Sindarin> A Gilthoniel, I'll make it two of three," he defies, inhaling stout breath again as he retrieves another from black quiver. Stepping out past the boulder and in clearer sight he freezes, the next readied to fire - body exposed and tempting fate, or praying for his folk to find them.

Crouching low behind a rock with his bow stretched taunt, Gargnarsh catches sight of a silvery glimmer upon the road. Blood red eyes narrow, and he watches the figures as one by one they seem to materialize. Moving slightly, the Uruk takes aim at the lead figure. Grayish muscles draw tight across his back. A low growl rises up from the creatures throat as it becomes clear that the elves are growing ready. The instant an elven arrow flies, a black one follows. Gargnarsh's black arrow hisses as it sails towards the elf who'd just lanched an arrow.

Following Gargnarsh's lead, the stunted little goblins solider springs up from the grasses and raises his crude axe above his head. Inflamed with either anger or insanity, or perhaps both, the creature begins to jump in circles, blabbling inanities to himself at random. "Curse da' pointy cowads! We'd be eatin' dem soon! Hehehehe, hohoho. Curse da', curse da'!"

"<Sindarin> Galindrion." Only the one word before Lothdaimoth stops and cocks his head. There is a whisper of ... something, movement? to their rear. Turning, bow tracking the sound, he draws the arrow smoothly to his cheek preparing to fire. Intent dark eyes search the darkness for any sign of what he has heard. (repose)

Looking up again, the Uruk can see an arrow cocked towards him. Cursing himelf, he crawls forward for a brief second, the disregarding all ethics, jumps up as he draws his blade. He charges towards the bowman aiming at him, bellowing curses.
Gorgo wields Short Broadsword.

Drawing another black arrow to his bow, Gargnarsh hisses for blood as he raises his bow once more. A low growl emits from deep within his throat and he take aim at a silvery form. Teeth bared in a sneer, the Uruk launches his arrow towards the one foolish enough to turn his back to Gorgo's attack. The black shaft spins as it flys hidden in the shadow's of the night.

A very low-pitched sound, like a thud, can be felt in the ground if one is well-aware. These thumpings occur slowly, periodically, like footsteps, but no source is visible--yet. Then, moments later, a new rock appears on the western horizon. Is it a rock, really, moved by some unknown being? Why does it grow with each coming second?

Then the grey object is not a rock, but a head, attached to an enormous neck, on top of huge shoulder. A loud, unharmonious chant comes from the west in a gnarled voice:
A luv'ly bunch
A luv'ly munch
A luv'ly lunch for me...
Upon the hill
I'll eat me fill
Follow the smell, whee.

The third arrow flies from steadied hand, though eyes remain moist and chilled. Frozen but stolid, Galindrion stands poised, drawing another to sit at the ready upon the string. It falls from his hand as a black arrow from returned volley curses him for his show, smiting upon left thigh and burying its over-sized barb within. "<Sindarin> Now stand I awake," he bellows, ashen blonde sweeping in temultuous wash backwards as his head lurches. Closing eyes and biting lip, he slings the bow back to his shoulder, the seething pain lighting fire within his nimble legs.

In cool splash of steel ringing crystal and clear over the night and its deathless bite of ancient cold, Umdoldagnir of his forefathers returns to his hand and out from its sheath. Quick flip and flick of wrist and the sign of his wound is removed, motion slowed little as all practice returns. Death locks upon his face in single line across smooth, ageless brow. Movement behind draws his next move, something drawing Lothdaimoth's attention - and no more room for mistake; left arm retrieves the shield he carried, fingers of right steadying as he slides it into place.

Even the darkness now comes alive with cries of battle, both of evil tongue and that of the Firstborn. With the cloak of secrecy now cast aside, both movement and sound burst forth from the night as the Imladhrim company sweeps into action at the defense of their kinsmen.

One word from the Silmaethor Eryndae sends a rain of arrows against the cold winds, piercing the blustery darkness toward an enemy not entirely discerned. "<Sindarin> Fire!"

In the moment following, the whistling of barbs upon the air is fully drowned beneath the overbearing rumble of another approach, bringing with its cadence a new foreboding of evil. Stepping aside from the Imladhrim archers after this, their first volley, Eryndae searches the slopes not long before the Troll's appearance at last breaks the placid calm Eryndae has thus far maintained. "<Sindarin> Swordsmen!" she calls over her shoulder, lifting her own longsword to a ready position in a slow, precise arc in front of her.

Even as the howling creature leaps from the grass and Lothdaimoth looses his arrow, a second shaft snarls down upon the elf from behind and burns across his arm; possibly spoiling his aim. So deep is his concentration that the pain isn't noticed at once, not until he reaches for a second arrow does it work it's way into the forefront of his consciousness and a grimace of pain twists his face. A single step backwards, away from the onrushing enemy, and the second arrow is nocked.

So it seems that the trio's luck has worstened, for surely now there comes near an evil greater still than those that now assail them on the wind-blasted slopes of the misty mountain's foothills. Elladan's sword he grasps his sword-hilt two-handed then, seeing his fellows harmed; "We will not wait for the dawn!" he cries, and, rising to the fullness of his height he is revealed upon the hillside for all to see; tall, lordly, descendant of chieftains and kings; arrows fall about him, striking his mail and glancing off without hurt; in his fair voice he shouts: "Earendil!" And he leaps down the slope toward the lumbering figure of the troll.

Still charging forwards, the beastly demonish Uruk swings his sword wildly in the air above his dark head, chantings words of death to his Elven foes. Answering to the leader of the Elfs' call Gorgo shouts louder, and charges faster, dodging a black-shafted arrow easily, and closing to his target.

Garhalk rises from the grass and lifts his sword, cautiously keeping his eye on both goblin and elf. His eyes grow wide at thud heard... no felt. "My...." he snarls. As the first word is uttered from his lips a sharp pain slices through his chest and breath rushes from his lungs. Garhalk looks down and he blinks several times as if his vision escapes him. "Aaaah.. auugh." he hisses, unable to form words without air. The warmth of death rolls through his body and he looks up and seems confused as he watches the elf exchange his bow for a sword. His eyes flicker with hatred and he takes a step to lash out at the elf, but his balance is gone and he falls forward. A sickening crunch and ripping sound fills the night air as the elven arrow is pushed through his body to emerge out the back. The scent of death fills the air and Garhalk is no more.

The troll sniffs loudly. "Whatssat?" she asks herself aloud, making out figures in the dark. And then it suddenly dawns on her slow-witted mind, that she's heard such sounds before. "Curses, elves," she bellows, and a moment later, "Tasty." The two opposing opinions battle in her mind as she stands there on the dark moors, still as a stone, pondering whether another snack that fights back is worth the try and otherwise ignoring the flying arrows.

The closer the Uruk gets, the faster it seems that he is running and Lothdaimoth has barely time to shoot again. But the closer the fell creature comes, the larger a target it makes as well. A bare second is taken to aim, and this second shaft is sent winging through the air. And not waiting to see if it striked true or not, the elf turns to run.

It is with deep pain and only the slimmest of margins away from panic that Galindrion approaches Lothdaimoth in urgent stride, some faith renewed as he sees his query fall, sword readied as he seeks to put he between his fellow Counsel and the approaching beasts. Some truth committed then to words of the Golden Woods archers. "<Sindarin> You shall take no more from me," he bellows, stepping carefully backward as rearguard for compatriot, waving sword more vigorously left to right with anticipation of vengeance declared in an instant. Sidestepping a boulder, he twists ankle then colliding with another in his retreat and awkwardly slipping backwards.

To a hand he falls, pushing himself back again, readying shield and gritting teeth: for the remaining pursuers lie nigh upon striking distance. Wordless prayers pass with his breath, visions of rolling heads and falling foes ripening to explosions in his readied mind.

Another cloud of arrows takes to the skies as the Imladhrim archers let fly another volley, fluid and fearsome. The silvered barbs glimmering fleetingly against the black sky before seeking the ground and what foul beasts may walk it. Now fully apart from her company, Eryndae's path crosses Elladan's in his fleet-footed sprint toward the looming troll. Inspiration found in the Herion's cry, the Silmaethor finds naught that would hold back her stride, each strike of her foot against the ground bringing renewed courage learned by experience above age. Though she remains silent, billowing crimson cloak and eyes of fire and ice speak volumes of her fury toward the foe she seeks.

Gorgo, still charging, feels deep pain as an arrow peirces his left shoulder. He falls to one knee, bellowing into the grass with his head down. "Blasted archer!" he roars, the strength of his anger overriding his pain. He begins to limp, then jog, then run back towards the target, but sees that he has run. So, painstakingly, he turns towards his next target, grim streaks of sweat straining his face, leaking into the air.

Gargnarsh snarls wickedly as both arrows strike. Too bad one was not better aimed to keep Garhalk from dying. Flesh was flesh so it wasn't /that/ much of a loss. His red eyes glow as boiling blood as competition for elf meat arrives. Glancing once towards the Troll he curls his upper lip back before sweeping his gaze over the elves to choose his next target. "Female... tasty." he mutters as he takes aim at the she-elf's heart. Drawing back the string of his bow, the Uruk growls in anticipation. "If an arrow doesnt' take her town, then my axe will" he snarls as he releases the black arrow.

Food or flee...such is the choice that Bertha has when facing such a scene. Such a large scene, full of flashing weapons and swift arrows, a buffet that is tempting but altogether too sharp for her palate today. And so, with a slow pivot, the creature retreats back down the hill, moving on to easier meals. For although her stomach grumbles so, the thought of fighting tonight is an unpleasant one. And wasn't that a wandering sheep down the hill, separated and lost from its herd? "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" she yells.

So downward and after the retreating figure of Bertha does Elladan descend; fighting his way through the press, blade wielded most doughtily, flashing with white fire as it rises and descends through fell strokes. Soon he is lost from sight in his pursuit...

"You come for it then?" hisses Galindrion once more, words sharp through mouth as yet clinched in indignant rage. Down and to the right whips his blade, back and to the left with a snatch. Slicing horizontally towards midsection of the nearest creature, his hand leads the blade in back-handed assault furious and without fumble. Shield arm set in defense before him, he sidesteps right and away from the blow as turned or purchased in flesh he repeals the arc to prepare another assault.

In quick rhythm danced and practiced, stepping, darting and with watchful eyes fixed upon the beast prepared to dodge as many strikes as he may in close-quarters. The tail of grey cloak follows in rushing folds sidling back and forth with his meter, the parry primed and his will unleashed.

Keen Elven ears are not to be underestimated, and the whistle of a new arrow is not lost to one of millenia's teaching. The orcish barb flies its lazy arc, followed now by grey-blue eyes...

...But all too late do they find their moving mark, as the arrow too finds the one it seeks. Spinning around enough to bring a faltering step into the midst of her gait, the impact of the orc's shot to Eryndae's shoulder brings forth a grunt of pain from fair lips. Yet hardly enough to bring more than a fleeting halt to her determination, the elf maiden's jaw sets squarely as she darts forward anew, sword raising as nearer she draws.

Down the slope, through the short hissing grass, Lothdaimoth takes his flight. A quick glance shows the troll lumbering off, Elladan in swift pursuit; to the other side, foes approaching the Imladhrim and he hesitates a moment. Where to go? Ahead, a rocky outcropping looms and the counsel turns towards it as a place of possible retreat.

Gargnarsh howls in outrage as an elven arrow buries itself in his thigh. Gripping his axe in one hand, the Uruk lets loose a deadly growl which echo's through the moor. Clenching and unclenching his fist, his hand darts out and grabs the shaft of the arrow and he rips it from his elf. Black blood trickles down his leg and from the tip of the arrow now drenched in the evil tainted fluid. Without looking, the now enraged beast flicks his arm and sends the arrow flying impotently to the side.

Grabbing the handle of the axe with two hands, the Uruk lifts it and glares at the now wounded she elf. Again he howls for blood as he charges. "I will gut you she-elf and feast upon your intestines." he shouts harshly as he nears. Swinging the axe over one shoulder, the dark being grunts as he takes his swing.

No reward of blood found, the beast apparently armored well as his blade glanced back with no grip upon its flesh. Galindrion swings back to the left this time, parrying and pushing with sweep of longsword in dangerous play near Gorgo's legs. Little time and no safe-distance guide Galindrion again to swing viciously as he leaps back right, another backhanded swing guided up and clear towards exposed neck. "<Sindarin> Take death and breath naught," he screams even as the blade reaches for its thirst.

With a mighty howl of rage, the sleek blade of Galindrion slices through Gorgo's dark skin, svering blood, flesh, and bone. At first Gorgo's head leans to the right as it is pushed easily by the blade, then severed completely, amid a rush of maroon blood. His head bounces once...twice...thrice...then lands directly on the stump of the neck and stares blankly up at the eyes of his bane. His mouth, rested in a snarling postion, is doomed to never snarl another devilish sound of breath again...

A quick skip-step taken to align her form with the impending swing of her longsword, Eryndae's run halts abruptly in a sweeping dodge of Gargnarsh's axe. Flaxen locks lift with the passing wind of a narrowly missed strike as the Silmaethor lingers low to the ground in the passing of a few quickened heartbeats. Right knee resting evenly upon the ground in pause, a forceful arc of her shining blade threatens the foul-smelling beast's side.

"<Sindarin> None of ours shall be your trophy, shadow lurker!" she growls, the angry sentiment mirrored in her gaze's fire. "<Sindarin> Now face the punishment for all who try!"

Splish and splash in foul scent of black-blood, Galindrion's cloak is covered in the spoils of another creature's end - a smattering of droplets making stains upon already sullied cheeks. He spits upon the carcass, and with a solid kick sends its former head in final arc to land with a dull thud. Waiting no further breath, allowing no further calamity to fall without his hand to stay what it might, he turns from his place of battle and runs in leaps and bounds down the mountainside towards the converging remainder of the chaos.

The cold grows deep here in these hours after midnight, deeper than evil and deeper than skin, but fury is yet within him. Only the slightest stumble in an alternate step indicates his single wound; passing Lothdaimoth he grabs the cloth of his shoulder declaring then, "<Sindarin> Follow with cover fire, mellon, its time to seek peace and the end of this night." The words trail behind him as finally he reaches the soft earth, closing quickly and fierce.

A slight hiss of pain is heard as material slides abrasively over Lothdaimoth's arm. A searching glance around shows nothing more moving behind, but still he readies his bow, wincing a little with the movement. Fleet and silent, he runs some paces behind Galindrion, dark eyes scanning all around. Ready to shoot should any further threaten his friend.

The axe follows through and Gargnarsh hisses in disgust. His muscles tense for a back swing when the she elf's blade skims over his bare chest, laying open a thin gash. Black blood bubbles and cascades from the wound and the Uruk's eyes glow fiercely in anger. His nose wrinkles and he draws his lips back, offering a full view of slime coated teeth with an open mouthed roar. The horrid sound and rush of air from the creatures lungs as he roars carries a foul breath forward into the she elf's face. It is clear, that she's made him mad.

Gray skinned flesh ripples as thick muscles tighten and he releases a powerful back swing with his axe, aimed to take the elf's head.

It is not until she attempts to stand that Eryndae's fresh wound is fully recalled through the haze of her fury. Rising from a crouch with the momentum of her longsword, a wave of fiery pain descends in searing waves from her left shoulder. Thus where pain is fire, limbs are ice in most unfortunate constrast. Eryndae stumbles, unable to rise from her knees, and yet barely able to roll to the side enough to escape the blade in its screaming arc toward her exposed neck. Even this attempt on her life is not entirely without result, as her safety is bought with a lock of flaxen hair shorn off.

The lost unfound, blood upon his cloak, his cousin's shield upon his arm - but now Uruk blade threatens to dim the night, an instructor of long ago endangered upon the field as Galindrion's approach comes within paces. Screaming a long twisting howl, he makes a final dash, sprinting and leaping then through the air with shield set as brace and battering-ram before him. Lunging towards he is defenseless, clearly desperate and determined to see no more Elven loss. The echo of his voice remains as he braces for impact even as the axe narrowly misses its mark.

All becomes slowed to the instant in emerald eyes blazing as the Elf's leap nears its crash. With fist locked tight about sword hilt, his mind lies ready for the recovery from his dash, to stand above him in defense should he fall, or swing around and down should he be given the chance to claim its end.

Driven into a frenzy at the sweet scent of elven blood, Gargnarsh licks his lips in anticipation of a feast as he raises his axe once more. "Die pret-ty one." he hisses as he prepares to bring the axe down once more. A scream.... a threat draws his attention at the last moment, and he turns away from the wounded she-elf to guard against a stronger attack. Hissing in anger, the Uruk swings his axe back a bit further and grunts as he brings the double blade forward towards the elven champion.

Before him, Eryndae falters and falls. Galindrion's reckless rush leaves him open to attack. And a fury heretofore unseen snarls Lothdaimoth's lips. Even while running, he brings the string to his cheek, sighting down the deadly dart. Then an abrupt stop, a swift adjusting of his aim, and the arrow is loosed to howl down vengefully on the Uruk. With scarcely pause for breath, he reaches over his shoulder for another.

In rattle and rumble, jostle and jumble Galindrion's shield arm indeed crashes into the intended mark, but the act is dearly bought. Axe-blade slides raggedly across the wood and glancing away drives deep within his right bicep, tearing into the bone. A new scream is torn from his lips as sword drops from limp arm, weak hand: the grip wet with his rich crimson blood. Falling to his knees, the hand kept behind shield gripping shorn muscle to fight the pulsing flow of blood, he lurches and falls away akin to the nearby maiden.

Rolling upon the ground, feeding its thirst with his priceless stain, he leaves a trail as he seeks to move away from deadly double-blade. A scant handful of paces away then, he lifts once more to see sword out of his reach, and beast standing yet before the fallen maid he intended to spare.

The axe comes full swing and the creature of evil tenses his muscles for the back swing. *PLUNK* Suddenly Gargnarsh pauses and the axe falls from numbed fingers. His gaze drops to his chest in disbelief. A heart tainted with evil beats once around the shaft of an elven arrow as if protesting the invasion deep within the Uruk's chest. Fangs dig deeply into his own lips as he stubbornly holds back the instant of death. With nearly the last of his strength, the towering beast reaches up with both hands to grasp the shaft of the buried arrow. A soundless grunt issues from his lips and he rips the arrow free, pulling with it a portion of his heart lodged upon the tip. The world blackens, and Gargnarsh drops lifeless to the ground.

A desperate scream lifts the haze of weariness and pain from the lady Silmaethor's fair face, pale skin now marred by smears of dirt and blood. At a length no longer than it takes Galindrion to reach her assailant, Eryndae overcomes pain with persistance and again finds her footing. With Gwathoanir gripped tightly in hand with knuckles whitened, Eryndae draws back for another blow in support of Galindrion, only to sight Lothdaimoth past the uruk's ugly face.

Now met with a new conflict, aged eyes behold the wounding of yet another at orcish hands, yet fear the possibility of impeding the Galadhrim arrow. As the edhel takes aim from beyond, the Vintner and Warrior sidesteps, unable to do more than wait in readiness until at last, Gargnarsh falls.

"I am done. I am bleeding. I am in grief," speaks Galindrion in hushed triplet. His eyes fall tightly closed, but the dams that are his lids cannot keep away the rush of renewed grief; with enemy vanquished there is nothing to stave his sorry the longer. He deeply swallows, and with tilted head, angled waves of full hair dirtied and bloodied, he simply cries. And cries. And cries tears in rivers mimicking the blood that has soaked his entire arm.

Lowering head, unable to speak further, he approaches Eryndae, and taking her hand in his weak grip, the Counsel of Lothlorien formerly proud, now near ruin speaks, "To the Valley now. My fea burns."