A Most Dreadful Toll

Gladden River, South Bank

A land of rolling hills stretches to the south, but the banks of the Gladden river lie directly to the north. In the distance there is a roar as of cataracts, but here the river flows slowly and gently. A fitful, warm breeze rolls unseen over the countryside. The ground feels cool and damp. The Anduin valley rolls out to the east, and the path travelling north leads to the steep, fertile and woody banks of the Gladden river, clearly visible and a brief walk away. This is a rich land, teeming with game. Shrubs dot the landscape in all directions, giving this area the look of a heath.

When nothing short of quiet bliss should be filling the space about the Gladden River, Brinnen is just outside the elven camp seeking items for the basket she carries in her hand. Stopping at a long wall of shrubbery, she kneels down to pluck leaves. A soft wind kicks up and flutters her braids and clothing. The sky is littered with tiny twinkling lights, all of them glittering down upon the quiet camp of Imladhrim. Nothing save some wild game stirs, and even those few animals are shying away from the minimal stirrings of the elves.

Off to the south, unbeknownst to the elves to the north, a small band of orcs traipses over the foothills. Their march is rather silent, and they wear the garb of the scouts of Moria. Several carry bows, and the others carry scimitars, and one particular scout in the lead holds his hand up, motioning them all to stop.

Seemingly as one, the group stops, and the leader, an uruk-hai, turns to his left and talks to the scout there, "You smell that?"

Linnuial, ever-wary at this river crossing, patrols the perimeter of the camp in a slow circle, his bow drawn. Squinting eyes search the shadows in the soft light of the stars, an occasional glance thrown back toward the camp to keep track of everyone's location. Spying Brinnen, he calls out, "Stray not far from the camp, Nethril. This river is not safe, especially in the dark."

Out in the underbrush, a rabbit stirs, bounding across the open ground and diving into a hole. A blustery gust of wind kicks up some dust, the shrubbery flapping and flagging noisily. Amongst the bushes, a lone figure sits on watch. Just a clump, really, another clump in all the bushes. Ladingolf, Tellenistron o Imladris, crouches with his Longbow, the cowl of his hood drawn over his head. Keen Elven eyes stare out from the blackness of the hood.

There is movement between the tents, quiet, graceful movement. The Lady Arwen comes out into the open from within the camp, followed by the elleth seen so often in her company recently, her handmaiden and companion Nimmeril. Between the last tents, the Heryn keeps standing silently, pulling her warm cloak closer about her shoulders. The expression on her face is thoughtful, but she seems at peace.

Nimmeril, with a doting sort of gentleness, helps Arwen don her cloak, ensuring it is settled well on the slender shoulders before her own is drawn close against the cool autumn breeze. "The night is beautiful," she opines to the Hiril, and truly her countenance reflects appreciation for such a thing. "And admittedly I am eager to be home."

Nearly hidden by the shroud of a moonless night, Amarelei stands just inside the perimeter of camp, her eyes upturned to behold the heavens. The warm autumn breeze sweeps over her slender form, drawing a few loose waves across her face. Though her expression is serene in reflection of the quiet peace of the camp, her shoulders are set and her hands poised at her side. A bow of slender make and a quiver of silver arrows is strapped at her back, though they remain nearly hidden by the earthen brown waves cascading down her back, bound in leather.

"But... there is Paeonia here," Brinnen tells Linnuial. And that seems to say it all for the dark-haired Nethril. She is not too far from the camp. Just a half-dozen or so meters. The elleth looks back at the flowering shrub and reaches low to gently ease some of the root out. She shakes the clumps of damp soil from it and smiles, as if finding a precious treasure. It goes into the basket at her side then she reaches to her right to unearth another fresh root.

The scout to the left of the uruk-hai tests the air. His nostrils flare, making his hooked nose look even more peculiar. His voice is little more than a hiss broken occasionally as some mass of phlegm interferes with his inner passages. He answers, "I smell it. Perhaps something that will bleed nicely." The scout's hand plays with the cloth that covers the blade of his scimitar. Kharlugh's lips peel back into a carnivores grin.

Ladingolf snaps erect at his position outside the camp perimeter. It is the most the Imladhrim has moved since on watch. His cowled head lowers itself slowly, picking out and distinguishing between the sounds of the night. Slowly, his hands clench around his longbow. Motionless. Suddenly, a low warble escapes from his lips, carrying back towards the camp.

The lead uruk scout nods his head, his crimson eyes narrowing as he stares to the north. "Perhaps. But we are here for wood, are we not?" He shakes his head slowly and then motions his hand and the troup begins marching again to the north. "Keep yer eyes peeled, buggers. There's a foul stench on the air this night." The lead scout pulls forth his bow and strings an arrow, just in case...

"Ah, yes.. beautiful." Arwen answers to Nimmeril, still not looking at anything but into empty space. "Although it seems that it is nearly too quiet. I will be happy to hear the night birds in Imladris again."

"And to smell the trees...until we are home, I fear my heart shall not be content or whole," Nimmeril concurs, giving Arwen's hand a small squeeze of reassurance. Then, as Landigolf's warble carries through the night air, she stiffens and eyes narrow. "Who was that?"

Linnuial's lips curl downward at Brinnen's reply, and he says, "Very well, but tarry not. The night grows deeper, and we should all move within the cover of our fire and tents." Turning his back momentarily on the perimeter, he looks toward the group of ellith emerging from their shelter. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and now he increases his readiness for defense, drawing forth a single arrow. Yet the arrow is not normal. In the soft starlight, it glows very faintly with a flourescent blue paint. The light from its shaft is dim, but still bright enough for keen elven eyes.

The idle melody of birdsong drifts to Amarelei's keen ears, and on a night nearly soundless, even notes as low and soft as these bring an unsettled frown to Amarelei's features. Subtly the elleth raises her nose to the air, searching the darkness with senses beyond even that of smell and sight. Slowly her hand floats to the end of her bow, though not yet does the Lhimbadhril draw it forth.

Korgull trails behind his band of scouts a short ways as his yellow eyes peer about attentively at his surroundings. The muscular orc mumbles numerous complaints under his breath about whatever he can think of to complain about, then realizes he is falling behind and quickens his pace to catch them, "Where are we headed?" he asks in more of a grumble to the gathered scouts as he catches them.

Kharlugh's golden eyes flicker with mild annoyance. He hisses to the leader, "Nothing will catch us by surprise." He carefully removes the cloth wrapped around his scimitar and stuffs it into a pouch. The weapon's unpolished blade is crude and somewhat jagged closer to the leather wrapped hilt. The uruk tests the air again and begins to creep forward. He answers Korgull, "It should not matter. We go where he," The orc scout indicates the uruk-hai, "tells us to. Understand?"

The Morian scouting party continues its trek down the hills, drawing closer and closer to the rushing water of the Gladden. In response to a question from the rear, the leader turns his head and whispers, "We are looking for good wood to make a catapult, you dolt. How many times must I tell you!?!?" The leader then turns around and stops dead in his tracks. The rest of the party stops also, some on the front lines scrambling to remain behind the leader. "Look!" he whispers sharply. "I think it's elves. I see a camp... Let's fire on them and see what comes out." He leers quietly and then holds his bow up, pulling the string back. "All right, charge! Lessee what we find! RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGH!!!!!" With that shout, the uruk-hai lets forth an arrow, aimed towards the small encampment to the north, hoping to draw some fire back and reveal a possible enemy.

Brinnen offers a subdued smile in response to Linnuial's protective manner and shakes her head to herself. She rises from the Paeonia shrub and begins to brush the dirt from her gown, head bowed and braids swaying slightly from the motion of her hand. She holds the handle of the basket delicately in her free hand, treating it as if it was filled with blown glass. Satisfied that she is clean, she starts back for the camp at a slow and lingering gait. In the distance, she spots Ladingolf poised with his bow and that sight causes her to halt and slowly turn to look behind her. Her battle instincts are horribly flawed. Yet when the unfriendly shout of the Uruk-Hai pounds into her ears, she drops the basket all together, flying toward the camp at a swift run.

Korgull snarls and opens his mouth to shoot back a retort at the other orcs but cuts it short suddenly as the camp is spotted. A grin of glee spreads hs face and he draws forth his scimitar form his scabbard with a sound that rings out into the night. The moon-light glints off its crude blade and matches the glow in his yellow eyes, "Elves!" he cries out in his deep and throaty voice which he promptly follows by a snarl. Then he gladly obeys the command to charge and starts forward at a dead sprint, scimitar pointed forward, at the elven camp.

The arrow whizzing over Ladingolf's head sets him into motion. He explodes like a coil that has been tensing for this moment, spring to his feet with cat-like grace and bounding towards camp with wide step. "Yrch!" he yells. A deft hand flies to his quiver as he runs, notching a yellow-fletched arrow in a blur of motion. His straight line towards camp turns perpendicular, the bow raised in front of him horizontal to the ground. Quickly, he pulls the string and fires, turning his path towards camp again as the string twangs. The arrow spins lazily in the night sky towards the band of Uruk-Hai.

"Take cover!" Linnuial snaps at Brinnen, as an arrow lands at his feet. With planned efficiency, he moves to the side of the camp nearest the orc assault, but he mounts no matching charge. Instead, his voice rings out, "Cunir! Form a line on either side of me! Space yourselves out and keep the line sparse. Hold your fire until targets are clear!" He nocks the faintly glowing arrow, stretching Brantoril until it groans. Yet he waits, arrowhead merely pointed into the dark.

Mere heartbeats after the silence is shattered by a blood-curdling battlecry, Amarelei whirls around on her heels, swiftly bringing forth both bow and arrow while deftly stepping backward toward the heart of camp. Linnuial's words ring in her ears even before she can make out his form in the shadows, and thus the elleth so new to the ways of battle follows the given directions with no more than a moment's pause to question them. Her willowy frame falls to a crouch behind a shrub towards the foremost side of camp, nimble fingers working swiftly to place a silver arrow to her bowstring.

Kharlugh does not hesitate or question the uruk-hai's orders. The little uruk charges with scimitar in hand. Yellow teeth open and snap shut as if anticipating a meal or masticating the flesh of an elf. His golden eyes are already clouded with blood lust and a fury learned over many years. He bellows, "Perish on our blades!" The uruk's wrist twists and brings the blade up until its point is level with his hooked nose.

The arrow that the elven camp's scout shot towards the uruk scouts flies straight towards the leader, the uruk-hai, and strikes him. Fortunately for him, the arrow merely grazes his helmet, doing no harm, but annoying him and alerting him to the scout's presence. "Heeeeeeeeeyaaaa!!!" he shouts and strings another arrow to his bow, kneeling down and staring into the trees, his crimson eyes flooded with rage. "Die, scum!" he shouts as he lets his arrow fly towards the elven scout. He then shouts out, "FIRE!!!" and the remaining archers let their arrows fly, the projectiles raining down onto the elven camp from the hillside.


A high, keening howl rises from the south, a shrill and hateful cry. The wailing warg-scream carries notes of anger, of despite -- of fear.

Arwen stands motionlessly in surprise -- in shock, perhaps -- as the arrows hail down on the camp, her eyes wide with staring emotion, perhaps with memory.
Perhaps she did not see the arrow flying towards her; perhaps it was not aimed at her directly, a lucky shot. There is a low crunching sort of sound as the orc projectile penetrates the Lady's cloak, and a gasp, as Elrond's daughter staggers back a step or two, clutching her shoulder... not absent anymore now.

Linnuial's bow, Brantoril, gifted to him by the Silivriel o Arwen, now spits out its glowing barb toward the opposing cries to fire. As he looses the arrow, Linnuial shouts, "Watch my arrow! Concentrate your fire where it falls! Fill the air above their heads with our pointed wrath! Let them find no spot to dodge or step without being pierced!"

Moving behind a cluster of thick shrubs, Brinnen drops to the ground and clamps her eyes shut for a second. Her heart is racing like a wardrum and she is momentarily paralyzed in her spot, albeit a safe spot for now. Looking forward she sees the readied forms of her brethren, then the staggering form of Arwen. She gasps loudly and covers her mouth, too afraid to shout, too afraid to move. Behind her, a bit off to the right, the orcs advance. She is soon to be trapped if she cannot make it to the camp, avoiding the arrow-fire in the process.

Out of the darkness to the south skulks a pale, red-eyed figure, moving with unnatural stealth, creeping softly forward. Its wicked eyes glow with vicious, lustful glee -- the approaching Warg, pale as the moon at midnight, smells blood. It hungers ...

"NO!" Nimmeril screams as, all too belatedly, she moved to cover Arwen from harm. Arrows come close to her as well, but they are harmless near-misses. This one bolt, however... "Arwen...!" The name is moaned, the distress palpable as the Even-Star's companion sees blood - blood! - on the clothing of her friend. Inhaling sharply, Nimmeril moves to cover Arwen from future harm and steer her to a place where the wound may be tended. No more orcish arrows, no orcish blades will touch Elrond's daughter. To the Elentiri she calls, "Protect your Lady! Take the battle to them!"

And so do the guards, already preparing for conflict, loosen swords and bows, returning a volley of arrows toward the source of the surprise attack and readying a wall of sword and shield to defend from the blade-wielding enemy.

In full flight, the Tellenistron briefly glances skyward as the shafts fly over head. Out in the open, a rustle of movement in the open field, it is bound to happen. As his legs pump quickly, carrying him towards the gathering line of archers, he sees Brinnen. Certainly, the Nethril is out of place, and Ladingolf's eyes tell the story of how he feels about it. His concentration slowed just enough, he cringes as the arrow fired at him grazes his thigh, furrowing a large gash as it passes. At his speed, without his Elven balance, he surely would stumble and fall. He remains on his feet, barely, and stops where he is. He spins around, his teeth gritted and his eyes glowing with an inner fire. He draws an arrow from the quiver, taking aim at the marauders. The arrow flies loose from his Ndaedeldhrim Longbow.

The mouth of the charging orc is pulled up into a vicious snarl revealing pointy and jagged yellow teeth. Korgull clasps the hilt of his crude blade tightly as if in anticipation of the elven blood he hopes to spill with the weapon. The muscular orc begins to fall behind the other charging uruk's so he moves his burly legs along as hard as he can, putting all his effort into his speed. As he draws closer and closer to the elf camp his battle-lust grows with every step and it now burns in his eyes. "To the flame!" his throaty voice calls more as a threat to the elves, and and he waves his scimitar over his head bravely. Some of his courage is stolen as several orcs drop beside him with arrows sticking out of their skulls.

Once again, the arrow from Ladingolf flies through the air towards the group of Morian archers, joined by dozens of other arrows from the direction of the camp. Two archers, one to either side and behind of the uruk-hai leader, fall to the ground, their eyes rolling back in their heads as they clutch arrows protruding from their chests. The uruk-hai looks at them and shrugs, quickly dodging another incoming arrow. He kneels back down and pulls forth another arrow, strining it to his bow. He hesitates a moment, and a wicked smile crosses his face, "Someone hit the female. Haha." He then squints his eyes at the archer who has stopped defiantly and continues to rain arrows towards them. He draws back his shot and lets it fly, screaming the word, "FIIIIIIIIRE!!!" as he does so.

Amarelei rises up to her knees, the shining tip of her arrow peeking just above the cover of bushes. Down its shaft she stares with narrowed eyes, following the arc Linnuial's arrow traces through the night. Deliberately she pulls back her bowstring, letting it slip only as the Thandir's arrow finds its resting place. In a movement of arm most fluid and swift, the Lhimbadhril whips out another arrow....though it does not reach her bow before Nimmeril's cry draws Amarelei's eyes back over her shoulder to the wounded Heryn. The sight of Arwen's wound gives the elleth more of a start than the horror of the advancing enemy, and her arrow slips from her fingers to clatter to the ground.

The swordsmen of the Elentiri, Arwen's personal guard, storm forward in search of the daring archer whose arrow hit their Lady. However, the band of orcs is not too big, and so one of them turns to the challenge of Korgull, angrily raising his blade and swinging it towards the Uruk.

-Thunk- Before Kharlugh could even swing aat his enemies an arrow takes him in the throat with amazing force. The uruk falls mid stride, losing all his strength in a single moment of agony. His adrenaline fueled heart pumps blood at incredible speeds, forcing it out of the deep wound in a misty spray, and then a thick rivulet as that last bit of strength leaves the orc. The gruesome creature twitches for a few moments then is still.

Pale_Warg sprints forward, now, incited by hunger and bloodlust. Held low, half-crounching, the pale Warg seeks to close the distance between himself and the elves. Swiftly he advances.

Brinnen cannot move. She can hear the orcs so clearly now and presses further into the cover of the brush. She is low and quiet, and their focus seems thankfully upon those closer to the camp, those with weapons. Her best line of defense seems to be staying put, and surely an unarmed Nethril is useless during such a combat. Her gaze remains on the archers and swordsmen before her, protecting Arwen.

Linnuial's eyes search the line of charging yrch, and a laugh, followed by a bellow to fire, catches his ear. Spying the gaping mouth of Ghashgoth as he screams his orders, Linnuial nocks a red-hued arrow. He measures his shot carefully, sighting a line along the shaft of the arrow to Ghashgoth's chest. A short shout he gives to his fellow archers, "Let us strike down their leader! Fire with my red arrow!" Linnuial tilts his bow back to give the shot distance, and then Brantoril jerks with the release of the shot, and the arrow soars into the air, glowing crimson in the starlight briefly, before descending down toward Ghashgoth.

By the time the blood-thirsty Korgull reaches the elves he isn't sure if anyone else made it with him, not that he cares. He looks about then flashes an evil grin at the advancing elf. The grin dissapears as he quickly leaps back away from the sword, letting it clang with his outstretched scimitar. He keeps his blade locked with the elves for a moment, snarling defiantly at him. Then he steps back and swipes his blade in swiftly and with a great ammount of power, but aiming for nothing in particular but elf flesh.

Inexplicably, the exposed Ladingolf is ignored in the chaos of battle. He drops to a knee, pulling out three arrows and sticking them in the ground. His hands move as if they were not his own, but ethereal extensions of his body. He flicks the clasp on his cloak, the rough fabric sliding down his back behind him. Picking out individuals in the enemy crowd, three arrows fly from the Imladhrim's bow in dizzying succession. Suddenly, he remembers himself, and Brinnen in the distance. He springs to his feet and makes a line towards where he last saw her.

The Elintiri archers nearest Linnuial eye the ambitious squire skeptically for a moment, but as he shouts about striking the yrch leader, the desire for vengeance drives them to follow his lead. Raising their bows, the let loose a barrage of arrows just after Linnuial's marked shot. The hail rains down toward Ghashgoth.

Blood darkens Arwen's travel cloak around the left shoulder as she is more or less dragged into the camp and behind the sheltering wall of elven bodies by her companion. "Nimmeril..." she murmurs, strangely pale, before suddenly, her eyes close and, her hand still clenched into the forester maiden's garment, she slowly slides to the ground.

Thusfar unabated and unchallenged, the Pale Warg dashes forward, drawn inexorably by the lure of blood -- potent elf-blood. He seems to be headed straight for Arwen and her companions! Slaver drips from his red maw; his pale, wind-whipped form comes ever closer.

Yet more arrows fly towards the hillside, still striking the Morian archers. Their numbers dwindling, the uruk-hai turns to regard the situation. Seeing two more archers go down, narrowing their numbers to two, including himself, the uruk-hai sighs. Just at that moment, however, an arrow strikes his side. The arrow would have struck his chest had he not been half turned around to look at his company of archers. The wound digs through his chainmail and pierces his skin, causing black blood to ooze out. He curses, clenching his fist as he rapidly turns towards the camp once more. A snarl upon his lips, he pulls forth another arrow and shoots it down towards the camp, aiming for the one that appears to lead the enemy archers. Again, the command to fire is yelled out, his deep, grating voice piercing the night with its intensity. "FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The Elentiri swordsman involved with Kargoll is hit hard by the uruk's strike, and there is a cry of rage from him as he lifts his sword once more, blood dripping from his left arm. "For Imladris and the Evenstar!" he shouts as he charges forward blindly, harder than before, his sword coming down in a fast arc.

Pale, whiter even than the creamy complexion normally hers, Nimmeril bears Arwen downward with gentleness, holding her close. "Shhh, worry not, mellon," she whispers soothingly, with an undercurrent of determination, "I am here; nothing more shall pain you, I promise it."

As Nimmeril begins to examine, with excrutiating care, the bolt in Arwen's shoulder, the Elintiri gather all the tighter around the two ellith for protection and defense. The pale warg, therefore, shall not go unattended, and one warrior quits the ranks of his brethren to meet the creature before he can draw too close to the Heryn. Arrows, however, rain from above, and the circle grows smaller by three, felled by foul orcish bolts.

At the sight of Arwen falling, Brinnen relinquishes her cover and starts toward her at a frantic run. The arrows coming from the orcs are luckily less in number now that the Imladhrim have slain so many. A few skitter upon the ground near the Nethril, though none hit her. She brushes past readied guards to reach the Heryn, circling around the tight knit of protection. "Please, let me in, what can I do? How badly is she injured?"

Linnuial smiles as his own red arrow strikes not the ground, but instead hovers in the dark, dancing back and forth as it remains stuck in Ghashgoth's side. "There!" he shouts, pointing. "Concentrate fire on the beast that has been marked with red! Slay him and they will falter!" Yet, even as Ghashgoth's shouting gave him away in the night, so Linnuial has called attention to himself. An arrow cuts through the air and straight through Linnuial's outstretched hand. A cry of pain breaks out from his lips and he drops his bow, one hand clasping the wounded other. His attention drawn from the sky, another arrow from Ghashgoth's own bow shears through the fabric of his tunic and slices the skin of his shoulder.

A laugh of glee escapes the orc as his blade draws blood. His eyes narrow and he moves to strike again. But this motion is halted abruptly by the blindly charging elf. he quickly brings his scimitar up to intercept the sword, but the burly arms of Korgull are not quick enough for the elf. The tip of the blade digs into his chest drawing forth blood and throaty cry of pain. His scimitar does intercept the blade though, stopping it from digging deeper into his chest and probably killing him. His muscular arms strain with all their might and he forces the elf's blade out of his chest, and draws back holding his sword out defensively. Grasping his wound he grunts and ducks his head to charge in again, "Meet your death, elf." he says through a grunted pair of yellow teeth. His scimitar pointed towards the elf's chest he charges in.

As elven steel sweeps toward the Wargish monster, the pale Fell-Wolf twists nimbly, shining blade slashing past him; turning, he snaps his fangs viciously at the elven warrior who dares hinder him -- a mere feint, cover for the Warg to gather his fell form beneath him and spring.

Even while running, he is intent upon his concentration on Brinnen. He does not seem pleased by her decision to expose herself, raising a hand and nearly shouting before he sees the reason why. Arwen lies, fallen. Satisfied that Brinnen will be safe tending to her, he stops once again to face the foul enemy. The eledh's hair blows wildly in the wind, the arrows spewing from his bow as he screams a battle cry.

Even as Linnuial is wounded, the Elintiri archers continue to fire at the marked Ghashgoth relentlessly. Occasionally one falls to an yrch arrow, but the line is sparse and more often arrows fly between the archers. Yet as the charge grows closer, some put away their bows and draw forth swords, rushing forward to protect the line.

Arrows continue to fall mercilessly upon the remaining uruk archers, their offensive broken right in the back. The elves are winning, and the orcs know it, but they do not give up. As the last archer falls with a strangled cry, an arrow protruding from its throat, Ghashgoth lets out a pained cry. An arrow strikes him in the leg, sticking there, but he doesn't seem to notice. He is in a rage now, and he knows his position has been compromisd. With a cry, he grabs his bow and hugs it to his chest, diving to the right. He lets himself roll down the hill slightly, then stops himself and kneels back up on one knee. Seeing the elf Ladingolf taking aim, he pulls forth another arrow rapidly and pulls back the string. He takes little time to aim, but his skill is great, and the arrow flies straight, heading towards Ladingolf with death on its wings.

The Elentiri are well-trained elite guards, and even so, the sword is knocked out of the elf's hand by Korgull's movement. He jumps back, narrowly escaping the orc's scimitar while trying to draw his second weapon, a rather small dagger, from his belt should he need it to defend himself -- or kill his opponent.

The clash of steel, whizz of arrows, and cries of elf and orc alike meld into a whirlwind. Ladingolf, exposed and alone from the start, has nearly made it back to the camp and relative safety of the battle line. Luck shined on him when he stopped the first time, and it appears as if it will hold yet again. Loosing his final arrow, the eledh is about to rise to withdraw when Ghashgoth's arrow flies across the plain and strikes him. The kinetic energy of the arrow is dissapted by his leather armor, striking in front near the joint of his shoulder at the breast. It is not enough, and the shaft pentrates three inches. His eyes widen in shock, and a lame gasp escapes from lips before he slumps forward onto his side, unconscious.

"HAH!" smirks Korgull as he knocks the elf's blade form his hand. he circles a little to the left, trying to get an advantage for his next attack. His yellow eyes staring right into the elf's he brings his sword out wide and ignorantly in his now quickly building confidence, and brings it in towards the elf's kneck. It slices through the air lwith a whistle as it reflects the moonlight, with the intent of severing the elf's head.

The uruk-hai waits only long enough to see his arrow strike, and a cruel smile pulls the corner of his mouth up as he sees his arrow hit. He gathers his bow back up and stands, hoping to make a mad dash down the hill and avoid the arrows. He begins to run, a war cry bellowing deep from his throat as he runs, just as he is about to dive to the ground, the cry still screaming from his mouth, Ladingolf's arrow flies towards him. He snaps his mouth shut, but not in time... The arrow flies into his gaping maw, lodging itself in the back of his throat. His hands fly upwards to his mouth, clutching at the shaft of the arrow, his bow falling to the ground as he does so. His eyes roll up into his head, and black blood begins to dribble from his mouth. He slumps down to his knees, his hands still pawing at the arrow. But his efforts are in vain. Blood begins to squirt out of the back of his neck, the arrow point protruding from there. He gives one last strangled cry, and then he falls to the ground face first, the motion pushing the shaft of the arrow further into the uruk-hai's neck. Ghashgoth, leader of the Morian scouting party, lies dead, felled by Ladingolf's final arrow.

Unfortunately, though Linnuial's wound is nowhere near mortal, a hand with a hole in it is quite a handicap for an archer. Growling through the pain, he retrieves his bow once more and steps back a few paces from the line. His eyes search for the uruk-hai that had dominated his attention, but he can find him no longer. Realizing he can do little good shooting now, he turns to survey the camp. Arwen is shetlered, as are Nimmeril and Amarelei. Spying Ladingolf fall, moves to the side of the battle line, trying to find a path to the fallen Tellinistron so he can bring him back to the safety of the camp.

At the same moment as the uruk swings his sword, the Guard opposing him dives forward under the outstreched arm, the dagger clasped firmly in his right hand now aiming towards Korgull's now freed side, in a desperate direct thrust...

As Arwen swoons, Nimmeril hastily ensures that the Hiril is still alive, for the moment: one hand presses gently at the wound and the gore that seeps from it whilst the fingers of its mate light upon the smooth column of Arwen's throat. Relief flickers across the countenance of the handmaid when a beat is apparently located; that relief is enhanced exponentially at Brinnen's arrival nearby. "I cannot tell," comes her answer to the Nethril as the guards leave a gap for Brinnen to approach, her "but she bleeds much.... Help me, please."

But the danger is not yet passed, not when a few of the enemy remain, not when the warg is so near. A second of the Elentiri, espying the danger, leaves the circle of guards to help when the first to approach the bloodlusty creature is neatly averted. No, the danger is not yet passed.

As his scimitar slices the air harmlessly over the quick elf, Korgull scowls in frustration. Though the scowl changes in a sudden moment to a horried grimace of pain as the dagger digs into his side. He cries out in pain and in rage and his face twists into hatred. He leaps back to escape the blade and put distance between him and the elf. Two wounds now drip blood blood on this uruk, but utter determination now shines in his blood-shot eyes. "For the...flame..." he manages to get out. Then with his left hand clutching his wounds in pain he raises his scimitar over his head and flings himself forward at the elf with a shriek of battle that pierces the night. The scimitar never comes close to its target though, in mid charge his arm falls to his side in pain and his face twists again into a horrible grimace, the dagger wound runs deep. He stands now within inches of the elf, with no protection between him and the elf's small yet sharp dagger...

Moving a fraction too slowly to avoid injury, the pale Warg's fur blushes crimson along a long, narrow gash upon his flank. With a bellow of pain, the creature springs sinuously forward, snapping its fangs at the nearer guard's lower leg.

Seeing an opening, Linnuial quickly sprints out into the field, quickly covering the short distance between the line and where Ladingolf fell. Kneeling, he sweeps Ladingolf over his shoulder, trying to be as careful as possible given the danger of his position. To the unconscious edhel he murmurs softly, "An enviable shot. You deserve much praise when you awaken."

His breath coming sharply, the elf opposing Korgull looks back over his shoulder briefly, towards where his companions are standing guard over their fallen lady. "This," he pants in a whisper, "for the honour of the Elentiri!" and with that, he raises the knife again and brings it down towards the uruk's chest.

Without wasting a moment, Brinnen ducks into the tent to fetch her bag of herbal remedies. She quickly emerges with a large canvas sack that appears rather heavy and tinks from glass lightly touching glass. As she is lowering herself before Arwen, the Hiril's guards parting to include the Nethril, she sees Ladingolf upon the ground, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Her face goes ghostly pale and she lets out this whimpering gasp that speaks of utter pain. Her lady fallen, and now her love. Yet she does not waver in indecision long enough to allow Arwen to cross further into agony or death. The sack is pulled open and two vials are procured. One holding water, the other green leaves coated in a thick resin. The leaves are placed in the water vial, and it is then corked. With a rapid shake of the glass article, Brinnen speaks softly to Nimmeril. "The resin of these leaves shall slow the bleeding and ease the pain. Remove your hand for just a moment so that I might apply it. I shall work swiftly, you have my word." The sight of Arwen's blood gives the Nethril a start, but she is silent and still as she reaches forward to pour the elixir upon her throat.

Linnuial jogs back to the line quickly, stepping this way and that as he makes his way back to the safety of the line. "This one breathes still, though I do not know the extent of his injury." Setting Ladingolf down on the ground, Linnuial gives a stressed glance back to the line before eyeing the arrow in Ladingolf. Only now does he seem that his own hand still bears a bloody hole in the center, and he quickly grabs a bandage to wrap his own wound and stop the bleeding. Concern is shown for the edhel at his feet, yet the sight of Arwen wounded draws his attention now. "How does she fare?" he chokes out to Nimmeril.

His breath comes shallow, and the blood spreads steadily across his clothing. Ladingolf lies on the ground, finally borne from the field of battle. He stirs, breathing a low moan. The eledh's breathing quickens as he becomes more aware. He does not need to lift his head to see the arrow reaching towards the sky from his left breast. Still, he turns his head to look at it. He quickly regrets the action, "Ahhh!" His face is stained with sweat and mud, and a tears stream down his cheeks. "Mellon," he says, reaching a limp hand towards Linnuial. "The Nethril that was with you..."

Korgull struggles with all his might to raise his scimitar in defense. His left hands clasp his wounds and he moans in pain. He knows the end had come, the struggles is vain, no feeling remains in his blade arm. In his last seconds of life he glares the elf-guard right in the eyes in utter defiance, and the corners of his mouth twist slowly into a grin....the dagger sinks in deep and rips his chest in two. Blood gushes forth form the new wound and Korgull opens his mouth to cry out in pain...but no cry comes. The scimitar drops fomr the lifeless body and thumps in the dirt. The blood drenched Uruk falls face down and lies motionless, blood oozes out to the sides of his body creating a pool of blood beneath him.

As the herbal water is poured over the arrow wound, the bleeding seems to slow down considerably. Arwen stirs slightly, but without opening her eyes, not yet... perhaps that will be for the best, for now, as the arrow is still firmly embedded in her shoulder.

Linnuial kneels quickly beside Ladingolf now as he stirs. "Be at peace, mellon. You are safe, as is she. She is busy helping tend the Heryn. You seem not to be mortally wounded. I know the pain is great--I will find aid for you as soon as possible." He looks up once more, searching for any available healers. "If the Heryn is stable, this one needs tending, quickly!"

With a disgusted expression, the elven guard draws his dagger back, takes his sword back up, and slowly retreats into the circle of his comrades, standing with his back to the center to ward off all that may come from outside.

Sitting back to let Brinnen work, Nimmeril nevertheless hovers by Arwen, her body a shield from arrows that have stopped falling; fear and anxiety etch lines in her countenance, marking the eternal youth and beauty. She is forced to wait, near-breathless, for the healer to do her work, and as she sits idle and tense she holds Arwen's hand in her own. Linnuial's words lure her eyes back toward the edhel, and to him she merely shrugs helplessly. "I know not," she murmurs feebly, though the medicine that bestirs the Heryn inspires a flicker of hope.

A scream of pain is, however, heard from without the circle of guards, on its bare fringes, as the first elf to approach the pale warg finds his leg the victim of a salivating maw. His anguish is plain and his fellow guard is quick to respond. "Foul, fell beast!" snarls the swordsman as his slender, elegant elvish blade seeks the chest of the warg.

"It is Daemonorops Draco. Very potent. I am going to use some Ivy and Mullein next. The Ivy will urge the closure of the wound. The Mullein will eliminate her pain. But... I have to remove the arrow." Brinnen says this with a somber and low tone meant for Nimmeril alone. She readies two small pots from her sack, opening them and setting them at her knees. The dark-haired elleth bites on her bottom lip and slowly reaches for the shaft of the offending weapon. Her hand trembles and she pulls it back, flexing her fingers. To think that she could be the life or death of their fair Lady. With a deep breath, she grips the arrow and presses her free hand to Arwen's collar bone for leverage. "Forgive me, Hiril," she whispers. With a swift pull and a horrifying gush of blood, the arrow is pulled free. Brinnen's hand clamps tightly to the welling wound, while the other lifts up the first clay pot. Turning it upside down over her hand, a thick ointment slowly drips downward, landing upon the open gash just after Brinnen removes her hand. Then the Nethril's hand is replaced, to provide pressure over the bleeding hole. "Please, find for me muslin from the bag. I must hold here for some time before I can give her the salve for the pain."

The Tellenistron lies on the cold ground, writhing occasionally as he is gripped by the pain. Steadily, his breathing increases, the sweat rolling across his brow. Grunting, he looks again at the arrow. He reaches out to clasp at Linnuial's leg, his breath coming in quick gasps. "Tell my lady..." Ladingolf's eyes roll back in his head and his body relaxes. He still breathes.

Linnuial shushes Ladingolf, placing a hand on his forehead. "Be still... it will ease the pain and slow the bleeding." Looking over toward the Heryn again, he frowns, but just as quickly his gaze is set to roaming about the camp once more, searching. Blood still leaks from his haphazadly bandaged hand, but it is a small wound compared to others he has received.

There is a faint shudder running over Arwen's body, but she lies otherwise completely still as Brinnen removes the arrow from her shoulder, her breath still weak -- but present. There is life in her, not drawn out by or with the arrow.

Blood sprays from the pale Warg's throat as the elven sword impales it, sliding cleanly through the Warg's chest and heart. It makes a horrible sound, half-collapsing, jaws snapping convulsively closed. Then it crumples over.

Nimmeril shudders as the arrow is plucked from Arwen's prone figure, tears forming before being blinked away quickly enough. Her preference would have likely been to prepare Arwen - and herself - for so violent an action as that arrow's removal, but time disallowed it. As she is instructed to find bandages, so does she, giving her something to do, some way to help her fallen friend. No panic moves with her, however; she goes to the healer's bag and retrieves from it the requisite materials before offering them to Brinnen, hands close to where the bandages may be used. Worry still lines her countenance, but she seems less tensed. Arwen is, at least, still alive and seems to be helped by the medicines.

And with the orcs defeated and the pale Warg's heart perforated, the danger does seem to be easing, even if the Elintiri's attentive, protective stand does not.

Time passes slowly for Brinnen. Her hand still holds fast to Arwen's wound, forcing the Ivy to do its work, to constrict the flesh and close over the gaping hole. Soft murmurs leave the lips of the Nethril as she focuses. Yet her blue-eyed gaze strays over to Ladingolf and her mouth falls slack. Alive. Somehow. She would seek to heal him herself, though she does not move to leave the Hiril's side. After many minutes have passed, she lifts her hand and pours the second pot over the mark of the arrow. It is a sappy mixture of crushed leaves and clear fluid. She coats the bruised and battered skin with the salve and takes the bandages from Nimmeril. "Thank you. She will lose sensation in her neck and shoulder for a few hours, but that will ease the pain a good deal. She is to remain flat and give her much water. I will clean and redress this wound again before sunrise. If she develops a fever, you must find me. But she will be warm, to fight off any infection. Yrch arrows are poison by virtue of their very origin." Through her own worry and distraction, Brinnen reaches over to stroke Nimmeril's hand and offers her a smile. "She will do well to have you at her side."

The wound festers, the cold, rank orc iron slicing muscle as Ladingolf writhes. The black feathers flick in the wind. The eledh is drifting off towards delerium, half-muttering, half-moaning with his eyes closed, his feet occasionally twitching.

"I will stay with her," Nimmeril promises, an oath made from the very soul of the elleth, "and care for her as you have instructed." Her fingers touch the bandages in a ginger manner, and as she does so she adds softly, "But you are needed elsewhere, mellon; I see wounds not yet tended. I will care for the Hiril and call if her condition worsens. You have my promise."

The satchel of medicine is quickly lifted as Brinnen leaves Arwen to the careful watch of Nimmeril, and moves over to Ladingolf. She drops down onto her knees at his side and rests her hand to his brow. "Ladingolf. I am here, melon. Listen to my voice. I have to remove the arrow before I can tend to you. You are feverish and weak. It shall hurt, but I will heal you. Just stay with me." She begins to assemble items from the sack, vials, small pots and more muslin. White liquid from one vial is mixed with wet leaves from another. She says a quiet chant over the vial, circling her hand lightly over it, then pours it over the entrance wound of the arrow. "Think about the first day we met, Ladingolf. Remember? The oak tree?" The liquid bubbles and fizzes upon the wound, yet before any thought can be given to the effects, Brinnen braces a hand to his chest, and swiftly yanks the arrow from his shoulder. It was deep. So very deep. Muscle and flesh rend under the barbs of the arrowhead. She grits her teeth and winces, yet makes no sound to alarm him. But she holds him down, should he jerk from the terrible pain.

Linnuial assists Brinnen in holding Ladingolf to the ground, and he smiles softly at her affection for him. "I will leave him to you keeping, Nethril. I know no other could give him such care as you." With that, Linnuial stands and begins searching for other healers to tend to his small wounds.

Brinnen lifts her head and smiles to Linnuial. "If you should like, your wounds can be easily cared for by me. I just need some time with him. You seem hearty enough. Stop moving, sit down. You do not practice what you preach, edelh."

The tears flow freely when Brinnen is near. She is barely in time. Ladingolf's chest has been rising and falling slower and slower as the minutes pass. When she kneels beside him, it is a short rasp. Too short. But his delerium passes as she speaks, the warm glow of her presence washing over him. The breathing picks up, just noticeably. He moans as the salve works on the wound, clenching his lips together. When she pulls the arrow, he bucks up underneath her hand and screams, grabbing onto her wrist with his right hand. "I remember, my meltha..." he breathes. "It is with me all my days. I thought I was...gone. I saw you and all came to darkness."

Linnuial pauses before departing and offers a small smile to Brinnen. "Very well. I will do as you say." He takes a seat then, cradling his hand gently as he waits for treatment.

One of the Elentiri approaches Nimmeril, slowly, respectfully. The entirety of them seems rather... sober. Ashamed. More than one face is painted not only by worry but by underlying fear. "Lady..." their chosen leader addresses Arwen's handmaiden "Do you think we should send word to the Herdir? What shall we do?"
Brinnen shushes the Tellenistron softly and smiles down at him. "I need this hand to make you whole again, Ladingolf. Lie back and relax. Think of the strawberry patch. We shall be within the borders of the Valley soon. Think of the sun warming your face." As with Arwen, she holds her hand firmly to the eledh and readies the Ivy. It is poured gently upon the wound, then her hand is replaced to urge it into his body. She looks over at Linnuial and smiles. "I would not want you to grow light-headed and faint. That is a nasty gash. Here, unbandage it and pour the contents of that third pot upon your palm. The gray one. It will cleanse the wound." She returns her attention to Ladingolf and smiles. "You are very brave."

Linnuial reaches for the indicated pot, nodding to Brinnen. Unwrapping his hand, it is clear that the wound is more than a gash. Indeed the arrow pierced right through his palm, the blade and feathers having torn the surrounding flesh. Linnuial holds the pot reluctantly over the wound, cringing in anticipation of the sting of the medicine. Yet, there is but a mere tingling as the fluid flows around his palm, some of it even falling through to the other side. With a sigh of relief, he spreads some also over the light gash on his shoulder. "Thank you," he says, adding, "And yes, that one is quite brave, though it was a bit foolhardy to remain apart from the line so long."

The burning pain from the wound is too much to bear, and Ladingolf clutches Brinnen tightly with his good arm. "A pleasant thought," he breathes, a smile working its way onto his dirty face. He is with his love, and through all the pain and the foul deeds of the past few hours, he is becoming something like himself. "Oh, but I am muddy. Do not look at me." Grinning and craning his head to the nasty wound, he groans. "Ahhh! But tend to that, if you will."

Arwen is their leader; she is fallen, and at her side is her companion, her handmaiden, someone who seems to have aged - or matured - in just one evening. Nimmeril stands and, to the ranking Elentiri, instructs in a quiet manner, "Bear her to the tent that she may rest. And send scouts to ensure that the battle is indeed won for now, that no others will join these fallen mosters. When it is safe to do so, we shall move on, for lingering here is all the more dangerous. As to the rest..." Nimmeril lets her silvery gaze fall on Arwen's prone form as it is gently lofted to be carried inside, "Let us see how she passes the rest of the night. If a fever takes hold, then we shall send for help. Else no...we are best, I think, to keep moving."

After giving the Ivy a good few minutes to work upon Ladingolf's flesh Brinnen lifts up the final salve and pours it upon the wound. "I need you to be quiet, Ladingolf. You will exert too much energy." She looks to Linnuial and eyes his hand. "Is it still bleeding out a good deal? I have some hemlock in my bag." She rummages with one hand, a bloody hand at that, and pulls out a fat vial of clear liquid. "A drop!" she says firmly. "A drop, no more, and that will cause the bleeding to cease. Just a drop," she repeats. "In fact, I shall do it myself. Come closer." Her hand is slathering the salve into Ladingolf's shoulder as she uncorks the hemlock with her thumb and waits for Linnuial to approach.

Linnuial offers his hand, again wincing slightly and turning his head away, just in case it will hurt.

Exhausted from the fight, the wound, his feelings for Brinnen, and the jumble of them all, Ladingolf kisses the Nethril's hand before relaxing in his position on the ground. He remains conscious, breathing heavily.

The swordsman nods, still looking uncomfortable (who would not in this situation?) and with a mumbled "As you say, lady." reluctantly retreats to his comrades.

Galrohad move toward camp silently, remarkably silently for a Human, escourted by a sentry from the outer watches. He carries his belongings over his shoulder in a pouch which bears the Healing symbol of Aragorns people. He moves with sure steps toward the camp and is ushered to a healers side and deposited and the sentry moves off quickly to retake the watch.

Linnuial grits his teeth tightly together and shuts his eyes, as obviously this medicine is not as pleasant as the first. He trembles as it works, constricting the blood vessels to stop the bleeding. Finally, he can stifle the pain no longer, and he says quite loudly and simply, "OW!"

Brinnen starts and looks over at Linnuial. "He does not say 'ow' to an arrow, yet the hemlock hurts him." She smiles slyly and begins to clean and bandage Ladingolf's shoulder. "You were brave as well. Not so brave with my healing though," she teases gently.

Linnuial eyes Brinnen as if she had just kicked him in the eye, and he mutters, "Thank you... I should go see what others need help." Then he stands, moving to tour the remainder of the archery line.

Eyes following the guard's departure, Nimmeril lets go a sigh before trailing after Arwen, keeping close to her as promised. The night will not find this handmaiden far from the Heryn.

Ladingolf smiles, his eyes still closed. "I would prefer that your tender touch did not come at such a high price." He still holds her wrist, though lighter now. "I am glad you are not hurt, Brinnen. Your care will heal me."

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