Elendor Info

  • Increase font size
  • Default font size
  • Decrease font size

Bor's Folly: A Full Course

Tags: Cwen,  Findon,  Menelglir,  Lominzil,  Calenloth,  Sirion,  Arathis,  Go'Diaf,  Yak

Short Summary: In which Go'Diaf dies (though not in a fire), Hor and Durvz are dispatched early on, and Rikk and Rolt meet skillet and skewer, respectively.
Date (real-life): 2011-06-16
Scene Location: Near Gap of Rohan
The hour is still late, and the sky remains clear. The mother-moon hangs overhead looming in it's own silver glow with is cast down upon the world below it.

There is a small fire that burns in the middle of the camp. Though tehre is little movement as many seem to be resting. One however, is not. Cwen is awake and she is making her way back into the camp as she makes her way from where the horses are kept.

There, too, is Findon.

He sits by the fire, back turned to the flame, naked blade upon his lap and whetstone in his hand. A soft rasping follows his movements; which are singular, the stone drawn along one edge. Though he faces her, Cwen's approach does not cause him to stir; his glance remains upon the work even as she draws near.

But he says, "Eve."

Somewhat distracted, it takes a moment for Cwen to hear him. Blinking a few times her thoughts are gathered and her eyes move to the maker of the voice.

"Good eve." she replies slowly to Findon.

Her steps are becoming more light and fluid now as she heals. There is a touch of tiredness still, but rest is being achieved more. Chosing a spot at the fire she goes to sit upon a stool, looking into the flames.

"Horses again?" Inquires he upon a lithe voice, in between soothing, quiet rasps.

"...yes." replies Cwen with a sigh - however, the way she speaks it may betray that there is other things on her mind. Still, her gaze is focused on the fire.

"He is restless, on edge. I've not seem him like this in a long time, and it is concerning me." and she then frowns while moving a hand to rub the back of her neck.

"It is to expected," Answers Findon; amusement provoking his lip for a short while: "These are unsettled lands, after all."

A pause; the stone and blade rasp.

"'Tis a good thing, is it not?"

Eyes drift over to where her steed is, now silent and content, for the time being at least.

"You are right." says the woman moving her blue eyes to Findon with a slight smile. "It is good that he is so aware of the area. He is a good and trusty steed."

Idly, she fiddles with a bracelet on her wrist - which is braided and looks to be made of hair. A sign of the bonding between horse and rider.

"Oh," suddenly a thought hits her. "I had spoken to Sir Menelglir earlier this eve of the wolf attack."

A breath drawn through the nose.


The sharpening of the weapon seems a task that is not soon completed. Once, twice, thrice; rasp, rasp, rasp. Then: "And what did you learn?"

Cwen watches the knight as he works his sword.

"He spoke similar as you, over the event. Though parts seemed..different." her words are slow, thoughtful. "It sounded as though it was not only his effort that kept me safe. That he not only helped myself, but you also, as you were hurt so. And, when we were talking while I was tending to my horse, you made it sound as if.." her words end there, trying to figure out how to put it right. "As if he came charging in for -my- rescue only."

"That is how it seemed," the knight answers curtly, without looking up.

Rasp rasp, et cetera.

Still, her blue eyes are focused on the Knight Findon.

"I do not think that is true." says Cwen after a moment. Her words are gentle, and soft. Yet the curtness of his tone had not gone amiss. "From what I understand, you -both- were there. Though, as I figure it, and, please, correct me if I am wrong. You were protecting me, and he seeing that help was needed, came to help. He also said you were badly hurt." and with that, she frowns.

"He is mistaken," Says Findon. "I am quite well, whereas he is not."

He pauses then, flipping the blade over to begin anew. But does not: not yet. He turns face, to offer Cwen a glance over his shoulder. "What is it that you think, lady?"

There is a moment of silence. In that, her horse can be heard. Loud and clear, once more, the animal is unhappy.

She moves to stand, eyes moving from the Knight a moment and to her steed. With her horse uneasy, that makes her uneasy and on edge.

"What do I think?" the question is repeated, her eyes widen a moment. Feet shuffle and there is a shrug. "Ah, I wonder.." she chews upon her lower lip. "Or, rather, I think -" another pause, and she is stumbling over her words.

Her steed once more makes noise, and slowly she begins to head in that direction asking Findon while doing so: "Does..does it matter what I think?"

From the north a sharp crack rips the falling night, but across these hills that roll away from the mountains, even sharp eyes struggle to discern what may lie near. In this bright moonlight, the first traces of spring - certainly nothing unspeakable? Again the crack sounds. And once more, sharper. Now a curdling howl. And the breeze.. a sudden pungeance.

The knight's glance is drawn t'ward the picketlines.

"Well," Findon replies, creases setting on his bow. "What do you yourself think?"

A sigh; whetstone put aside in favor of oiled cloth, he rises and moves to follow; sword in hand.

"Of course it matters."

"Wolves?" Sword in hand, helm being tucked onto his head as he speaks, Menelglir steps out of a tent, never too deeply asleep at any point. "Who is standng watch?" he asks on seeing Findon.

Whatever is putting her horse on edge, is putting Cwen on edge. And, whatever stiffness and pain that is still bound to the woman is pushed away as her steps move a touch faster - concern growing in her eyes as her horse rears and kicks, telling and sensing that something is afoot.

"You trully want to know what I think?" she asks turning her head to look to Findon, a brow risen. "Really?" there is a touch of suprise to her tone, and she smiles slightly through her concern.

The sounds in the distance where not heard for the woman had been to distracted to notice them at this time.

Climbing heavy foot and jossle of metal up one hill, down the next and now nearly atop another, Go'Diaf snatches the marked hide of a map from his seargeant. Snearing then, drool of hot anger passing broken lips, he slaps Durvz squarely across the cheek, "And that's why Go'Di spares no whip, FOOL! Holdin it wrong side up! Ya brought us SOUTH!" But as he throws it to the ground, a glimmer of fire. Two. Three of them. A campsite.

The leader viciously waves his small band down upon the dirt, motions for silence and, now prone himself, lifts his nostrils into the air - deep drafts of air whistling into the filth of his innards.

"Not sure," Says Findon, glance drawn by Menelglir for the nonce.

"Yea, I do," He tells Cwen then, evenly; regard turned northward. "Come, stay close both of you."

He goes thence.

The Rohirric woman turns her head towards Menelglir. He had made mention of wolves, and this causes a slight twinge of fear in her blue eyes. That is pushed aside, and she turns to follow, keeping close as ordered.

"Perhaps such thoughts are best discussed another time? Something seems to be afoot." suggests Cwen while brushing some golden hair from her face - and as speaks to Findon, there is a hint of unease to her tone now.

"Voices, is that?" Menelglir asks, halting for a moment to try to listen more closely. "Or is it but the wind?"

"When last here," he gives Findon a meaningful look, "there were tribesmen. Or are we not that far?"

"Indeed," Findon tells Cwen, "Best spoken of later." When he answers Menelglir, it is only with a dry:

"I thought the oath still held."

"Yea, those are voices. Look!" He points. "Was there not movement thither?"

A nod is given in reply to Findon, and in general the woman then says:

"Perhaps I should have my bow with me."

Her blue eyes looks over to the direction pointed, trying to see movement.

Turning briefly, Menelglir holds Findon's gaze. "You are right. I apologize."

Then he looks back to the camp's perimeter. "No Horse Lords are these, I deem."

"I smell horse.. men.." whispers Go'Diaf to his soldiers flanked one each to his sides, again deep drafts of the air, "and their females too." Greed and lust, fangs in full form glint of moonlight as he licks his lips. "Best slide yer swords on out fellas," he adds in the grumbling speech of beasts, quiet still, alert - muscles tensed throughout his body, hand tight upon the hilt of his longsword.

"We ain't goin home with no herbs tonight, and it don't look like we goin far either," he continues to whisper - poorly, taste of battle and Sharku's glory flavoring his words. Hor on the left answers, "I wanna piece o that shiny hair." On the right Durvz grunts in approval, sting of whip upon his cheek, black blood staining the dirt where he lays. The two stragglers, half the size of the other three, look at each other nervously, unable to look up, the bright moon of a clear night blinding their red cavern bred eyes.

"Let us find out, then," says Findon curtly.

Halting none, he continues steadly; now passing the edge of the encampment, nearing ever the band of orcs. The helm slung to his belt is lifted, and set upon his brow one-handed, mid-stride. He halts thus, a few paces out. "Declare yourselves!" He calls.

"Come forward!"

Cwen remains silent, her blue eyes watchful as she stands there awaiting to see who, or what, may come out of the dark.

And Menelglir, too, is silent, for there is nothing to do but listen for the reply, if it comes.

The smaller orcs cower at the mighty call of the man, fear of Saruman burned into their very flesh; they look each other over, their masters with drawn swords - little but a small knife on Rikk's belt and an iron skillet tied about Rolt's waist between them for their defense.

They look to their leader, and Go'Diaf motions again for quiet. "Let them come," he orders once more in a whisper. The small band of creatures keeps their position.

Lominzil, who is on watch, comes quickly to the trio at the edge. "It is too far west for House-lords, or Horse-lords," he says quietly.


"Thought so," hisses Findon at length.

Forth, then, head on into the night.

It isn't much, it really isn't. But this big stick on the ground is grabbed by Cwens delicate hands and held in such a way that maybe she could..poke, or, swing, at something if she were attacked. So thus, she follows.

"Lady!" Menelglir objects as Cwen forges ahead. He slows his pace so as to be just ahead of her, but not too far.

"Stay with me," warns Lominzil, coming to Cwen's side, sword drawn.

The Isilrim have erected their own tent and Sirion's warhorse paws the ground restlessly beside it. The Steward of Isilrim emerges a moment later, tightening the buckle of his sword-belt. He frowns as he watches the last of his countrymen head off into the shadows.

He exchanges a glance with the horse. "Exactly my thought," he mutters to it.

Lifting his torso but inches above the ground, seeking one more good look at the enemy's approach, Go'Diaf counts quickly, one, two, three, SNAP! Beneath his leg a dead, dried and forgotten branch breaks - his head jerks in reflex, but moon-beams fly reflected by his helmet. There can be no waiting now, surely they are spotted.

"CHARGE, FOR SHARKU AND REWARD! CHARGE, WORTHLESS DUNG!" orders the captain, leaping up. Hor rises immediately, Durvz a step behind - fresh boot to the ribs from Go'Diaf spurring his run. With broadside of his sword the leader equally forces the slaves into combat. He joins, behind the rest, letting the weaker test the opposing force first. At full sprint, shield held firmly before his chest, sword black and jagged bobbing with each bounding step, he charges.

The crude tongue seems to instill in Findon certain haste. Wordless, he rushes to face the orcs.

A curved blade he swats aside offhandedly, another grazes his shoulder, reding the cloth but skidding off the rings underneath; and thus he is in their midst. Cleaving to the leader, overhandedly.

Findon attacks Go'Diaf with his Greatsword and badly wounds him!

Though he follows behind Findon, Menelglir is in the thick of it with the orcish group. Silver steel flashes through the night, clashing with black blades. There's shouts, curses, blood flowing.

The charge of the Orcs causes Cwen to freeze. The stick she holds is straight, ready for battle. But this is more real now, the enemy is here. There are two who break away from the pack. One is Rolt, he carries an iron skillet. The other, Rikk, he has a small dagger. Both are barely dressed, and look uneasy with the fight. Yet, they spot the woman with shiney hair and decide that is where their target should be. One yells something at her, seeming please. The Rohirric woman has -no- idea what was said, though from the gleeful, yet drool covered faces of theirs, the intent of the words were caught and it makes her -shiver-.

So, Rolt and Rikk move forward, their plan, to get the pretty golden haired woman.

Not often do the armsmen of Dol Amroth meet foes of this kind, and at that sight Lominzil pauses a moment. His eyes flash, and he parts from the lady's side, swinging unrestrainedly with both hands; his goal, the bisection of Rikk.

His own path hungrily marked upon the woman as he runs, Hor curses the across the field, "Don't carve up her face, slaves, thats mine!" And with that he meets a human's blade, clash and crash of steel and the smack of the man's blade swiping deep into his shoulder - hot blood pulsing in splashes. He reels from the strike, but fearlessly forces the blade out of his body, striking back at last. Meeting the enemy Durvz reaches mightily back to make his first attack, eyes locked upon an opponent - and clueless to his feet. A small boulder trips him, and at full run he flies into the air, arms flailing. With an agonizing wail he falls on his own blade, pierced from right rib cage through his chest, and lays silent.

Rikk attempts to dodge the blade of Lominzil, and is spared his life, but not his arm. Clean through the bone the strike goes, left gone, right still holding his crude knife. Animal rage and coming death, no reason to the aimless stabs he make - eyes limited by the harsh white moonlight.

And the battle fares no better for Go'Diaf. Favoring the glory he makes straight to a well armed man, reaching back to make his attack - but the man has swung first and true. Go'Diaf tries to jump back, but is late in his dodge. The greatsword lands hard, straight and deep into his exposed chest. This foul captain of Isengard can only save himself this moment, and not attack. Parrying the blade away from his cloven flesh, halves of armor hanging hacked, he stumbles twice backwards - yellow eyes burning with hate locked upon his target. Blood from his wounded lungs bubbles across his seething lips.

Heavy his tread, Findon follows; brazen and unrelenting."Whence came you," asks he, even in shifting his grip of the hilt, blade prone; "And why?"

At the last, he lunges; sword rising.

Findon attacks Go'Diaf with his Greatsword and severely wounds him!

As Rikk is busy with Lominzil, Rolt keeps his eyes upon Cwen. He calls out to her once more, whatever is said is not understood but the look in his eyes may tell of his toughts. To this, the woman frowns in anger and she yells something back in Rohirric. That comes as a suprise to Rolt, and makes him jump.

The ugly creature steps back as the woman goes to swing her big stick at him as his suprised hesitation had been noticed. So this, this makes the -thing- cower a touch at the unexpected braveness of the woman and he turns to run off. Which does not work out as he finds mud, and, falls face first with a splat in it. Iron skilled falling off his waist in the meantime.

Lominzil steps over the severed arm, his gaze even and cold, advancing even as the howling Rikk shrinks. The cuts he dodges, effortless as a dream, the blade turning on metal rings where it hits.

He reaches for the remaining arm, pulling the small orc close. For this, he earns a shallow slash across one cheekbone. But he draws him in nonetheless, saying:

"I see your death, little thing."

And disembowels him from navel to heart.

Meanwhile, Menelglir's blade cuts well and deep into the orcs that are about him, and the ground is soon soaked with blood and gore. A mighty swing of the Knight's sword sends an orc head tumbling downhill--which seems to be the cue for the rest of the group attacking him to cut and run.

Pausing for a moment as he can, Menelglir looks about to assess the battle.

Shock, horror, death: wide-eyed now, as the man-warrior's sword flies at him again, Go'Diaf feels fear. Already weakened, the blood loss slowing his reactions, his movement - he leans to his right but his shield fails him. The greatsword carves into the flesh of his back, up and across his left shoulder - the shield falling now from a lifeless limb.

And as he falls to his knees - furious gaze unswerved from his deathbringer - he declares amidst burble and sputter of blood choking his throat, "You'll never know, hoo-man." His words are punctuated by the thud of Hor's falling body, the severed head coming to rest at Go'Diaf's side - eyes up, as if expecting the next order.

For a moment, it seems the hoo-man considers this possibility; for he is given to pause a short time, wet sword perched in his grasp, on high. Evenly, as he rejects the thought, his glance shifts from the dislodged head before them, and his eyes bear the weight of promise:

"So be it then."

And so he hews the kneeling Go'Diaf.

Findon attacks Go'Diaf with his Greatsword, but he misses by a mile.

Rolt is face down in the mud and making noise. There is a sense of panic in the sounds he is making.

The big stick that Cwen had grabbed is dropped - for there is a better weapon in her hands now. That fallen iron skillet is wielded. Despite the pain of her healing wounds, and the aches that remain in her body from the last bit of her cold the woman pushes them aside and slides into the mud with cookwear above her head. She speaks again, still in Rohirric. Atop of the orc she goes to bring the heavy piece of iron down with all her might to smack the smelly, drooling, ugly creature in head.

Rolt, he has no real idea what is going on and no idea that the woman is atop of him skillet in hand. So, as he turns over in the mud in an attempt to break free of the earth beneath him. But it is too late, with the turn of his head the last thing he sees is the golden haired woman bringing down his skillet, his lovely cooking skillet, onto his face. And then his world turns black and he remains still in the mud.
From this, Cwen stands breathing heavily her face red and dress covered in mud. Skillet, still in hand.

A moment taken, the decision made: Menelglir runs toward Cwen and Lominzil--just as Cwen knocks an orc to the ground with a skillet. That slow his pace--he checks to make certain no more attacks are coming.
Lominzil rolls the staring orc -- staring, truly blind now, into the moonlight -- onto his back with his foot, then stoops to clean his blade in the grass.

Unheeding of the remaining ruckus, he turns to Cwen.

"I see you have taken care of that business."

Twitching bodies from the deep caves now lay about the field, the hovering stench worsened with the throes of death. The haunted, new redemption of quiet disrupted by heavy breathing of battle - and the whir of Findon's fierce blade cutting through the air.

Nearly blinded in his weakness, starlight biting at his wounds, wobbling and leaning - all vision fades to black and the Orc Captain tilts forward, and under the man's blade. The zip of steel through the air just past his ear snaps his last gasp of self-preservation back to the moment - and so Go'Diaf strikes with what might remains in his slashed body - a forward jabbing lunge.

Go'Diaf attacks Findon with his Longsword and mildly wounds him!

The steel pricks Findon's side briefly; hindered both by his armor, and his recovering movement following the, it must be presumed, somewhat unexpected lack of impact his last swing has. A step to the side, shoulders turning like so, carrying on the motion: down and round to the side and up.

The blade swoops down, ever down, cleaving to Go'Diaf.

Findon attacks Go'Diaf with his Greatsword, but Go'Diaf parries the attack with his Longsword!

Rolt lays there unmoving. Cwen stands from the mud and takes a few steps back, breathing heavily. Lifting a hand she brushes golden hair from her face leaving a streak of mud across her lightly tanned skin.

"Luck, I think. The creature seemed to be a coward. If it was any other orc, I may be running." she replies to Lominzil.

Casting her blue eyes about she spots Menelglir. "You okay?" she asks but then her gaze is passed over to Findon - who still seems to be in battle.

"Fine," Menelglir says, but he is already moving toward Findon, at a run--leaving the other pair behind.

"More coward than most," Lominzil answers, wiping a trickle of blood from his face. "Stay wary. I would keep that skillet at hand."

After finally striking success, Go'Diaf's sword now tastes blood. Drained and swerving in his motions he brings his blade up once more - now meeting the man-warrior's strike half-way. Pressing back against the man's force, he finds the counter-balance to push himself half-way up, now on one knee. He releases the grip on his opponents blade, jagged toothed sword lowering but for the flash of a moment, now snatched with the will of black evil back upwards towards his opponents hovering core.

Go'Diaf attacks Findon with his Longsword and mildly wounds him!

At the release, Findon again moves a step to the side; the beginnings of a circle round the orc that, yet again, is on his knees.

Such it is that the black orc-sword rends cloth, and thuds, with a dull ringing noice of iron to iron, against the man's hip. From the hip, too, the answering blow, horizontally:

Findon attacks Go'Diaf with his Greatsword and severely wounds him!

"Aye." replies Cwen with a nod to both Lominzil and Menelglir.

The pain in her body starts to echo through her. The pain from her healing wounds and the aches from the last of her cold. Her energy is dropping but the skillet is held tight in her hand as she refuses to let go of it. Blue eyes remain upon the final battle of Go'Diaf and Findon.

"Findon!" Menelglir calls, seeing only that the orc blade makes contact with the Knight. "Need you aid in dispatching this foul creature? Be done with it, lest luck and skill both turn for foul," he calls again, having not yet reached the pair.

Lominzil glances to Cwen, sympathy finally warming his gaze. He jabs the sword into the soft earth, and approaches her swiftly, reaching for her arm. "Come. We are done here. The fire is warm, and the camp is safe."

Perhaps the magic of his master forms black protection about the beast, a second swing from his sword landing upon his opponent - no blood drawn but compelling the creature forward into Sharku's reward. Snarling, pulsing blood, black ooze dripping from his chin, Go'Diaf pushes up - desperate to regain his footing - and shieldless, exposed to another hard strike.

The greatsword carves into his left side, a third wound upon his torso. He curses in garbled cave speak, "GIVE ME MY DEATH!" And once more swings like a mad animal cornered - an effort leaving him fully exposed to his end.

Go'Diaf attacks Findon with his Longsword and moderately wounds him!

The din of steel rouses the Lord Isilrim. Adorned in the robes of his house, he decamps but a single step from his tent, his complexion notably haler than before. Gesturing mildly to his brother, he waits to observe the end of Findon's skirmish, ere returning to his tent.

The connection is made at the thigh, and the orc-sword comes away wet. So, Findon's step forward becomes staggered, but does not falter.

"Have it then," says Findon, and again hews Go'Diaf from on high.

Findon attacks Go'Diaf with his Greatsword and severely wounds him!

Her body begins to relent. The energy she had from the fight is leaving her fast. The sickness and pain is felt, showing through a sudden rush of coughs and cringes as she moves. Looking over, Cwen says to Lominzil:

"A good idea. I have little power left to stand."

Her face and hair is streaked in mud, her dress is covered as well. As her arm is taken the woman follows the Squire, passing one last glance to the fight with a touch of conern. And her hand, still holds tight to the skillet.

"The sleeper awakes," says Sirion to his brother.

Menelglir has arrived but holds back, not daring to jump in between the tangled fight between orc and knight, lest he hit the knight.

A fourth blow strikes Go'Diaf's torso, now at the shoulder above sword-arm. He coughs as it connects, a splatter of black flying from his maw to decorate Findon's armor in stench. With the fire of all anger across his life flashing in his eyes, the Orc Captain lifts his arm back for one more attack - but his strength fails, the weight of his sword now too heavy. Tumbling unconscious backwards, he stains the field with a splash and the jangled clash of metal. Life lingers in the beast, but little - ragged breaths hissing past his lips and gurgling in his chest - futile as he slowly drowns in his own blood.

"My dreams have become tedious," answers Arathis blandly, diverting some of his weight onto his brother's shoulder. Another slight gesture towards the combat and he reenters his tent.

"And a change of clothes, I expect," Lominzil adds, guiding the lady back within the perimeter of the tents.

"What?" replies Cwen.

Looking down at herself Cwen blinks a few times, realizing now what state she looks to be in. The woman laughs shaking her head.

"Yes, a change of clothes will do as well."

Her steps lead her back into the perimeter of the camp with Lominzil.

Sirion watches his brother return to the interior of the tent with inscrutable eyes.

"You fought bravely!" he calls out to those returning, leaning himself but lightly athwart the post of the tent. "I could hear the screams of the beast even here."

Forward a step, two; Findon heeds not the orc's weapon any longer. He pauses none, his own weapon prone. His grip shifts, one hand removed to the pommel, guiding the other, pointy end t'ward Go'Diaf's chest.

Go'Diaf collapses to the ground, defeated by Findon!

"Beasts, sir," affirms Lominzil, lingering at the watch. "I had thought they issued from the roots of the mountains, and that is far. Their purpose, unknown."

He wipes his blood from his face.

"And so it ends," Menelglir says quietly, coming up behind Findon and grimacing at the orc's corpse. "Or is this the beginning.'

To Findon, he speaks louder. "You are hurt--badly so?"

"Ugly, awful smelling beasts, Sir." Cwen chimes in tiredly.

As she stands there the skillet is held tight. She is caked in mud, yet her blue eyes stand out in contrast.

For a moment, Findon remains so. The other's speech draws his gaze, but he offers no vocal answer in turn. If there is any at all to be had, it lies within those clear, cold eyes.

He wrenches his weapon free, and walks thence to camp.

Lominzil's narrative brings Sirion's grey-eyed gaze to the mountain. His eyes narrow, his line of sight grows more specific as though he tries to look through the mountain. "News of such has been brought back aforetimes," he says quietly.

He arches a brow at the muddy, golden-haired lady wielding the frying pan. "A fearsome weapon you have, my lady," he says wryly, his lips twitching.

In silence, Menelglir follows Findon back into camp.

The ever-ready kettle is put to use, as Lominzil sinks wearily down by the fire, pulling off his gloves and tabard.

[Calenloth(#27998)] Footsteps sound across the nearly deserted camp, and Calenloth rises from her seat beside the fire. Concern fills her face at first... blood. Covering several of the party as they return. She takes a few steps forward towards the crowd but slows as she sees them walk, unaided. To which a look of distaste spreads across her face instead.

Eyes travel down to the pan she wields. There is a snicker, and a laugh and replies with:.

"Yes, fearsome indeed. And unexpected. None shall underestimate the power of an iron skillet."

Cwen moves too sit as well, feeling the tiredness of her body. The skillet, put down beside her.

Menelglir has tugged off his helm and is walking toward the fire--grimacing at Calenloth's look of distate. But he pauses to glance to Sirion. "Sir, what brought you to these wilds--and how came you to find your brother?"

Sirion joins in with Cwen's laughter.

Yet his expression darkens notably as Menelglir's question is heard. "I was on a quest for my half-brothers," says he grimly. "And came upon my last remaining full brother."

Cwen sits there silent now, taking a few deep breaths. The skillet - looking old, worn, and dirty from mud and orc blood is at her feet.. For the moment, she only stares at the fire.

[Calenloth(#27998)] "I do not know if I should ask," Calenloth says wryly, "but be grateful that you do not seem hurt..." A wad of cloth dipped into the water, she hands the warm rag to Menelglir. And readies another for Lominzil, and for Cwen.
Her eyes travel to the cookware, laden with... flesh? "We have enough pans, Cwen," she comments. "I hope that was given of its' owner's free will and not wrenched from its dying hands?"

"I believe it was alive when she took it, yes," offers Lominzil. "Put it into the fire? If it is not melted, it will be clean."

He holds the dripping rag to his face, wincing.

"I am not hurt," Menelglir says, taking the cloth Calenloth offers him and answering her first. He wipes sweat from his face and neck. "Sir Findon is bruised if not worse, but not terribly so, I believe."

And then he looks to Sirion once more, growing quieter.

They say the tie between brothers is strong."

[Calenloth(#27998)] A laugh from her lips, Calenloth picks the skillet up from the bench, gingerly. "Is that... blood?" She tosses the pan into the fire, splitting a burning log with the weight of its impact.

"Lominzil, you are hurt?"

Cally is looked at, a brow risen. It takes a moment for Cwen to get what she is saying. Lominzil, his comment to is heard. But, after a moment she laughs looking down to the piece of cookware at her feet.

"Squire Lominzil is right, he was alive when I took it. Though, he was also alive when the bottom flattened his face."

She looks over then to Menelglir with a risen brow as he mentions who may be hurt and how bad. "Nothing to serious then, good." she sighs deep and in general asks:

"Orc blood. It will be my trophy once cleaned - unless we wish to actualy cook with a pan that was used by the enemy. And I would not want to guess what was cooked on -that-."

"Oh," Lominzil answers Calenloth, haphazardly smearing the blood about his face. "It is just a cut. It is a little more difficult when I cannot see it..." He quiets, however, at Menelglir's overheard words, his face settling into stillness.

"It is nothing."

"It is."

This is Sirion's answer for Menelglir.

He has aught else to say, for he knows not these men. But if his smile can be named judge, he finds comfort in their discussion of the battle.

"Keep it as a battle trophy, Cwen," Menelglir says. "All the fire in the world could not cleanse that enough for me to willingly eat off of it."

Glancing to Sirion, he gestures toward the fire, where Menelglir has now taken a place. "Will you not join us? You are your brother will continue along with us? Provided he recovers well?"

"And forgive me--do you know all those here? I am Sir Menelglir Telpekhor. We have not met before, but as a White Squire, I served under your brother."

[Calenloth(#27998)] Calenloth offers a fresh cloth to the Squire, and a smile to Cwen. With an amused smile to Menelglir, she shakes her head, extending her hand for his cloth.
"I wonder how rabbit tastes with Orc," she muses, taking a stick to push the skillet deeper into the flames."

"I will keep it as a trophy." replies Cwen to Menelglir. "It is safer than my bow too it seems."

With a chuckle her blue gaze is set to Sirion a moment. The fire revealing her half mud covered hair and face.

For a moment Sirion is silent.

"I will continue with you," he says. "Arathis will go whither he will."

"I have met Lominzil Girithlin already," he says with a gesture to the others. "And the straw-haired lady. A Telpekhor, did you say? I will not judge you by your kinfolk, sir, but I have little love for the folk of Pinnath Gelin."

Lominzil accepts the new cloth and presses it against his face, looking out into nothing.

A low chuckle from the young Knight. "Then this is the Lady Calenloth Nimothan," he gestures to the woman.

"I myself have never judged a man by his family name, but only by who he himself is. Though, now, of course, I am curious as to why the name of Telpekhor draws such a reaction."

Cwen recalls the fact that she has a cloth in her hands. Now, she wipes the mud off her face though it may only serve to spread some around a bit.

"Oh, I am Lady Cwen Ephalkhir, daughter of Westerfalc the Younger." she introduces herself to Sirion with a half-tired-smile. Seems this woman may have some Gondorian blood in her.

Lominzil frowns as a second rag is soaked pink; rising, he disappears into a tent.

"Ancient enmities," Sirion offers to Menelglir with a wry smile. "None of which concern you or I, I deem. But all the same, I was ingrained with a dislike of Pinnath Gelin from almost the day I was born. Old habits are not easily put aside."

"Ephalkhir? I know this house not, but I am pleased to meet you all the same, my lady Cwen."

He offers the lady a smile. "Charystra--" he says his mother's name with distate, "--after abandoning my brothers and I, made house with a Rohirrim lord. I suppose I am kin to Rohan after a fashion."

[Calenloth(#27998)] "A pleasure to meet you, then, as well, Sir," Calenloth says, from her silence.
A nod to the Knight, and a smile to Cwen, she retreats from the fire, disappearing from view.

"And yet ill can Amroth nor Gondor afford such ancient divisions," Menelglir says, "for do we not all fight one Enemy and give our lives and blood for one cause?"

"Still, the hills of my homeland are green and pleasant, and I would gladly welcome you and Lord Isilrim there as my guests."

"But for today, there is work to be done. Excuse me." He stands, hurrying after Calenloth.

Date added: 2011-06-16 00:24:45    Hits: 83
Powered by Sigsiu.NET RSS Feeds