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Dwarves and Dale-landers Strike Back


Short Summary: Dwarves and Dale-landers, returning from a patrol, emerge victorious from their encounter with a contingent of orcs reinforced by a troll.

Starts out as a normal scene, ends in references to poems, literature, and music.

Date (real-life): 2013-02-20
Scene Location: Dale-Lands

Rolling Dales(#5575Rto)

  Vegetation grows lush and wild, fed by the River Celduin which flows through the valley. Here, the river flows from northwest to southeast. A small but still well-defined road appears to follow its entire course while a larger, more heavily traveled road heads north, cutting past the great curve of the river. Many tracks, made by wagons, horses, and humans, suggest that this road probably serves as a major trading route through Rhovanion. Though sparsely populated, this valley is punctuated here and there by the odd farm or homestead, and in the distance can be seen the dark eaves of Mirkwood to the northwest, and the tiny town of Finney which stands to the southeast.

Contents:
Agaracuk
Kalyrua(#27724PVeA+cf)
Dwarven Warder
Flaguz
Arzi
Neleth
Ganon
Morty
Graim
Shavyak
Ulaire_Nelya
Ssamori
Erebor Caravan
Obvious exits:
 North leads to Rolling Dales.
 SouthEast leads to In the Dale-lands, passing by Finney.
 NorthWest leads to Iach Celduin.


The sun's final minutes in the sky were only moments ago - the reds and purples of the sunset had danced in the air above these rolling Dales for a long while, but the day could not hold off the onslought of the night. The end of March brings with it warmer weather to this land, and even now the heat from the day (what heat the day had) is fading into the cool of night. The well traveled road that lies next to the river Celduin is busy tonight...

That /blasted/ road. This road. It is an important road, next to an important river - leading to and from important places. The road is occupied by a group of soldiers. Heavy mail, axes and hammers adorn the dwarves 35 dwarves in this party. They marched this day, from the afternoon until dusk, accompanied by men of Dale. Their prey, target? None, really. Or all. Their true aim was to show force - or perhaps to east the battle - needy hearts of the dwarves. Who knows? WHat is known is that now torches are being lit, and the party is turning south once more, set to make the return trip to camp.


The old Firebeard strides near the fore of the party, his hammer casually resting on his shoulder as he walks. He seems in a better mood than the darkness that has been hanging around him of recent. He glances to either side of the road. "This is more like it, cousins! The road under our feet and the world before us, it doesn't get much better!" He smiles, marching on as the darkness falls upon the party.
Along with the dwarves comes a contingent of Dale's troops. These seventeen brave soldiers from the King's Men are sorted into two squads, one on either side of their dwarven allies. Although no weapons are drawn, hands rest on pommels and finger bows, heavy tension in each gesture. No words are said.


Along with the dwarves comes a contingent of Dale's troops. These seventeen brave soldiers from the King's Men are sorted into two squads, one on either side of their dwarven allies. Although no weapons are drawn, hands rest on pommels and finger bows, heavy tension in each gesture. No words are said.

Leading the Dale-landers is Lieutanent Hrodwyn, who looks sharply into the fading sky and then at the dusky terrain with dark eyes. Her lips are pursed tight, so taunt that they begin to lose color. Like the men that she leads, her posture is prepared, ready for a potential fight -- and with her armor and arms, this leader looks the part.


A traveling party snakes northwards along the road. Human in size they seem, and road wary. All swarthed in dark, rough cloth cloaks, they march with a jingling of metal in their step - numbering near three dozen on foot.

Bringing up the rear of the odd parade, a decrepit four wheeled wagon rolls along in a winding and poorly controlled fashion. The whipping driver works a fury upon the poor animals - who resist his instruction at a crawling pace. Upon the bed of the cart, a handful of troops await final treatments from their masterful healer prior to the inevitable next skirmish. Shavyak, the beastliest of the wounded crew, picks at his scabs after removing a crusty, blackened bandage. From beneath his camouflaging travel cloak he quips, "Nuts and berries, them beardies fights like she-folk." The others aboard puzzle at his enigmatic analysis. Torches of their own, borne by flanking soldiers, cast long shadows behind them as they go.


Hissing from under the hood of her dark cloak, Ssamori swats at the big drummer's hand as he pick at his wound, her attention suddenly fully on him as she squats, carefully balanced in the rear of the wagon as it rolls forward, "Picking at the wound does not help it heal."

The soft sound of bandages follows as she unrolls a fresh swath of material, wrapping it anew around Shavyak's wounds before he can begin picking at them again, "And if you think they fight like she-folk, you'd best be careful too." Her golden eyes meet Shavyak's for a moment and the priestess smirks. "You of all know what the she-folk are capable of."


Ssamori tends to the injuries on Shavyak.


From the back of the cart comes the Boomologist. He struggles with a metal pot twisting it this way and that. Kalyrua places it on his head and gives it a hard smack. He staggers a bit as the pot comes down over his eyes. His hands outstretched before him he wavers for several moments, apparently unable to see. A series of sounds come from inside the pot, the grumblings of an angry aged orc. Two hands are placed on either side of his head and he pushes with all his might. A popping sound is heard at the sound of his head being freed from the pot. He staggers backwards and bumps into the High Hag.

A shake of the head is given and he turns to see who he had run into. His eyes light up as recognition dawns on him and he says, "Sorry Ssamori. Put Protection on backwards." He glances between the smirk on Ssamori's face and the Wardrummer and says, "Whoops, wasn't interruptin' anything was I?" He pauses for a moment and then frowns, turning to Shavyak, "Ya know she may be me daughter, right?"

He doesn't wait for an answer as he places the pot back on his head and hits it, placing it on correctly this time.


Kalyrua places Protection on his head.


Neleth stands to one side of the dwarven column (if it could be called that for, in reality, dwarves hardly keep file. They are /mostly/ on the road, at least.). Next to him is younger dwarf, now struggling to light a torch. Matches sometimes to cooperate. Neleth's eyes are not on the dwarf, however, despite the comicality of watching a dwarf utterly fail at lighting a match. A match. Come on. Neleth's eyes are glaring up at the sky instead, and his voice comes out in a deep, unsatisfied tone, "We should have turned back an hour ago. There is something to be said for showing we are unafraid. Something completely different to be said for stupidity. We have advantage in the daylight!" Neleth's words are to no particular being, but is more the grumbling of an older dwarf.


The Firebeard turns to his Azundelbur cousin, "Ye may be right, Neleth, bu' it does feel good to be out and about, and we had ter make sure, them Orcs still need ter be dealt with." He whistles jauntily to himself as he walks on, eyes still watchful. He thinks fer a sec, then glances back at Neleth, "Yer think they're out here?"


Where usually there is warning of sort on the approach, it's this time though that the cold feeling is neer a sudden onset on the outside of the orcs camp. The form of a tall man perhaps yet covered head to toe in a black robe and with an aura of cold dread which moves around him only visible a sword at his side and were one to look at him long enough metal gloved hands. "The defense's are lazy." the cold voice breaks his silence towards the outer guards as he moves further into the camp inspecting things as he walks.


From her position with the human soldiers to the right of the dwarves, Hrodwyn nods in agreement to Neleth's words, squinting into the night. Yet, she contributes no new words.

Meanwhile, a few of the Lieutenant's men pause and begin to light torches before lifting them into the darkness. The rest, not so equiped, remain close, staying in sight of the small fires. Despite this short respite, thighs remain taunt, shoulders are strained, eyes stand uneasy. Silence reigns among the men of both squads.


Various voices of confusion and disagreement bark throughout the marching ranks. "Back northwards, hah! That's where it always go wrong!" howls one. "T'were just warming up, I swears it," says another, shivering of a sudden under his cloak, and noting the fell figure accompanying their host he adds, "Oh, that feller be why."

"Silence, grunts," barks the Lieutenant, cracking his own whip as he inspects the formation, fearlessly moving alongside the Wraith.

With a cracked and toothy grin, the Wardrummer Shavyak answers Ssamori's warning, "I does, does know quite all too's well. They hit hards as you and yers do, they does; and it done kept yer hands busy on me, now ain't it?" He laughs, letting the covering cloak fall from his form, before squeezing into his shirt of ring mail.


"Double time now, lads," orders the Lieutenant, observing the glow of enemy torches cresting on a hilltop a quarter mile ahead. The forces follow the command.


Near the center of the shadowy brigade stomps a massive form, grotesquely humanoid yet inflated in the ugliest of ways. Flaguz, cave troll of Mirkwood, continually licks his disfigured lips as he marches. He seems to be more focused on the animals drawing the cart than the road before him, for his stumbles are as frequent as his steps.

As his cloaked boss moves through the company inspecting, Flaguz straightens up his hunched form as much as he can raising his spiked club in greeting with a low moan of welcome. He seems to ignore the orcs around him altogether.


Shavyak puts on Ring Mail Armor.


"ALRIGHT! We'll be home in a couple of hours, cousins!" The head of the dwarven party, an older warder with a beard of red and eyebrows of white shouts as he makes his way from the north of his line, to the south. "Those coward of the shadows didn't dare attack the might they saw march this road today! Tonight we return to wagons of ale and plates of beef!" He lets out a roar of a laugh, "And if we are attacked before we return - we'll just get back for the ale a little late, ehe cousins!" THe dwarven party lets out a loud roar. Ale, and battle. Two things a dwarf would shout for. Of course, now that warder is starting to move the party back in the direction it came. And... march.

"Of /course/ they are out here, Cousin. I'd bet the hair of my beard they saw us miles back. The question is, will we have the numbers to hold them off!" Neleth's voice sounds even as the group begins to move again. No, he did not cheer with the others. "The night brings evil things with it in the times." And look! The young dwarf /did/ get the torch lit!


Kalyrua, now situated into his helmet, draws his sword from his sheath at his side. He steps back so as not to harm either of the duo before him and weighs the sword in his hand. "We be pretty good at dealin' some damage. And Haggy here be pretty good at sewin' me's back up." He pauses and winces, "AS long as I not be takin' another hit to me shoulder..."

 
Kalyrua eases out his Mistress.


Ganon nods at Neleth's words, turning to look back at the road to notice the glow of torches cresting the other hill. His eyes narrow and his hammer drops from his shoulder. "Careful cousins, someone's coming." He glances towards Neleth, giving him a curt nod. Before turning his attention towards the approaching figures


"Hang on there, Old man," Shavyak now laughs to Kalyrua as the horses are whipped even more aggressively - although their speed does not increase as successfully as those on foot before them. "I might wanna get off this hay-ride," he adds, and follows his own thought, jumping from the wagon with an absolute lack of grace. His armor and equipment clatters loudly as he crashes into the dirt. Upon his feet again, he scoops up his helmet and fixes it upon his bald skull, and inquires to the wagon's riders, "Ssamori and you lot, y'all comin' down to play?".

"Now keep your covers on until we actually get CLOSE this time," commands the Lieutenant, "Or our Host here will have your head." He grins pridefully to the ghostly figure he accompanies as they go, now at a trot along the road.


Shavyak puts on Metal Helmet.


Kalyrua eyes the ground uneasily where the orc has dropped and the ghostly figure situated nearby. He grumbles and cocks his head, "That thing still owes me a pair of pants." He falls to the ground and pauses, a groan escaping from his lips, "Make that two." He stumbles forward, legs spread wide, causing him to waddle a bit as the rancid odor of orc waste fills the night air. He cocks a hand to the Wardrummer, "I'll catch up."

The aged orc steps off behind the trees grabbing a handful of leaves to take with him.


Hrodwyn, Lieutenant of the King's Men, looks to the distance, watching the approach of torchlight while her lips remain taunt. Her whole body seems tense, ready to run or start a furious fight. Then without warning, her focused eyes stop squinting, and she shouts an alert:

"Prepare for battle! The enemy approaches!"

With this warning, the Dale-landers ready their weapons, wrath and worry in their eyes. Those with bows are brought to the front of their squads, preparing to fire. The Lieutenant, too, joins with the archers but the order to fire is not yet given.


COMBAT - Wielded: Bow


As their companies pace quickens with enemies spotted, Flaguz lets loose a lazy roar and smashes several branches off a tree that overhangs the road with his spiked club. The Uruks surrounding him move to steer clear, giving him more room to maneuver.


"At least you got somethin' that explode," Shavyak taunts his aged companion of the Engineering Hammer Company. His long legs are strong, and capable of covering distance quickly when his mind is set. The torches nearing give him plenty reason. Outpacing all others now, he calls over his shoulder, "Catch on up, Kalyrua - its gettin' on to dinner time!" He looks at his drum, a song coming to mind, but he heeds the wishes of their commander - close the distance. Maybe they won't realize until its too late - but that has never worked. With weapon hand yet free, he adjusts the straps to fit his wooden circle into battle position. "I'll sing somethin soon," he beams with bloodlust.

Dodging the downswing of the mighty club a soldier whimpers, "We sure that thing be on our side?" He hastens his pace to distance himself from the troll.

The horses neigh loudly with their distrust of unwanted masters; the whip cracks continuously.


Shavyak fixes his War Drum for battle.


Kalyrua emerges from the woods wearing a different pair of pants, "Wore extra." He trots to catch him with the Wardrummer and pulls the fabric of his new pair out of his crotch, "Ain't boomers the only thing that be explodin'." Black tongue snakes out ot test the air, cracked blacked lips separate and nostrils flare slightly, "Mmm, I smell dinner..."


"Hark! The enemy has come to face us!" That weathered old warders' eyes /and/ voice light up at the warning given from the Dale-Lander. There are a few mutters about humans having 'some' use, or how 'I saw them as well' among the dwarven ranks, but ultimately the point does no matter. There is quick activite in the dwarves lines even before the commander shouts out his orders, "Footmen forward! Archers, behind the line! Face them, cousins! Be read-""TROLL!"

"They... they have a tr-tr-TROLL!" Neleth isn't one to wait in the back, and the dwarf's sword in in his hand moments after he hears the call from the Dale Lieutenant. It is he who first calls out the warning of a troll, watching and hearing those brances brake.

"Hammers! Warders! Be ready! Spread! Distance!" What!? Okay, so, surely the dwarven warders understand their commander's shouts, right? "They shall break on us! Hold a line!" Apparently, the dwarven party has decided to play it defensively today... good, or bad idea?


The old firebeard clutches his hammer tightly, a sneer on his face, he sets his legs. The leather of his hammer creaks under his grip. He glares at the oncoming foes and growls, "Come and die!"


"Is that..." Hrodwyn mutters to herself when Neleth's shout suddenly rises. "So /that's/ a cave troll." Her own voice then issues aloud an order -- "Bladesmen, forward scatter! Archers, target the troll!"

To these orders, the King's Men readily respond. Those without bows advance some distance in front of the archers, swords drawn, and the archers release a volley of darts at the troll. All are braced for battle, eyes flickering with a new energy.


You fire off an arrow at Flaguz...

Your arrow flies wide of Flaguz, doing no harm.


At last the order comes: "CHARGE!" The Lieutenant leaves his ghostly ally to his own matters, leading the forces forward until a larger form clips his own pace. Shavyak, bearing many new marks made in these lands, seethes with vengeance forward at a clip that leaves the bulk of the troops behind him. He raises his sword, heedless to caution, ready for battle.

Behind him the troops fan into a wedge, casting down their cloaks and brandishing their assorted weaponry. Torchbearers plant the pointed ends into the earth to defiantly mark a claim to the land and this night.


Shavyak wields Short Broadsword.


As a volley of arrows comes raining down in his direction, monstrous Flaguz raises his arms and waves them as if he is fending off some rain. Most of the darts snap as they ricochet off his thick skin, though others remain intact and are merely deflected towards the Uruks surrounding him. Others miss entirely, but the beast marches on with the brigade, his orange eyes glowing in the night.


And the dwarven lines cannot, due to the nature of dwarves, hold for very long when their enemy is near. Orcs... Uruk... well, dwarven hate goes a long way. Often further than their fear of trolls, or their ability to follow orders. One, then another, and then a whole mess of dwarves break formation to meet the oncoming foe - it is the dwarven way of battle. Battle cries... yes, they are there.

Neleth is not one for war cries or shouts. He is not one for pulling punches, or waiting to be the last dwarf forward. No, when the dwarf next to him begins to move to meet the onrushing orcs, Neleth is soon doing likewise - his position not currently that of a leader or ambassador, but of an orc-enemy. A dwarven warrior, bear shield, axe and sword. A sword that is swung at the first orc he meets.

Neleth attacks Shavyak with his Short Broadsword, but he misses by an arm's length.


Ganon lets out a roar as he follows his cousin towards a familiar looking, overweight Uruk. He arrives at Neleth's side only instants behind his cousin, following up and supporting his fellow dwarf. He brings his massive hammer around in a horizontal arc as he charges in, madly swinging towards the Uruk.

Ganon attacks Shavyak with his War Hammer, but he misses by a mile.


The giant example of Uruk-Hai that is Shavyak has learned at least one thing versus these Khazad: move his feet. ALOT. The more he keeps moving about, the more he can actually see where they are so far beneath his eye level. One swish of air is followed by a second. Yes. Keep dancing you fat fool, he thinks. Keep swinging too!

But how does one truly target that which one barely can see? A beard flying here, a shining helmet zipping past there. He stabs confusedly into the torch lit night.


Shavyak attacks Neleth with his Short Broadsword, but he misses by a long shot.


Unlike the dwarves, the Dale-landers show discipline -- the swordsmen guarding the archers do not break formation unbidden. Nor is the order given immediately. Rather, after a short time for reloading passes, Hrodwyn's voice echoes in the battlefield: "Archers! Volley!"

With this order, another wave of arrows are sent at Flaguz.

Once this volley is released, the restraint of the King's Men is finished with a finals word: "MEN OF DALE! CHARGE!"


You fire off an arrow at Flaguz...

Your arrow hits Flaguz, mildly wounding him!


As their company reaches the line of dwarves, Flaguz feels another volley of arrows rain over him. Most break and fall the ground at his feet but one finds a mark in his droopy left ear. The arrow makes it about halfway through a soft spot before sitting like an earring on the side of his ugly face.

Enraged by the snag, the troll lets loose a merciless growl and extends his long spiked club recklessly towards the dwarven line.


Flaguz attacks Neleth with his War Hammer, but he misses by a mile.


Dwarves may be good, fast sprinters... and this is likely what helps with their apparent ability to avoid swords and club being swung at them. Neleth, for example, able to spin to his right, avoiding the blade of Shavyak - only to see that large, nasty club making its way for him and his comrads in his area. Fear, barely distigushable deep in those sockets with the light such as it is. All the dwarf can think of doing is diving away from the swing, and dive he does. And roll and... where is his sword!? On the ground, where he hand started his dive.


Neleth removes Short Broadsword.
Neleth puts down a Short Broadsword.


The Firebeard lets out a growl of anger as the Uruk dodges his blow. He is stopped short as the club of the troll swings past, he ducks beneath it but keeps his hammer moving, swinging it around at the Uruk again, reversing the horizontal strike and bringing the heavy head around like a thunderbolt.


Ganon attacks Shavyak with his War Hammer, but he misses by a long shot.


Rukhet creeps around the edges of the battlefield, from still-leafless bush to copse to boulder. She's barely visible, even when not behind cover: her clothing is particolored, her dark face is streaked with chalk to break up its outline, and her hair is braided and wound around her head, with twigs -- some bare, some bearing pine needles -- stuck in the braids.

Any time enemy combatants are far enough away from Isengard and its allies, she stands, crouching over, and lets fly an arrow.


All about the mighty form of the Troll, the Fighting Uruk-Hai lose numbers to the volley of arrows from the human bows. Three dozen they were, but a new count would not get much past twenty five. The survivors crash into the Dwarven forces, following Shavyak's daring lead. Even the Lieutenant remains in the fray.

The orc charged as Wagon-master begins to lose control of his captive horses. The wagon, with its tow of wounded, crashes off the road - careening an unpredictable course through the crashing lines.

Continuing his wide swathes of footwork, unparticular to his target, Shavyak swings his jagged blade down upon the nearest bearded folk.


Shavyak attacks Ganon with his Short Broadsword, but Ganon parries the attack with his shield!


As soon as the Dale-lander's arrows are released, all seventeen soldiers surge forward, swords either in hand or sliding proudly from scabbards. Shields, too, and bright helms are part of the accoutrements worn in this assault.

Although at first standing back with the archers, Hrodwyn presses ahead, pushing into the melee with the foremost of her troops. Into this mess they move, a test of courage, a trial where fear, anger, pride all mix together into strength and moments of weakness.

For her part, the Lieutenant weaves towards the troll, moving forward to flank it, and she attempts an attack into its leg.


Removed: Bow.
You drop Bow.
Wearing: Buckler
COMBAT - Wielded: Longsword

You attack Flaguz with your Longsword...

Your attack against Flaguz mildly wounds him!


The troll's giant club implants itself into the ground rather than the dwarf as he rolls out of the way. Flaguz tugs at his heavy weapon but it remains embedded in dirt, one of the club's giant spikes likely catching on a root. As his attention is diverted a blade slashes his right leg just above his bulky calf, creating a small gash in his many rolls of knee fat.

Letting loose a full on roar now, the beast attempts to sweep his club sideways along the ground at the sword-wielding woman, not sure if this will help it come loose from where it is caught.


Flaguz attacks you with his War Hammer!...
...and he misses!


Of the dwarves, one could only guess how many have fallen and how many remain - their stature, their armor, it is often hard to tell how many are milling about. A number have indeed fallen and will not be enjoying ale with their cousins this night. "Push! The Troll! The Troll!" Certainly more than a coupleof those fallen dwarves are due to mighty swings of that club. And while distance was preferred, now a number of dwarves begin to make their way from various directions to the troll - numbers are now on their side. The troll is the biggest danger.

Neleth uses a /sword/. And his sword is on the ground... he want it. And the is that troll... Neleth does have another weapon, and just three days ago he was teaching someone to... oh, yes! Throw the axe! Neleth's hand axe is pulled from his belt with his free hand as he runs to the spot his sword is, and the axe is, in a quick movement, thrown in the general direction of the troll. Of course, anything might happen. He doesn't watch for the outcome as his sword is brought into his hand again.


Neleth wields Axe.
Neleth throws an axe...

Neleth's axe flies wide, doing no harm.


The Firebeard growls once again as the sword rings off the small shield strapped to his arm. He spins quickly away from the Uruk, following his cousin's command and briefly turning his attention to the troll. He lets out a yell and leaps forward, his hammer high over his head, swinging it down with thunderous momentum towards the bulk of the creature.

Ganon attacks Flaguz with his War Hammer and mildly wounds him!


Neleth wields Short Broadsword.


Rukhet doesn't have a clear shot anywhere, for some time. Finally, a human and his opponent dodge and spin away from the fray, and when the orc's neck sprays blood from a solid stroke, she aims at the human. The arrow flies short, strikes a rock, and corkscrews off in no predictable direction.

Rukhet changes her position before someone figures out where she must be.


His single good eye bewilders as the first verse concludes - for he is dancing alone. His battle-mates this night have not learned to handle the Dwarven style as he has, and they fall for their ignorance. The remaining score rallies in defense of the Troll, for their will has weakened with their losses.

"Stand strong, fools!" barks the Lieutenant to no avail, as he looks to Shavyak where they both now stand without dwarven opponent. They scan the field once more and jaws gape. They have forgotten the men of Dale. Shavyak swallows hard.


Bounding to his left, sliding to his right, Shavyak begins to feel the rhythm of this fight - and a tune to match. His blade finds a balanced work, and he sings his crude imitation of Westron:

Swish and swash
Squish and squash
Down down down
Dirt and ground

His single good eye bewilders as the first verse concludes - for he is dancing alone. His battle-mates this night have not learned to handle the Dwarven style as he has, and they fall for their ignorance. The remaining score rallies in defense of the Troll, for their will has weakened with their losses.

"Stand strong, fools!" barks the Lieutenant to no avail, as he looks to Shavyak where they both now stand without dwarven opponent. They scan the field once more and jaws gape. They have forgotten the men of Dale. Shavyak swallows hard.


While the rest of the King's Men fight their own battles, doing justice to Dale and its King, Hrodwyn fights her's. Dodging the deadly path of Flaguz's club, the Lieutenant leaps aside and then, relying upon a routine of footwork, seeks to slash the troll again with her blade. An intent blow is what follows, along with a wild shout.


You attack Flaguz with your Longsword...

Your attack against Flaguz mildly wounds him!


Amid a great amount of confusion, the cave troll feels the bite steel all over his body with the new direction of the northerner's attacks, though nothing deep enough to puncture him severely. Flaguz leaps back from the advancing men and dwarves as Uruks fall all around him. The beast scans the crowd around him for the man cloaked in black, the one he calls boss, but sees he is no longer among the bridage.

"Boss! Where?!" the Olog screams in a low rumble, abandoning the foreign orcs to stomp off into the tree-line to the south.


His sword, his sword... oh that lovely, beautiful sword! Neleth has his sword, and even as he prepares to attack the vile troll, many of his cousin arrive to challenge the beast - many leaving previous engagements with Uruks. Neleth, of course, feels bad for those orcs. Leaving his cousins to fight it out with the troll (who soon does flee), Neleth is dashing at a rather large Uruk who is /singing/. Neleth has met this Uruk before. "Do you ever shut up!" That was apparently his battle cry, for his sword swings at that uruk now.

Neleth attacks Shavyak with his Short Broadsword, but he misses by a handspan.


Ganon spits after the troll as it retreats, a smile of victory on his face. "Right!" He growls, "Spread out, cousins, let's send these Uruks packing!" He turns, his red beard and blazing eyes making him look like some stunted demon, to face Shavrak, hefting his hammer, "Now stnad still beastie, so I can kill yer!" He rushes forward, yelling again and swinging the hammer down in another blinding arc towards the large Uruk.

Ganon attacks Shavyak with his War Hammer, but Shavyak parries the attack with his shield!


A young dwarf, red bearded, peaks out from Bosil's wagon. "Dark!" he whispers back, over his shoulder. A flickering light stems from inside their vessel, and a small smoke comes off of the latest snack. "Who is hungry?" someone says.


Without the formidable ally, the weakened forces of Uruk-hai begin to feel a strange notion. The caves - so distant and deep - emerge in their minds. Death is upon them. Divided equally the remainder either dive into the nearest opponent for honor and glory, or scatter in fear towards the wrathful blades of the northmen's perimeter.

The wreckless wagon teeters upon two wheels and then back upon the other. The wounded cargo fly to their fate to be lost upon the field. It barrels across Shavyak's path, and he dodges narrowly out of the way.

He turns about, noting the resurgence of small folk upon him. "And here I were all a worryin' bout the tall boys!" he comments, catching a familiar hammer upon his shield. This time his arm holds steady, pushing himself free from the assault. His steps remain wide and quick, as he battle unscathed. Once more he swings a low sweep of black steel.


Shavyak attacks Neleth with his Short Broadsword, but he misses by an arm's length.


Once the troll leaves, Hrodwyn looks about in wonder, pausing a moment despite the melee. But her rest is brief -- joining the other Dale-landers, she aids in the battle against the orcs, swinging her blade precisely but with power, intent on victory. Yet, despite her intensity, the hints of a smile now touch her expression.


A wagon! Really? Here! Now? YAK! Neleth isn't free from the path, no - he too must avoid the wreckless wagon, and he does, barely. And then.. well, he is attacking that Uruk, the random one in front of him. Did someone swing a sword at him? They missed, okay?


Ganon glares at the Orc as it blocks his blow, but is quickly distracted by the rumble of the oncoming wagon. With a yell the dwarf leaps to the side, tumbling out of the way of the wagon and landing in a heap next to Neleth. "Good fight, cousin!" He yells.


"All spook and no guts," spits Shavyak, surveying the utter loss of this mission. He begins to back away, seeing the odds of victory long lost - and his own survival becoming a question. "Were my drummers here, this'd be quite the show for us to tell back home," he ponders aloud in his cave born speach. He takes another step and bumps into something - someone. Hrodwyn. The confusion upon his face is clear when he turns to lock his single eye upon her features. He drools.

"You'd make me a good dinner," he lusts, "Two ways." He holds his blade, taunting.

The wagon crashes across the battlefield again - the panicked grip of the driver upon the reigns tight and relentless.


"We are winning, cousins! Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!" The battle cry is taken up by many of the dwarves, though many also stop shouting it to get out of the way of that blasted wagon. Neleth, once again, finds himself dodging that wagon.
Ganon has disconnected.


After only a short stint of fighting, Hrodwyn's eyes are drawn to the wagon -- which she watches warily, any hints of a smile fading. All of the King's Men likewise pay attention, and a pair are forced to dive for safety.

But, her focus on the wagon only lasts a few moments, for Shavyak interrupts with his insults. To these, she shows a honorable response -- a slash of the sword.


You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Your attack against Shavyak moderately wounds him!


"And it fights back it does!" Shavyak answers, licking his cracked lips. The lanced fat of his side bleeds profusely, but relevant to his mass, the wound is a tease. "Good eats puts up better fights!" he hisses in terrible lack of enunciation. His sword sweeps forward, testing with more dedication.


Shavyak attacks you with his Short Broadsword!...
...and he misses!


Neleth is fighting. Some Uruks. Other dwarves are, too.


Deftly dodging Shavyak's sweeping attack, Hrodwyn moves to the right, swinging her blade in an upward slash. Although her expression betrays some weariness, there is still strength to the attack as it slices through the air. As with before, the sword does all the speaking.


You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Shavyak dodges your attack.


The human's blade catches a glance off Shavyak's armor, and he takes the cue to step back cautiously. "Yes, this be more like what I seen outta you folks," he speaks hungrily, holding his war-notched circle of wood before him as he circles to his left. He charges strongly, but stabs a careful jab at her face.


Shavyak attacks you with his Short Broadsword!...
...and he misses!


Once more avoiding the Shavyak's attack, Hrodwyn shifts her position, fleet footwork saving her from the orc's hungry hatred. But, her own fury fast becomes wrath, a power channeled into her next strike.

So to, she finally returns words: "So noisy."

You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Your attack against Shavyak moderately wounds him!


And he howls as the sword bites into the shoulder supporting his shield. The spray of severed arteries paints his opponent. He steadies his feet, raises his shield, and slashes with fury unseen this battle towards her head. "Pretty pretty, sing my ditty," he croons with the attack.


Shavyak attacks you with his Short Broadsword!...
...and he misses!


No more words, only the work of weapons remains.

Hrodwyn grimaces in disgust as orc blood lands on her -- on her armor, on her shield, on her sword, on her face. The grimace is lasting and remains even while she barely evades Shavyak's blade for the third time, the sound of metal scraping against metal ringing in the air.

In a moment's time, the Lieutenant presses her attack again, perhaps less aggressive than the last time, but still represnting the focus of her remaining fury.

You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Shavyak dodges your attack.


The last of his surviving mates have cast away all hopes of glory this night; their torches are left to burn in failure where they were planted. The wagon blindly continues to stay attached to the poor beasts by the driver's hand, all of his cargo lost to agonize upon the grassland.

"Oh ya don't like's my singing," laughs Shavyak, with the whirr of steel cruising past his ear and bouncing unpurchased away from his ringmail. "And now it look like ya don't like my drawrings neitherins," he scoffs, feinting down, and slashing back up towards her center."

The rumbling of rickety wheels crashes by once more.


Shavyak attacks you with his Short Broadsword!...
...and he misses!


Like a sharp wind that disturbs without harming, Shavyak's blade approaches Hrodwyn only to miss its target. A cunning maneuver of footwork and balance saves the Lieutenant from damage. Without loss of concentration, a counterattack is launched, a sword strike to the torso of the talkative enemy.


You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Your attack against Shavyak lightly wounds him!


The ghost of the dark-woods is gone. The mighty troll no longer shares his protection. His Lieutenant lays headless by the hands of northmen. The last of his surviving company are fleeing south, save the determined driver. As that fool passes, Shavyak reaches to climb aboard - no more time for words, as he bleeds a third hole.

Shavyak tries to flee from Hrodwyn, but he fails!


Although one might expect the backstab to be dishonorable in Dale, or at least a disfavored method of disposing of enemies, Hrodwyn attempts one just as Shavyak fails to board the roving wagon. Hefting her blade in an honorable way, the attack is timed to strike true, the normally ignominous attack's status improved by its target.

You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Your attack against Shavyak moderately wounds him!


Honor defeats vile intent, and so the piercing bite of human steal finds a taste of Shavyak's kidney. He falls from the reach of the wagon's wood, humbled and silenced. The horses, foaming, drenched, and furious, whip their burden and hapless driver sharply left. The War Drummer dives to grasp at the edge of the passing back end.

Shavyak tries to flee from Hrodwyn, but he fails!


Rukhet's been ranging far afield; but as she ranges closer, she sees Shavyak getting the worst of a fight, with few friends near. She moves as close as she can, as quietly as she can, and then charges out from the forest, sword raised, running as swiftly as she can toward the fight.

She's an amazing sight, with branches sticking out of her hair and pale streaks on her face, with fluttering rags (looking uncannily like clinging dried leaves) pinned to her clothing.

Fell and feral she looks, a mad thing wild in a dark dream; and she shrieks like a dying raven as she runs.


Shavyak's bad fate   from a sharp sword
A woeful day to him   enemy of Dale
Foe of free peoples   fierce orc
Despite his wounds   weeping blood
He sought escape   evasion of evil
But Hrodwyn of Dale   hard shield-maiden
Pursued him again  punishing the plunderer.


You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Shavyak parries your attack with his shield!


Shavyak is weakened.
The blood, black and out-pouring
dares his reach once more.

 

Shavyak tries to flee from Hrodwyn, but he fails!


Rukhet races -- runs toward death,
Friend to ransom, foe to thwart.
Her sword she raises -- the singing blade
By skillful smith for slender hand
Shaped and balanced. Bright the fear--
Bright the sheen of sun on iron--
A silver arc the sword describes.


Rukhet attacks you with her Short Broadsword!...
...and she misses!


[Shavyak]
Neighing frenzied horses
Caught between whip and demise
Pass the wounded orc.


Shavyak tries to flee from Hrodwyn, but he fails!


This is the way the orc ends
This is the way the orc ends
This is the way the orc ends
Not with a bang...

Hrodwyn prepares to strike Shavyak down, only to be interrupted by Rukhet. Attention turned, the Lieutenant faces this new foe, unafraid and bold. A new bravery marks itself in her posture, her poise, every aspect of her person is distinguished when she strikes this second enemy.


You attack Rukhet with your Longsword...

Your attack against Rukhet lightly wounds her!


Will the wind remember
The names it has blown in the past?
Shavyak, and old age, and no wisdom;
Surely this'll be the last.
And the wind cries
For the wagon.


Shavyak tries to flee from Hrodwyn, but he fails!


"Let us fight then, you and I
While the ravens are spread out against the sky
Their wings in silhouette against the sun--
And they shall feed upon us, one by one,
Another dawn, if not tomorrow's dawn.
And though I bleed, yet I shall not withdraw
O enemy of mine."

Forward does she step, and forward thrust, although her blood is dripping in the dust.


Rukhet attacks you with her Short Broadsword!...
...and she misses!


Sing, Goddess, of the Wrath of Hrodwyn daughter of Karath, that inflicted infinite ills upon the orcs and sent many to their deaths.

This wrath is inflicted on Rukhet -- both in the evasion of her blade and in the response, Hrodwyn's well-wrought strike to answer...a poem.


You attack Rukhet with your Longsword...

Your attack against Rukhet moderately wounds her!


Arms, and the Orc I sing, who, forc'd by fate,
And haughty wizard's unrelenting hate,
Expell'd and exil'd, dared to flee the Dales.


Shavyak tries to flee from Hrodwyn, but he fails!


"Last night, ah, yesternight, between the lake and vine
There fell thy shadow, O Pale One! Thy wrath was shed
Upon my soul within a dream, half-waking;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
But I am faithful to my friend, Pale One! in my fashion."


Rukhet attacks you with her Short Broadsword!...
...and you block her attack with your shield!


It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single orc in possession of its life must be in want of a fight. However little known the feelings or views of such an orc may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of all, that he is considered as their rightful enemy.

Such is Hrodwyn's fight with Rukhet. The Lieutenant blocks her enemy's attack with her shield, wincing at the weighty impact against her arm, and returns the favor, fiercely swinging her sword at the orc's torso.


You attack Rukhet with your Longsword...

Your attack against Rukhet moderately wounds her!


For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.


Shavyak attacks you with his Short Broadsword!...
...and he misses!


She fears her, and will always ask
What fated her to chose this;
She meets, in that hard-hammered mask
All reason to refuse this;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
Of age, were she to lose this.

Beneath a blurred sagacity
That once had power sounder,
And honor that forbids her flee
Her comrade as he founders,
Her pride assuages her almost,
As if it were alone the cost,--
She fears that they will both be lost:
She gasps and flails around her.


Rukhet attacks you with her Short Broadsword!...
...and she misses!


When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?
When the hurlyburly's done,
When the battle's lost and won.
That will be ere the rise of sun.


Shavyak attacks you with his Short Broadsword!...
...and he misses!


Energy dwindling
Hrodwyn dodges, slides, skids
Unharmed, she strikes back.


You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Shavyak parries your attack with his Short Broadsword!


She hath wasted with steel our fierce races,
She hath stricken and marred and made sad
The limbs of the orcs, the dark faces
Of orcs that were goodly and glad.
She slays, and her hands are made bloody;
She strikes and she will not refrain;
Her raiment is now become ruddy:
Our Lady of Pain.


Rukhet attacks you with her Short Broadsword!...
...and she misses!


Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and, after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. South-south-west, south, south-east, east.

Shavyak tries to flee from Hrodwyn, but he fails!


Hwaet! We have heard   of the deeds of Dale
Of brave heros   old in bright mail
Of Hrodwyn   and how she held
two dread orcs   both opponents
Unable to touch her   trying mightly
These foes facing   her firey blade.

And so the Lieutenant dodges Rukhet's attack, evading to the left and pivoting. At the same time, her blade lashes out once more, a strong swing at Shavyak.


You attack Shavyak with your Longsword...

Shavyak parries your attack with his shield!


"I am tired of tears and slaughter,
And men that laugh and weep,
Of bleeding out--the daughter
Of orcs that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
The spattered blood that flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And everything but sleep."

Rukhet attacks you with her Short Broadsword!...
...and she misses!


[Fade... at approximately 4:40 AM EST, Feb. 21, 2013]


Date added: 2013-02-22 20:51:19    Hits: 71
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