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Logs

Something stinks

Tags: Ferthir,  Broddur,  Tirloth,  Rugar,  Kark,  Brev,  Brarin,  Talbinor,  Gidon,  Grimhauken,  Nurenhir

Short Summary: A power-packed scene: the Luin Dwarves agree to help the Shaws villagers rebuild, Talbinor and Brev rid the Gathering House of a pair of polecats and then Talbinor joins Tirloth and Broddur in despatching a couple of runtish goblins, aided by his new scent ...
Date (real-life): 2010-03-28
Scene Location: Shaws - Shepherding Village
Date (in-game): July 3049
Time of Day: Late afternoon
Weather: Clouded

Shepherding Village

This is the home of a small, proud, and independent people who live primarily by herding sheep in the open lands south of the Great East Road. Once driven from this region by troll depredations, they have returned and appear to be prospering, perhaps because they can also profit by trade on the Great East Road.

Or rather.... we should say it /was/ the home of these people. The many sturdy houses and smaller huts clustered on a hill here have mostly been burned. Some are yet standing, more are nothing more than charred timbers. Once, they were safely ensconced behind a deep ditch and wall. The ditch is filled with the ashy ghosts of thorn bushes ... and the gate hangs crookedly, black as charcoal.

A long, low, smoke-stained building, sprawling along the hillside below the caravanserai, appears to the south. Its thatched roof has miraculously escaped burning - though there are black patches across it. Thick lead-paned windows are dark. There is no one here.

Obvious exits:
Gathering House, Caravanserai, and Great East Road

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                           | Yfelwydan Time (YST) |
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** Real time is: Sun Mar 28 15:11:23 2010, GMT -8 **
Elendor time is: Twilight on a Cloudy Sterday, Day 14 of July 3049.
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The long miles between Bree and the ruined village have been hot and dusty, and thankfully monster-free. But this past day a cloud cover has crept over the sky, dimming the sun and bringing a bit of very welcome relief from the heat. Not that it is cool by any means, but at least it isn't so bakingly hot!

The villagers and those who have been hired (or have volunteered) to help have driven their wagons into a circle in the center of the greensward, and now are discussing where to start.

The forest lies silent. Then, somewhere in the distance, erupts the sound of squawking jays. The reason for the disturbance might be apparent to the keen-eared; the ground trembles to the faint rumble of wagons, coming along the path. Closer it draws - and then the first of them comes into view, drawn by a sturdy pony. Atop the wagon-seat sits a short, bearded form, a pipe tucked in his mouth - from it faint tendrils of smoke drift into the trees. Dwarves!

Beyond the circle of villagers' wagons, surely something stands guard against those who might seek to enter from outside. And something does: it is a tall figure in a green cloak, fair face obscured by a hood. A tall spear is in this person's hand, and she is unmoving -- situated next to two curiously planted rose-briars that seem not to have survived the devastating fire, but to have been planted while the village was deserted. Odd.

At the raucous call of jays, Tirloth steps to the crumbled wall, lifting her face to the driver in the wagon-seat with a question in her eyes.

Other noises the outlying forest has this day, spurred out from the shade of the trees by the combination of hapless travelers who have gathered, as well as the comfort of the overcast skies.

One of the forest inhabitants sits nigh the edge of the treeline, peering outward toward the circle of wagons and the newer ones that approach. Red eyes gleam hungrily, excitedly, but Rugar keeps quiet for now in the shadows. Slowly, purposefully, the little runt of an orc slips from his spot to begin a careful creeping toward this collection of disturbers.

"There, blast it," says one of the men, a stocky bearded fellow, pointing to the half-burnt Gathering House. "I won't hear no more about this house or that 'un - can't all of us fit in nobody's house and what're the rest supposed to do, I ask you? Sleep under the wagons and get eat up by goblins?" He glares around at the others. "We'll do up the Gathering House first, then we all got a place t'sleep and keep stuff, and it can be used for defense, too, if it come to it." His head turns at the sound of other wagons, and for a minute, he is taken off-guard - gawking at the dwarves.

Another, somewhat bigger, orc follows the runty one at a safe distance.

"Elves" grunts the foremost Dwarf, and the word is passed down the line. The wagons come to a halt - the foremost by those incongruous briars, the hindmost well back in the forest. A stirring, a muttering and then another Dwarf jumps down from his wagon-perch to stride forward to greet the watching Tirloth. "Good day to you, friend," he offers, giving her a deep bow so that his long brown beard almost dips the ground. "I see that much has changed about this place since our last visit. What goes on here?"

From inside the foremost wagon comes a grumbling voice. "What is it /this/ time?"

The clouds are massing overhead; likely there will be thunder to come later. One of the hangers on on the outskirts of the little group, a lanky fellow with skin more swarthy than most and dark curls falling forward over his face, squints at the long, low building. "Looks intact. Figure it wouldn't stand a ram, though. Or a few well-placed torches." A shrug.

In return, Tirloth bows briefly at the waist, a smile in her quiet voice. "You do not know, Master Dwarf? The Shepherding Village was burned to the ground two winters past, and now the villagers have come to rebuild it. The Elves keep their guard, as they have done before. Does trade bring you here?"

If the Hirvaethril notices the creeping Rugar, she does not move from the pleasantries.

    In direct defiance of whatever Dunadan ethos requires its adherants to skulk stealthily into town under cover of night, Talbinor walks into the remains of the Shepherding Village openly on the trail. His every step is slow, guarded, as if he is unused to being so overt in motion and is finding it a rather rich taste to get used to.

    Or perhaps it's simply that it's been a long time since his steps have stalked this neck of the woods. His hair has a few more flecks of grey than it used to, for even the Dunedain must age eventually. He is thinner, rather more gaunt, if there were any here who knew him well enough to make the comparison. Two things have not changed - he still shrouds his right arm beneath his cloak, curled up rather like a chicken's wing, and he still travels light, with only a small pack of essentials on his back and a beaten old longsword on his hip.

    Certainly no building supplies in that little store.

And as the line of Dwarves continues its emerging from the wood, Rugar likewise continues his happy observance at a fairly safe distance. One lopsided ear perks, and the orc turns a little to espy the second close by; he gives a hasty wave of his claw to his companion, pointing again excitedly to the gathering of people beyond. "There's almost one of everysthing!" the little creature squeaks, licking his cracked lips. For now he watches, still obscurred in the shade of the trees.

The first man whips his head back around before any sullen voices can break out in argument. "We're doing this one first," he says flatly, and looks around at each one there until they all nod in agreement. "Right, fine, Ferthir, we're doing that one. Let's get started then, what's it need most?"

Beside Brev, a slender lad stands looking around with a combination of fear and excitement on his face. Despite the heat, he always wears a long-sleeved shirt, and his left arm seems to hang oddly by his side. "I c'n climb th'roof," he volunteers, and looks startled by his own daring in speaking up. "See if it's sound..?"

The larger of two moves up at the wave and peers from behind his own tree, licking his lips and running an idle finger down the blade of a large axe. "One fer you an one fer me an one fer you an one fer me an..." he counts slowly, giving up in disgust after a while. "Garn! They keeps movin' about!"

The Dwarf brushes Tirloth's question aside. "We have travelled far, and the road has been hard. We travel to trade, and to visit the Halls of our kin, friend Elf. We do not generally concern ourselves with the affairs of Men-folk."

"And long may that continue," comes that grumbling voice from within the wagon again.

The leader-dwarf ignores it. "But it may be that we could assist in this endeavour. If the Elves give aid, shall the Dwarves stand aside?"

That seems to strike a chord with others in the group, for there is much nodding of head and wagging of beards. No Dwarf should be outdone by an Elf!

Needless to say, their attention is mainly on the village, and they have scant left for the woods behind.

Brev, the lanky dark-haired man, shakes his head. "If it's stood this long, it'll not collapse any time soon, not on its own. Treading up there might shift something - even with a weight like yours. Thought that Bree lass would've been feeding you up?" A smirk, swiftly gone as he frowns at the darkened windows. "Anyone actually checked the place out? Could be someone or something laired up before us." Clearly he does not trust - or else does not appreciate - the long vigil of the Elves.

"Enoughs," smiles the runty goblin, waving of the garble of the counting, "enoughs for both of us and moreover...Mens, and leaf-ears, and the stumpy ones with da beards!"

Rugar rubs his claws together, and moves one to tap impatiently at the quiver on his back. "Should wes go down there?" The orc looks nervous at this thought, dithering behind his own bole as he peers out.

"We have little to do with the building itself," says Tirloth uncertainly to the chorus of nodding beards. "I trust that the masterful work of the Dwarves would help them greatly. Excuse me," she says courteously to the head dwarf, casting a mild glance at Brev, and quick steps carry her beyond the walls: a spear is hefted.

Gidon nods, then looks away as a faint smile plays around his lips. And in looking, his eyes land on Talbinor, and stay there, watching the man warily as he comes into the village.

Ferthir gives Brev a sharp look, then jerks his head towards the building. "Go on then," he says. "You've the look of a fighting man."

But his companion shakes his head. "Idjit," he snarls. "An' how many sixes is you gonna kill all by your ownself? We waits. When it's dark an' they's sleeping."

    "I see," the Ranger says, standing on the periphery of debate for an instant of smirking self-satisfaction, "that I have arrived right in time as ever." He glances about at the ruins, and his usual smart-aleck smirks fades away into an expression of vague dissatisfaction, fingers stroking his chin for an instant's reflection.

    "I don't suppose anyone happens to be in charge of this little foray into civic engineering," Talbinor says, futily, to the air. "I was hoping to see a roof over my head for once, but given the circumstances I may have to settle for helping build one."

Masterful. The foremost of the Dwarves puffs up with pride at that word, barrel chest swelling and beard quivering. He gives Tirloth a polite nod of farewell, then marches over toward the one who seems to be the leader of the 'Men-Folk' - Ferthir. "Good day to you, Master," he offers, giving the man a bow. "Brarin son of Thrarin at your service. I understand there's building work to be done?"

Whilst he is talking, the awning at the back of the foremost wagon parts and another of the stumpy figures slides down - this one with a lopsided, oddly misshapen-looking beard and a bulky bandage swathed round his left shoulder. "If you want a job done right, do it yourself," the old miner Broddur grumbles.

Brev turns a sour look on Ferthir for his suggestion. "Signed on to build, not to run risks. But, suppose someone has to-" Whatever he was going to say fades at the signt of Talbinor. "That roof's sound enough." He jerks his head toward the former Gathering House. "So you're going to check the place out first? Wouldn't want to get in your way, you know." There is an almost mocking note in his voice.

"Fine," huffs the first uruk, frowning and grumbling his disappointment and irritation at having to wait. "Come, come dark, so wes can start." Rugar plops himself down at the base of his tree, and turns his scrawny body so he can see the gathering of meals down yonder. Absentmindely, he begins to scratch in the dirt with a black nail.

Ferthir watches the two men sardonically, until the dwarves interrupt him and he leaves it to the two of them to decide who will go inside and see if there are evil things lairing there. He turns to Brarin. "Aye, there is indeed," he says, waving a hand to the village. "As you see. The aid of the dwarves would be mighty welcome; everyone knows no one builds like they do."

Gidon is watching Talbinor still, and he has taken one prudent step back as Brev addresses the other man. The boy looks to be 15 or so, a scrawny lad almost as tall as Brev whose weight hasn't kept up with his new-grown inches.

Tirloth wanders a distance away from the voices of men and dwarves, perching upon a ruined wall-fragment. Her eyes are fixed upon the darkening roads ahead, though a slender brow is raised at Talbinor's relaxed arrival. Then she twirls her spear idly: if any outside would wait for the night, this elleth is waiting for them.

"Aye. Wait." The second orc squats down beside the first and goes back to counting, ticking off the tally by sliding twigs into one of two piles. "One fer you an one fer me an you gets that li'l skinny one an I takes that other un and another one fer you an..."

    Talbinor gives Brev a very slightly bemused look, although rarely for him he also holds his tongue. Instead he just turns his gaze upon the ex-Gathering House, where people today seem so loathe to gather. Regards it thoughtfully and then shrugs, or at least half-shrugs. Then a look back to Brev. "Thank you," he says, politely. No, you don't become a Ranger by rushing blindly where the Maiar fear to tread. At least, you don't -remain- a Ranger.

    A deep breath and, without another word to the multi-species crowd in the Village, he settles in rather by habit into a vigilant silence. That vigilance lets him notice eyes on him and he glances at Gidon, returning the youngster's look with a sober grey gaze. "Yes?" he asks, trying to sound polite and managing only 'not entirely put out'.

"I see that your need is great," the smooth-tongued Brarin answers Ferthir, casting a frowning glance around the ruins. "And never let it be said that the Dwarves are slow to aid, when aid is to be given! The folk of the Blue Mountains are no strangers to building. We will aid you here, as a gesture of goodwill between our peoples. It would," he adds pointedly, fixing the Man with his gaze, "be much appreciated if the gesture of goodwill was returned by, say, a waiving of the caravan fees for our folk."

The miner Broddur stops by the gate, eyeing the briars distrustfully, then starts to stomp along the perimeter. "Need to dig out that ditch," he announces to the air.

Gidon flushes and looks away. "Was just watching," he mumbles. Then he takes a breath and looks back. "Be you one of them rangers?" he asks. The next instant, a thought flickers over his face so clearly that he hardly needs to speak it. "But you could say you was and how'd I know?"

"Ehh?" Rugar's grimy face scrunches up, and he glances sidelong to look at the larger beast. "How come Is gets the skinny one? It'd be better for yous, I think, yesss?" He peers forward again from his hiding spot, and crimson eyes flicker as they move to see the Elf. "That one, Is wants dat one too! And, and dat one, and..." the voice grates on into a greedy lengthly list. Not one for sharing, is this one.

Brev snorts. "After you, then?" he suggests to Talbinor, already reaching round to free the spear slung at his back and peering into the darkness of the doorway without actually setting foot in it just yet. Cowardice? Prudence? Laziness? Who can say.

As Gidon speaks his gaze flicks in that direction, his features unreadable.

Ferthir eyes the dwarf consideringly, and fingers his own beard - nothing in comparison with that of Brarin's, but still! "Fees waived for your caravan," he stipulates. "We can't be living, if we let everyone stop for free!"

Quite unaware that she has been claimed as part of Rugar's dinner menu, Tirloth does not shift from her watch, appearing barely to listen to the goings-on.

Kark's eyes follow Rugar's to the elf and light up. "I gets that one," he argues, his hand stilling in its twig-counting. "Yer can have..." he looks around the camp, and nods towards two men on the fatter side. "Them two. They's fat, see?"

    Apparently, Talbinor has had this one before. "I am a Ranger," he replies to Gidon, utterly non-plussed, "but I don't have any way to prove it. No artifacts of ancient lineage and immense power or tales much more interesting than 'this one time I smacked a troll around with a sword until he died' and since I couldn't prove the tales anyway there'd be no real point. You haven't got any reason to believe me, and if you treat me as just some greasy guy sticking his nose where it's not wanted I shaln't be offended."

    Dropping his head back over his shoulder, Talbinor's reply to Brev is equally non-chalant, although this time the tone comes off a bit more mocking than sympathetic. "Well, now, I don't even know what I'd be walking into. I just got here. Presumably there is a reason people are leery of sauntering in there and I don't enjoy stumbling about in the dark."

Brarin's beard is longer, thicker, combed and plaited - altogether better! "And your people cannot be living without good strong walls to keep out the beasts, Master Man," he points out. "Fees waived for /this/ caravan" - he pauses to wave an arm in behind him - "in perpetuity. That is correct?"

Broddur has not waited to see how negotiations between Dwarf and Man will end - instead he is bent down, inspecting the perimeter ditch. Suddenly he straightens and tosses a large chunk of part-burnt wood away from him into the trees. "Faugh!" The throw is not strong, given he's using only his right arm - still, the wood flies a little way through the branches.

Gidon listens, half-frowning as he stares at Talbinor, then a sudden flash of a smile brightens his face. "Naw," he says almost shyly "If'n you be a ranger, truly, you can stick your nose anywhere you want."

Ferthir looks suddenly wary, and peers behind Brarin at the caravan, but he can see no trick, and finally he nods, slowly. "Aye. This caravan."

Presumably," Brev agrees with Talbinor, then seems to lose patience with the game. "Oh, for Kiern's sake. Someone light a torch, eh?" Spear now in his hands he strides toward the darkness of the doorway, then pauses just at the lintel to wait for his eyes to adjust, stooping a little.

"But, but," splutters Rugar, shooting his gaze back to Kark nearby. "The pointed-ears are tastier!" His grumblings are cut short, and he startles slightly as something flies into the trees close enough to catch attention. "Something's comin'?" The orc swivels his shaggy head trying to see. Whether or not he spies what he was expecting, his mouth still turns into a hideous fanged smile. "Ohh, that one, that one," he claps claws together, pointing now at Broddur. "I's wants that stumpy one!"

"Yeah, but you gets two an' I only gets one!" Kark argues, when the chunk of wood flies a little ways past his nose. For a second, he is cross-eyed, then he says irritably, "Fine, you can have 'im. I gets the pointy-ear AN the fatty."

    "Why, thank you." Talbinor bows some distance to young Gidon. "Few indeed are so accomodating. Even when I tell them I'm a Ranger." Pause. "-Especially- when I tell them I'm a Ranger."

    A couple steps towards the Gathering House, which Talbinor looks at more seriously than he usually looks at anything. With the slightest difficulty owing to his maimed right arm, the Ranger shrugs off his pack and drops it to the ground, unbuckling the specially-made straps and fishing out a much-abused but intact tin of torch fuel. "Well, if nobody will dispel whatever mystery hangs over the place... someone get me a stout length of wood, would they?"

Brarin gives Ferthir a long look, then rumbles, "'Tis agreed. So, Master, shall I bring our folk in that we may begin? And there should be a sharing of names between friends." Only now does he finger his own beard.

Broddur, down in the ditch, is blissfully unaware of the attention he has garnered. He continues to pick through the rubbish, tossing pieces out seemingly at random. The piece of blackened stone does not go far; the next item, however, is a long thin stick-like object that looks, if one were to see it close up, unpleasantly like a bone (though too small to be human). It is lighter and will stay airborne for longer.

Brev moves sideways so that he is no longer blocking the doorway; there is no further sound of footsteps, though, suggesting that he is awaiting Talbinor and his light.

Gidon only shrugs, for Talbinor is walking away. But he follows after, and when the man asks for wood, the boy darts to one side, returning with an ancient twisted treelimb. Then he steps aside, his right hand readying his sling - in case.

Ferthir nods in formal agreement. "Can park up yon by ours," he says, pointing to their own wagons. "I'm Ferthir, Fortan's son."

Evidently, the matter of who gets to eat which is an issue of more importance than the soaring piece of wood; the orcish arguing carries on. "Fine, fine," responds the uruk runt, waving his hand a little at the second creature, "but if you's must gets the Elf, I's still wants a leg, hear? Not fair, as you're gettin' the better food."

Rugar perks his ears again as the bone tossed by Broddur lands near his feet, and the goblin snatches it up quickly before his friend can. "Ha," he laughs, chewing on it with stained teeth, all the while watching the throwing-Dwarf and the others in the ruins.

"Then, Ferthir son of Fortan, well met!" Brarin gives a most polite bow, then gestures to the nearest of his kinsmen now approaching. "And there goes Norli son of Dorli, and ..." As the Dwarven wagons start to roll in to the ruins of the town, a long list of instantly forgettable Dwarven names follows.

Ferthir's eyes glaze over as he listens politely.

    Talbinor takes the limb, at first without a glance to whoever provided it, but upon setting it down he does chance to glance up at Gidon. "Much obliged," he adds, polite as ever if not exactly warm.

    A few old rags, kept for this purpose, are fished out of the pack, and by pinning the branch beneath his knee Talbinor wraps the rags around the branch without any difficulty. The tin of fuel is opened, the rags soaked with fuel. A flint is unveiled from the depths of Talbinor's cloak, as does his withered, long-maimed right hand: it grips a small steel knife hard enough for the Ranger to use it as a striking surface, getting the torch lit in somewhat convoluted but ultimately effective fashion.

    Letting the torch sputter on the dirt for a moment, Talbinor replaces his dagger, his flint, and his hand before plucking the torch up. "I'll go in first," he says to Brev, "but if I need to draw my sword I'd thank you if you'd take this torch out of my hand for me and keep it aloft." He doesn't sound worried, but regardless he takes precautions.

Gidon doesn't reply to the ranger's thanks, but he watches - his gaze going from the two men to the dark opening and back again - and he is suddenly still, gawking (that's the only word that fits!) at Talbinor.

With a twirl of her spear Tirloth, perhaps from lack of tasks to do -- or is it a genuine suspicion? -- leaps lightly from her wall and lurks into the shadows outside the village, soft steps silencing as the murmur of Dwarvish genealogies fades and harsher, hungry voices are at risk of being heard...

Kark glares. "Ain't no fair," he grunts. "How come I got to share an' you don't?" He turns his eyes onto the dwarf, watching him with great intensity - maybe he will throw another bone! And if he does, Kark means to have this one.

Brev had been out of view, just inside the doorway; at the sound of Talbinor's voice he slides back into line of vision. "Fine." His voice is low. "Not sure you will. Place stinks, though." Indeed, even at the doorway a faint musky odour can be identified. "Coming?" His left hand is held out for the torch; his right presumably still holds his spear.

"I's don't needs ta share 'cause you's don't needs none more," answers Rugar, his words garbled by the bone now protruding from his mouth. "Garn, I's eat yous if yous didn't taste so awful. Be plenty to go around, I warrant."

Being rather occupied with glaring hungrily at the larger orc, the runt is oblivious to the approaching Firstborn.

Another bone? Alas, Kark is to be disappointed, for next time Broddur straightens he holds only another stick of wood. When Tirloth leaps from the wall and away, he turns to peer after her. "Now, isn't that just like an Elf!" he exclaims, loudly enough to be heard by anyone or anything in the vicinity. "Running off when there's work to be done." He swivels as though almost minded to follow.

    Ranger-Sense is tingling, and Talbinor regards the entrance to the Gathering House warily. Unfortunately Ranger-Sense has rather poor resolution, and so he can give the exact same wary look to the sudden activity of Tirloth leaping off her wall. "What's she up to?" he wonders, rhetorically, and the voiced question gives him pause. But no use chasing wild geese. Better to investigate the big dark building that the kids are scared of.

    And, holding his torch aloft, in front of him in case he should run into anything, Talbinor steps into the Gathering House.

Tirloth comes a little closer to the orcs' shelter of choice, her eyes gleaming curiously underneath her hood as she raises her spear for a harpooning motion.

Talbinor's torch is met by a squeaking and a sudden flurry of wings. Brev, ducking down even before some of the rustling black shapes start to swirl round the men's heads, offers unapologetically to his companion, "Sorry. Forgot to say there's bats."

And then he freezes, for up ahead in the darkness, low to the ground, there is the glint of eyes. Wordlessly he gestures with the spear-tip, and backs up beside Talbinor. "Don't have mountain lions here, do they?" he murmurs softly, the bravado and mockery in his tone replaced by a sudden tightness - even if a lion that low to the ground would have to be no more than a newborn cub.

Kark ducks, and misses the elf's movement. And for being busy watching the dwarf, he doesn't notice right away that she is gone, either.

Several of the men standing outside flinch at the sudden outpouring of bats. Ferthir eyes them, scowling, and then barks, "Get a move on then, let's get the stuff out! Don't have to stand there gawping like a lot of children!"

For his part, the smaller orc is not as unaware to his surroundings, having refocused his sight back to the fore; but something glints cold in the dimmer shade, and suddenly there is a spear-wielding threat nigh. "Ehh, all yours!" cries Rugar to Kark, and he tries to scramble up out of the way of the elleth and her weapon. "You don needs to share no mores." He hands fumbles for a knife hilt.

    The only injury Talbinor suffers from the bats is to his dignity, as the fluttering and the sudden flurry of activity causes him to sweep his torch about in a quick arc, taking half a step back and dropping into a wide, fighting stance, preparing to deal with his unknown assailant until he realizes what that assailant is.

    "If there are any other little surprises," and this time his voice is like steel, "I'd appreciate your telling me in -advance- this time." Seeing that pair of eyes, Talbinor presses his thin lips together. "Not likely to be a mountain lion, no. Fox, maybe. Still best not to spook it." He takes a few steps to the side, drawing a circular course around the animal, getting closer while making sure he's not blocking the only escape route for whatever it is.

Broddur peers into the shadows whence Tirloth has gone, then sniffs. "Fine time to answer a call of nature." He turns back to his ditch-clearing for now, tossing the piece of wood he's holding over his shoulder and bending out of sight before he can see the glint of a spear.

"I told..." Kark is beginning complacently, when he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He stares for a second, and then grabs for his axe. "Come 'ere, you coward!" he cries. "It come out to us!" Take-out! In the wilderness! Who'd a thought?

Shooting a bright glance at the sniffy dwarf, Tirloth returns to her stalking. The spearpoint hovers dangerously forward, and the hirvaethril speaks in smooth Westron, perhaps made vinegary sweet by Broddur's comment: "How are you doing, gentlemen?"

The take-out delivers the heavy weapon directly toward the hungry orcs' hiding-place, hurled savagely from a shadowy arm.

By ones and twos, the men are unloading the wagon, though they glance over at the Gathering House surreptitiously as they work. Gidon hasn't gone with them though; he still waits outside the door off to one side with his sling at the ready.

Likely Brev hears the edge in Talbinor's voice. "I promise you, I'm as surprised as you." There is an odd huskiness in his tone - surely not fear? "Men weren't meant to go into dark holes," he mutters darkly, and then responds to the ranger's direction by stepping aside in the opposite direction, mirroring the circular path. He is away from the torchlight, though, and it is harder to see ...

Suddenly he curses, as his foot strikes against something soft. There is a harsh chittering, and the musky odour in the place strengthens tenfold as one of the pair of polecats laired here reacts to the 'enemy' in the way its kind knows best.

    Not every Ranger is a hidden princeling who always keeps himself ruggedly glamorous just in case he has to take over a throne at some point. Some are rather filthy men who are filthy in only the way that people who spend decades crawling through mud and fen can be. Talbinor is from this family, but even he has some standards. He gags, audibly, as those polecats identify themselves so effectively.

    Polecats are infamously vicious and intemperate creatures, to boot. And Talbinor's would-be torch-holder has walkd off in another direction. So he does the only thing he really can do: he throws that torch with considerable force at the now-revealed polecats, hoping to spook/burn them enough that they run for the relative light of the door out. And tugging on his longsword in case they run for him.

The little orc emits a new squeal, as he continues his attempts at diving out of harm's way; but he is not fast enough, for though the spear head grazes leather cloth and nicks skin, it pierces easily through the flimsy armor. In the midst of shock, excitement, and fear, Rugar peers blankly up to see the quivering shaft embedded in his tree -- with his leather tunic pinned 'neath it. "Well, come 'ere and get it then if you's still wants it!" the runt shouts to the second orc, though he himself raises knife in a pitiful attempt at defense from their attacker.

Grimhauken is standing with the wagons, directing the unloading. A large clutch of former residents are near him. He heaves some heavy sacks out of the back of a wagon.

"Don't just stand there, fellas," he says grumpily. "Join those of us who are working. We really need to get moving. The day's only so long, you know."

The stench rolls out the door, and Gidon coughs, his eyes watering. He stumbles back another step - then another and another; though he still tries to keep his sling at the ready.

Kark barely looks at where poor Rugar is pinned to the tree - he is too busy leaping forward and swirling axes and the like.

Ferthir turns away from talking to the dwarves and comes over to the wagons, jumping up into one and starting to hand things out.

Grimhauken grabs a bag that Ferthir throws down, and keeps at it.

He glares at a few fellows still not working, but not much, as he's too busy working himself.

Knife to meet knife: Tirloth pulls a long dagger from her belt, laying a hand on the other end of the spear-haft as she approaches pinned Rugar. "Only one? Truly, you must reconsider your numbers." The blade flashes forward, aiming for the poor orc's throat.

Brev does not gag as Talbinor had done, but his eyes are watering enough that he can barely see, and he has to raise an arm to blot at the tears, staggering a couple of steps back. The next instant a second, bitten-off curse follows, and his foot is raised to kick at a small, dark shape.

Fortunately, that kick is enough to convince one of the polecats that enough is enough, and its sinuous form arrows toward the doorway. The second beast, its mate, leaps clear of Talbinor's thrown torch and follows, though not before spraying the place (and the Ranger?) just as its fellow had done earlier.

It will be a noisesome night tonight in the Gathering House.

The glare galvanizes at least one idler into action, albeit a bit reluctantly - there! Something comes bolting out of the Gathering House, and Tarrel stands still, holding a bag and gawking before raising a shout.

Broddur, grunting with efforf as he clears branches, stones and other less savoury things from the town's perimeter ditch, stops suddenly and glances up at the sound of a bitten-off squeal. He squints in that direction, then cups his hands to his mouth and calls out, "Oi there! You all right?" A moment later, he adds, voice lowered to a mutter, "Not like an elf to get lost in the woods."

Grimhauken turns with a curse as he sees the polecat streaking right by. Fortunately for him, it's more interested in getting out of there than in engaging any more fellows in smellacious antics, but still ... he grunts.

Pausing just a moment to watch.

Gidon turns, ready to fling a stone at the polecat, but it is gone. He wipes his eyes, coughs again, and blinking furiously, turns back to the doorway - from a good further bit off than before!

"No, no! I don't wants leaf-ear no mores!" howls Rugar unhappily. His shoulder may be caught against trunk, but his neck is somewhat unhindered. He ducks as much as he can, while simultaneously swiping out wildly with his tiny dagger. "Away, get aways, nasty hurting thing!"

The Dwarf voice makes him twitch hungrily, and the uruk hisses unpleasantly.

    They will sing songs of Talbinor the Troll-Slayer vs. the Polecats. At least, they will once the smell has faded from memory.

    With the smell now a bit more up-close and personal, Talbinor has to hold his wrist to his mouth for a moment, biting his skin a bit to keep the sheer odour in the enclosed space from getting to him. Of course Rangers are used to bad smells, but a bad smell in the great outdoors is somehow better than a bad smell in a musky, dark, dust-covered hall.

    Taking a few steps forward to pick up his still-smouldering torch, the Ranger lifts the flaming branch and looks at Brev. "You all right?" But since he clearly isn't torn in half the Ranger sees no reason to linger in this hall any further, turning immediately for the exit and walking towards it perhaps a little too quickly.

Ferthir pauses too, in the middle of carrying a bag forward. He wrinkles his nose. "And we were planning on sleeping in there," he says wryly.

Kark takes the last step forward , swinging his axe in great sweeps at about waist level, at where the elf is.

"Oh?" asks Tirloth sweetly, a ghostly smile flitting over her lips. "But I want you very much -- to be dead, that is." Leaning in a little closer, though she avoids the flailing blade, she is poised to stab when the second windmilling orc's axe thuds into her side -- and the elleth is knocked aside with a cry, rolling quickly a distance away.

Brev's arm is still up to his face; he mutters something that might be an affirmative or might just be another curse. As Talbinor heads for the exit he stumbles quickly after, twitching slightly.

As Ferthir's comment reaches his ears his arm lowers enough to mumble a response: "You still can. No goblin'd endure /that/ stench."

Grimhauken grimaces. "Yeah. So much for sleeping in there."

He looks around at the ruined houses. Except for the Gathering Hall, none of them has a roof in good shape. "I guess we could patch up a roof on Arni's old place," he says dubiously. He turns back toward the wagon. "More reason to get a move on."

Broddur gets no answer - unless you count nameless cries and disturbances of branches to be an answer. "Hrm." Pulling his miner's pick into his hand, he starts to head for the place in the woods where Tirloth had gone. "Silly creature's likely got stuck in some brambles," he mutters ungraciously. He twists his head to peer this way and that, hissing as it jars the bandaged left shoulder.

"If you want to, you're welcome," Ferthir says as Brev nears. "Man, you stink!" His lips twitch in a smirk. Then he turns to Grimhauken. "Is it big enough?" he asks, a doubtful note in his voice.

Grimhauken considers the house with a smirk on his face. "Arni never DID add that extra room he kept talking about," he says finally. "Woulda been a waste of effort under the circumstances. But he managed to sleep in there with his wife, his sister and brother-in-law, his eight kids, and their five. They fit, sorta. We'd fit, too. Sorta. Will be a bit cosy."

The goblin-runt is left to breath a quick, if brief, sigh of relief as Tirloth is forced back. "Took you's long enoughs," growls Rugar to Kark, but then the first orc is busy tugging at the thick spear that pins tattered leather to bole. He thuds knife against the tree in frustration. His nose twitches again, and Rugar's crimson eyes widen. "Something more comes," but inside his fright there is the hunger still, now returned. "Something smelly, but easier to get a bite of, me hopes!" And the efforts to dislodge the elven weapon increase in intensity.

Kark emits a yelp of triumph as the elf goes rolling, and he wades through the undergrowth after her, chopping blindly at the ground in front of him as he goes.

    "Augh." Talbinor tugs off his meercat-marred cloak grumpily, tossing it onto his pack where it was set down front of the Gathering House. Kicking some of the dirt and ash into a pile, Talbinor thrusts his torch into it for want of a bucket of water, his nose seemingly permenantly wrinkled even with the cloak off. He shakes his head to clear the cobwebs, murmuring softly to himself about next time tossing the kids in first.

    But even so, he can't help but glance up at the rustling bushes, where unbeknownst to him the elf and the orcs do their wicked work. "What on earth -is- that?" he asks, but he does not go to investigate.

Brev's response to Ferthir's words is a shrug, and he occupies himself in drawing deep lungfuls of clean air, even tainted by the stench that seems to linger about him. "Rather stink than die, if it came to it." His gaze flicks to Grimhauken and he offers, "Want me to start working on the other house? Can, if you show me." Never mind the fact that he's still stinking of polecat.

A sudden grin flashes across Ferthir's face. "Better'n gettin' eat," he says succinctly. "Anyone don't like it in there, there's plenty of room out here!" He waves an arm around, taking in all the other ruined buildings and the wagons and the highly odiferous Gathering House.

Quick, panting breaths as the elleth dodges away from the ground-whacking axe, at last throwing herself off to the side. Rolling to a kneel, Tirloth dives for Kark's leg, attempting to drive the knife still in hand into the back of his knee.

Broddur, having now reached the edge of the trees, crashes through underbrush like a minature Oliphaunt - then pauses suddenly, frowning deeply at the sound of thrashing. "That you?" He pounds toward the motion - only to halt, gaping, as he is faced by not an elleth in distress but a small orc pinned to a tree by a spear. "Huh?" he mumbles, then, shaking his head, "Didn't even finish the job. I'll show you what a pick's for, you little runt!" His pick lifts high over his head and he swings it down.

Kark doesn't have time to look up or listen, and the dwarf (and Rogar) is left to his own devices. "Ha! Got you know!" he shouts, then yelps as the knifeblade buries itself in his calf. "HEY!" He twists, trying to get an angle to chop elf instead of fern.

Grimhauken glances nervously toward the trees. Not clear what's going on, but that there is sound and motion back there seems clear now.

"Garn," he says. "Can't trouble WAIT for once." He laughs nervously. "But I figure at least the clear ground's still mostly clear, so we can see stuff coming."

He turns, gesturing toward Arni's house. "That one," he says, indicating a hovel so miserable that even the destroyers of the village seem to have been half-hearted about finishing it off. "Like I said, cozy, but at least there's only three or four holes in the roof."

"A bite, a bite!" wails Rugar as Broddur comes into full view -- beard, pick, and all. "That all I's wants!" He gives a yelp of pain as the dwarf's weapon slices through armor like butter, and he shudders as black stains the grass. With no where he can ecsape to being thusly stuck, the orc kicks out with clawed feet to try and push the shorter and stouter assailant away. Kark and his own foe are obscurred from view, though their struggle drifts upon the air.

Brev turns toward the building indicated, and nods casually. "Sure. Compact." He squints at it. "I'll get started then .. oh, and Gidon - give me a hand, would you?" He jerks his head toward the lad, then murmurs to him, rather more quietly, "Got any spare trousers? These ... stink." He sends a rueful, commiserating glance toward Talbinor and the discarded cloak.

    The sounds of wailing and shouting and so on can't help but draw a Ranger's eye to a scuffe. And so Talbinor heads towards the shrubbery where elf, orc, and now dwarf bicker in their age-old fashion. He recognizes the voice of a yrch by now, and his longsword is out of its scabbard before he's there.

    If everyone is lucky, his new odour alone will be enough to drive off the attackers.

Gidon comes at Brev's call, stopping a few feet away, trying not to grin. "Aye," he says equally quietly, and veers towards a small pile of things, squatting to rifle through a bag.

Tirloth is quite steady on her feet by now, and discarding the dagger, slips past the range of the axe -- alas for the new fiddleheads and their brief lives. Eyes aflame with quiet anger, the elleth attempts to throw her arm about Kark's neck from behind, pulling backwards in a choke.

Broddur grunts in satisfaction as his pick strikes home. "That's more like it. Like a knife through but-" His satisfied murmur cuts off abruptly as one of Rugar's clawed feet catches him in ... well, a most undignified place for one of his stature. He falls backward, features twisted in a silent shout, his pick jerking free and dripping black.

Grimhauken nods. "Let's break up one of the wagons," he suggests. "The empty one. The floorboards ought to do about right to repair that roof."

Ferthir is still handing things out of the wagon, and now he rolls a barrel forward - the end of this lot of supplies.

Kark struggles a moment, his axe having bitten deep into the ground. Before he can pull it out, strong arms slide around his neck, and he lets go his axe haft to pry at the elf's forearms with his clawed fingers.

He certainly has neither time nor opportunity to notice that yet another enemy is approaching - though Talbinor's odor goes before him.

[Ollie(#15066)] Ferthir straightens, catching Grimhauken's words, and nods. "Good plan. Thought I saw..." He turns, looking through the piled up things, then comes up with a hammer and crowbar. "There."

[Bagaglok(#24847)] "Ha!" sneers Rugar through a grimace as he watches Broddur topple. "That's much better. Crawl in the mud like the worm that your ilk are." Then his twisted face deforms even further as he ponders. "Maybe you'd still go well with spices, ehh?" The goblin raises his knife and begins hacking away at his leather tunic to free himself.

The progress comes to an instant halt, however, and he claps hand over nose, pulling a greatly disgusted expression. "Somethin' stinks for sure this time." Rugar tried to swivel his head around to get a look, but the tree is in the way, and he curses.

[Talbinor(#24201)]
    Talbinor, naturally enough, decides to kill the mouthy one.

    It takes some effort from Talbinor to get around the tree and through the shrubbery, but when he does there's no introduction or one-liner. He's been doing this for a long time and he's rather used them up. Instead, rounding on Rugar rapidly, he addresses the orc trying to cut his way free by swinging his longsword and trying to cut his hand off. The swift, economic movements of the veteran butcher.

Grimhauken gives another nervous glance toward the woods, and puts a hand on his sword hilt. "Yeah, well let's get to work," he says, picking up a crowbar. "Quick, but let's not waste any of the wood. Don't think we're gonna want to wander into the woods for a while, eh?"

A grimace. "Pity we've got so few sheep at the moment. What's left of the herds are still back at Bree. No way we're gonna try running them across the Shaws AGAIN till we have a safe place for'em.

He finds a board, and begins prying.

"Maybe for the best," he muses. "Till we have the defenses up, sheep would attract trolls."

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
Meanwhile, Tirloth allows herself a small smile, tightening her choke-hold on Kark's throat. The orcish claws score the leather vambrace wrapped about her arm, drawing no reaction of pain, only annoyance and persistence -- though the elleth turns a violent shade of green as the musky Ranger comes within range.

Brev, half an ear for Grimhauken's words, nods without looking round - he's watching Gidon with an impatient expression on his features. He glances down at his trousers then hastily away again - if he doesn't look down, the smell is distinctly lessened for him - and murmurs, lips twitching, "These things certainly don't last long. First that Breewoman, now it's overgrown ferrets. One of them scratched me, too."

Broddur, features still twisted in a grimace of pain, draws breath to splutter at Rugar, "Reckon it's your filthy feet. Time to fix that." And, pulling himself to his knees, he swings the pick again in a wobbling one-handed arc aimed for the little goblin's legs. As he swings, he coughs - yes, something stinks.

His eyes widen, almost horrified, at the sight of Talbinor.

[Ollie(#15066)] Ferthir nods, and crawls underneath to start hammering upward, knocking boards loose so they can be pried up.

[Ollie(#15066)] The boy is back after a minute, holding out a pair of pants, that might be long enough... They didn't fit Gidon all that well to start with (which is probably a good thing, for the purposes of Brev fitting in them!)

[Ollie(#15066)] Kark gargles, gagging at the smell, then heaves himself forward, hoping to spill the elf over his head.

[Grimhauken(#17304)] Grimhauken's ability to ignore smell appears to be legendary. Maybe it's all the sheep he's handled through the years.

[Bagaglok(#24847)] For once, no further words does the runty uruk yield as the Dunadan slices out, and only a sharp cry follows as hand is sundered off and falls to the ground, the knife still clutched therein. Rugar does however, manage a weak hoping motion while trying to snatch at the weapon with a foot -- while unsuccessful, it causes the blunt of the dwarven attack to miss and claim tree. Only a thin line of blood trickles from legs, while the handless wrist is another matter...

Wide red eyes peer up in hate and fear at Talbinor. Still the second hand holds nose shut against the smell.

Brev sends a lopsided grin in Gidon's direction. "Good lad. Now, if you'll excuse me a moment ..." He reaches out for said item of clothing and moves off behind one of the burnt-out buildings. He's learned the hard way that these northern folk react oddly to the sight of unclad human flesh.

[Talbinor(#24201)]
    Talbinor is pretty foul, but really, worse than increasingly dismembered orc? That's a lot of reek to overcome. Probably wouldn't want to be the poor dwarf caught between them, of course.

    An apologetic look down to Broddur. "Had to drive a meercat out of the gathering house," he says, audibly apologetic, even as he swings his sword over his head to try and seperate Rugar's head from his shoulders. Could he be more casual about it?

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
Tirloth is no lightweight and refuses to be tossed over Kark's head. Instead, her arms draw closer in a sort of death-hug, twisting suddenly to one side in an effort to snap the neck -- the takeout is tired of waiting, and her demeanor grows cold.

Broddur stares at Talbinor, goggle-eyed and still coughing. He scrambles to his feet, and as the ranger's sword comes down he stumbles back out of range. "I'll .. uh, let you finish the vermin, then," he growls. Not as if he was asked.

[Bagaglok(#24847)] A new terrified squeek comes from goblin throat as the Dunadan's sword returns for a second gift -- this next hit promising to not be quite as fleeting. Quickly, desperately, the remaining claw shoots up to fumble for a long hanging branch. Rugar pulls with whatever strenght he has left to bend it back, aiming it hopefully to the incoming blade-wielding hand. He lefts the bough fly, snarling upward at the human all the while.

[Ollie(#15066)] Crack. Kark goes suddenly limp - and if he couldn't throw Tirloth over his shoulder by muscle, quite likely his weight will drag her down, if she doesn't let go fast enough. He is not so lucky as Rugar - who is yet able to fight back.

[Talbinor(#24201)]
    Little -too- casual there, Talbinor. The branch is just a branch, but it's enough, contacting his left hand sharply. Unable to scoop the sword with his other hand, Talbinor has little recource but to let his longsword fall to the ground, settling lightly on the foilage. The Ranger curses in a way that would have made even his most Melkor-worshipping Numenorean ancestors at least cringe.

    Rather than bending over and picking his sword up like an idiot, the Ranger attacks like a different sort of idiot, putting his good shoulder down and charging at Rugar, putting every pound of his wirey frame into trying to bowl that orc over backwards.

[Bagaglok(#24847)] Alas, for backwards Rugar cannot go -- there is still the tree in the way which he is speared against. He gives a shout, as he realizes what is about to happen. "No, no--" but his wailing is muffled as his scrawny form is flattened into the trunk by the Man's charge. Surely, with his foe so close, this'd be a perfect opportunity for a quick bite is the orc was not worried as much with the breath getting knocked out of him, and the stench that is suddenly all round. Still, he claws vainly for human shoulder.

Broddur, the coughing finally halting, shakes his head as Talbinor - apparently for no reason - drops his sword. "Men," he mutters sourly, "just don't know how to finish a job." And, louder, aimed at Talbinor, "If you don't want to finish it off, get away so I can give it a taste of the pick!"

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
Having tumbled to the ground along with the recipient of the embrace, Tirloth picks herself up slowly, dusting her gloves with a chilly glare at the body of Kark. She stoops to retrieve the dagger, then makes a beeline for the village, dripping blood ignored, hopefully out of the smelly Ranger's aroma.

[Ollie(#15066)] Ferthir, having made his way along the bottom of the wagon from one side to the other, crawls out and starts prying from the top. Each board is stacked on the ground as he gets it loose.

Grimhauken curses and sweats as he works. And keeps glancing nervously up at the woods, even though there are folks stationed on guard.

[Ollie(#15066)] Ferthir stops, wiping sweat from his face, and stretches; then raises his voice in a shout. "Hoy! Somebody come help me carry these!"

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
A tall figure, marked by long brown tresses and a grey cloak shrouding his slender form, bends to the pile of freed lumber on the ground. "I shall carry it to that house?" he asks of Ferthir, a mild smile upon his elven-fair face.

[Talbinor(#24201)]
    That'll do. Talbinor is much, much less casual this time. Half a step back to get back to his trusty blade. Keeping his eye on the orc and his centre of gravity low, he grabs hold of Duceber. Fingers curl and then his sword swings again. One long, solid, and above-all strong arc, which with Talbinor so low down would connect with Rugar approximately between his legs and continue up through his torso until Talbinor ran out of momentum.

    Tugging a sword out of an orc is difficult. But much less difficult than pulling it out of the orc as well as the tree he's been impaled to. He doesn't always look it, but Talbinor thinks things through!

[Ollie(#15066)] "Aye," Ferthir grunts, as he lifts his own share, and starts towards the house. "Roof," he explains, economically.

[Bagaglok(#24847)] Up, up, and up the longsword cuts, slicing orc in twain; a gruesome death for certain, albeit a swift one. A final cry parts black and grimy lips, and the hapless creature struggles even as that fell blade ventures nigh chest. Black flows in torrents, and the uruk's hand reaches..

And falls limp. The little monster is dead.

Broddur, watching from the sidelines, nods approvingly. "That's more like it." He eyes Talbinor, and then his brow wrinkles. There's /still/ that smell ... "Best check there's not any more of the little maggots about. Then I'll be getting back to that ditch."

Intent stated, he moves away.

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
Tirloth trudges wearily within the walls, a cold gaze cast to the ground, lest she have to speak to anyone; then, she sits down on a rock with a sigh and begins to dress the wound.

Nurenhir lifts a mild eyebrow at his kinswoman, but stacks a few planks upon one shoulder and walks towards the house in question, balance impeccable.

[Ollie(#15066)] Ferthir struggles by comparison, trying to balance the long boards as well as carry them himself. When he reaches the house, he sets the boards down, leaning them against the wall, then looks up at the roof. "Don't look too bad, aside from them holes," he comments.

[Ollie(#15066)] But there doesn't seem to be a ladder... the man scratches his head, trying to remember, then calls back to the wagon. "Did we bring a ladder?"

[Talbinor(#24201)]
    "Ah, about time..." Talbinor braces his foot against what's left of the orc, pulling his sword out the way it came from where it eventually lodged in Rugar's ribcage. The sounds are almost as nasty as the odour, and eventually the Ranger wrests Duceber free from its once-living prison. He turns to walk away, then thinks better of it, cutting the orc off the tree as well and dragging the carcass a short distance into the woods.

    Then, back into the Shepherding Village, rubbing his sword on his tunic as he walks to get the worst of the ichor off before sheathing the blade. "Bloody Shaws orcs," he murmurs, shaking his head as if disappointed in himself for taking so long.

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
"No matter," replies the long-haired Elf Nurenhir cheerfully, already probing the wall of the house for climbing-nooks. "I shall find a way up there, and you can pass them up. Though a rope might be fashioned to make the pulling-up easier..."

[Ollie(#15066)] "Oh, aye," Ferthir says, looking blankly at the elf and then at the wall. Whatever... "Rope, we got." He looks around and catches sight of Gidon. "Here, boy, run bring us that rope from that last wagon." He points to the only one still unloaded, though men are already starting to work on it.

[Ollie(#15066)] The boy looks up, then nods and runs off, coming back a little later with a coil of rope. He hands it to Ferthir, while looking over his shoulder at where the Ranger is wiping his sword on his clothes. "Was it orcs?" he wonders.

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
The Elf has clambered to head-height by now, long fingers searching for cracks and fissures in the broken-down house. He looks briefly down to see if rope has been fetched.

[Ollie(#15066)] "Eh?" Ferthil says to Gidon, taking the rope and not looking around. He's not so interested in orcs - there's a roof to fix! He hands the rope up to the elf, shaking his head at the sight of him clinging to the side of the house like some sort of spider or something.

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
"Thank you," says Nurenhir, and proceeds to scale the wall. The grace of the Eldar is swift and effortless, and soon the Steward sits upon the roof with feet dangling over the precipitous edge, tying the rope securely to a sturdy beam. "Now if a pulley could only be fashioned ..."

[Ollie(#15066)] Ferthir looks around again, making an abortive move to scratch his head again. "Dunno if we brung any of them," he confesses. "Drop down the rope and I'll tie the boards on."

[Nurenhir(#14756)]
The Elf does so, leaning precariously over the edge of the roof with a smile. "It would be helpful if one of you could join me. There is a rope to climb." Although it looks quite dangerous.

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon looks up and then shakes his head. "I can't climb it," he says, in a low voice, and makes a small motion with his left arm. "I can tie them on..."

Ferthir glances at the boy but says nothing; though he eyes the rope with trepidation. "Give it a try," he says reluctantly. "D'ruther have a ladder..."

[Talbinor(#24201)]
    "Just don't look down," says Talbinor, helpfully appearing out of nowhere to shout empty platitudes at the boy facing a precarious scale. "It's most important to concentrate on each individual step, rather than the whole task of climbing. Figure out where each leg and each hand must go, one at a time, and the rest will follow."

    The Ranger looks up at the elf on the roof. "I could head up, but I'm not much of a carpenter I'm afraid."

[Ollie(#15066)] Gidon shakes his head, uncertainly, but looks at the Ranger then down at his hand. "With just one hand?" he asks Talbinor. "How'd you do it? I - " He hesitates, then continues, "Can't lift m'arm much, see."

Ferthir, with more bravery than sense, has strode up to the rope and taken hold of it - and stuck, one arm's pull off the ground. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his legs, and dangles a few feet up.

 

Scene fades here?

 


Date added: 2010-03-29 05:05:42    Hits: 71
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