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Warg attack!

Tags: Formin,  Farak,  Graim,  Grimbeorn,  Eirdis,  Sachem,  Bagurat,  Witch-king,  Warg Captain,  Haldir,  Grugnuk,  Little Pup

Short Summary: An army of no less than five hundred wargs battles the Beornings and Dwarves that defend the outpost.
Date (real-life): 2010-09-04
Scene Location: Beorning Outpost

Outpost in Ruins
Halfway through a reconstruction effort, the Beorning people's outpost is rising from its own ashes. The wide dirt ramparts remain from before, the sturdy stone base also still suffices. But where the old fort was build from head to toe with Dwarves joinery, it appears that great logs are the choice this time around for the walls, due to their availability on the mountain's slopes, the expediency with which construction can then take, and the possible lack of Dwarven labor and guidance to effect more lasting and strong stone joinery.

Warg Captain(#27822VnvwB)
Obvious exits:
 Northeast leads to Anduin Valley - West of the Carrock.
 North leads to Vales of the Anduin.
 Northwest leads to Vales of the Anduin.
 Storage Shed leads to Storage Shed.
 Headquarters leads to Headquarters.
 Barracks leads to Barracks.
 Southwest leads to Western Vales of Anduin.

[+TIME] Middle-earth time is:
Dawn on Trewsday, Day 9 of November.
Execute the +TIMEFRAME command for year information.

Real time is: 17:37:43 MDT on Sat Sep 04 2010.

Dawn breaks upon the eastern horizon, peeking over the distant line of Mirkwood to tickle the feet of the mighty Hithlaeglir, but no merry morn is this that comes to the Outpost maintained by the Beornings. For the night has been filled with noise and dread; fierce howls and bays of menace echoing across the Anduin and drawing closer with every passing hour, and now their source is revealed in the sun's light.

Wargs have come, bidden no doubt by the dark will that lurks now with the Mirkwood, and no small pack indeed stands arrayed for battle. Five hundreds at least of the savage beasts prowl across the naked plains surrounding the Outpost, and they move with a deadly purpose as they close in. A few of their number sport uruk riders, blades and hammers resting in palms as they spur their mounts on, cursing at the daylight, but most wear little more than feral gazes and ravening rows of teeth.

On they come, loping as though in march, and drawn up into crude ranks they approach the stockade long held by the folk of Grimbeorn against foes from the mountains. Dawn breaks, but may be merely a herald for a dark day indeed.

[Graim(#20753)]         Within the Beorning Outpost, the Dwarves of Erebor are active. Dwarves, some one hundred of them, are either running to and fro prepping for combat, standing in formation upon the ground or atop the rebuilt walls alongside Beorning archers, their long bows held ready. The deep voices of the Dwarves fill the air, mostly with shouted orders.

        Atop one of the walls is the Chief Master Veteran Graim the Younger. He looks out over the approaching warg horde, mace and shield held ready, the visor of his helm up. A grim smile plays about his lips and he lets out a sigh. "All right, then, lads?" Says he to the Dwarves near. "'Tis simple: bash their skulls and move onto the next one. No idling to play with them! Kill and move on!"

Upon the left flank of this sizable host of wolfish creatures is a gaunt silver beast, and as it pads along amongst its fellows the large ears swivel and twitch in the air at the noises from the outpost ahead. Its bushy tail flicks back and forth, back and forth restlessly, and it licks its stained lips with a blood-red tongue.

[Formin(#26827)] Facing west upon the ramparts of the rebuilt outpost stands Formin son of Forlin, silent and still a carven figure. No jesting does he partake in now, for he stands much as he has for the past hour, immobile as he listens to the howling and baying that rends the night. For those close enough to perceive it, his eyes are dark and tired, beshadowed by sleepless hours. He is armed and garbed for war and has positioned himself not far from Graim.

"Well, Chief," says Formin heavily, cocking a brow at Graim. "Seems we get to test Chief Morlim's defenses right quick, eh? Mind you, they better do the trick. I'm inclined to think that we may be rather outnumbered, don't you?"

         Nearing the Silversmith and the Chief Master Veteran is the Dwarven Priest Farak, dressed in his crimson robes with chain mail beneath, helm upon his head, shield upon his back, and Mace hanging at his hip.. As he nears the two dwarves he knows well he says "Tis going to be a dire night it would seem.. Maker strengthen these walls.." Stopping but a few feet from the silversmith he turn and looks out into the darkness a grim look upon his face.

As the noble khazad debate the strength of their defenses, the warg host lope on, and as the dawn's light catches upon their gazes it would seem to kindle a fire within each. Skirting west and then north they approach the Outpost from the south-east, and once more are the defenders granted the sound of their howls and bays.

Barks and growls in whatever crude tongue is gifted to them carry signals, and one or more splinter groups, each two-dozen at least veer away as though to search the walls for a weak point. But the main force marches on, a snarl of relish coming from the lips of one of the orc riders, and by now the pad of their feet can be heard upon the gravelly ground.

One among them stands tall and menacing; a massive white beast wearing a muzzle littered with scars, and though he remains silent as yet, all lupine eyes turn to him ere moving forth. Cruel, cunning eyes watch the approach, and the white warg snarls the equal of the orc. Here, it seems, is one given command over the others.

[Graim(#20753)]         "The walls will stand," says Graim, voice firm and certain. "These flea-bitten, carpets on legs will not break this stone work. As to the numbers... pah! Numbers are meaningless." As the Chief speaks, the Beorning bowmen ready themselves, putting arrows on bow strings and drawing their great weapons back.

[Formin(#26827)] "Dire, pah!" Formin scoffs, taking comfort in his familiar sarcasm as once more the sky echoes with the sound of hundreds of eery howls. "They've likely heard what a bore it is at these military installation types and have come to entertain us. In fact, I'll wager that scoundrel Burmil called for them after I bested him at a ninth card game of Dead Man's Drop. Gauranteed! By the Maker, some people can't bear to lose, eh?"

And yet he shifts from foot to foot restlessly, eyes flicking to each side as splinter groups break away from the main body of the charging wolves. The ring of iron sounds as the silversmith draws forth his short broadsword and then slowly pulls his shield down from his back. "And in any case, I always enjoy a good game of Beat the Beastie, eh?" He lifts his voice to the wind. "And I'll best the lot of you at that too!"

A few of the wargs that have broken off from the main horde to scout out the defenses dare a close enough dart to reach a section of the wall, and its logs are subjected to testing scratches and swipes from lupine claws.

Meanwhile the silver wolf slinks onward, sidestepping a little to draw closer to the white leader. The frenzied crimson eyes are cast into a greater gleam as a nearby orc rider sets flame to arrow point, and the burning dart is drawn back as its wielder sights down its length. The dwarves are not the only ones bearing bows.

The slink of the silver warg is watched by the white, and a muscled neck dips in greeting or assent; it is hard to tell which. Three short barks and a low snarl are all the orders given by the massive white beast, and his claws rake the gravelled earth beneath him eagerly. Jerking his head as though for the silver warg to follow the white leader moves forward, stepping beyond the front line of the savage beasts, and loosing a harsh howl of challenge.

The warg host halt for a moment, all eyes trained upon the outpost and its defenders, and the orc archers bend their bows as each brings a flaming arrow to bear, given the signal by their fellow.

The air stills, the vale quiets, and Middle-earth itself seems to hold its breath.

[Graim(#20753)]         "Some folk do hold grudges, 'tis true," agrees Graim, moving a hand to close his visor. "Well, these will die like everyting else. Arms and shields up, lads!" Shouts the Chief, bringing up his own shield as the Beornings release their arrows to rain down upon the wargs and orcs.

[Formin(#26827)] Once again Formin is brought to silence, his wit dying upon the air as it falls silent with the absence of howling. As the pricks of flame flicker into life in the still dawn light, Formin does indeed hold his breath, glaring out upon the army of wargs and riders with a defiance that is unusually serious for the silversmith. And then, when the silence seems to drag on for what feels an eternity, suddenly sword clangs against shield and Formin lifts his voice above the ramparts.

"Well they're a bit thin, but as I haven't eaten breakfast yet, they'll do! Come on then!"

A jerk of its head in a nod, and the silver warg slows to fall in line behind the larger white beast. A baying of wicked excitement and anticipation is let loose to join with the other, and then the wolf pauses as the horde halts in waiting.

The first orc-archer holds the string back for a fraction of a second longer, and then there is a sharp twang as the fiery delivery is released, arcing high into the air as it seeks to land amid the outpost. But alas, just as this is shot, a dwarven shaft strikes true and pierces leather armor. Down the rider slips from his mount, and there is a momentary distraction in that area as several of the hungerer wargs seem tempted to surround the fallen uruk.

And as one the wargs charge as the orc goes down, fangs bared and claws grinding the earth beneath their paws as they spring into action. Down the Beorning arrows hail, but swiftly can these beasts of Mordor move, and few are where they were when the darts were aimed; a rabble of pained howls go up into the morning air but otherwise the host seems little harmed by the first salvo.

On they charge, streaking for the walls of the Outpost, led by their white and silver lieutenants as they close in. All about the walls the scouts still seek entrance, and ere long the Outpost is surrounded by a moat of swarming bodies.

The white warg looses a fresh baying then, and his cunning eyes fix upon the gate -- his powerful frame carrying him forth to test its fastness.

[Graim(#20753)]         Dwarven craft is not so easily defeated by charging wargs, and though the gate shudders under the impact, it does not break open. The Beornings continue to launch arrows down upon the wargs and their riders, a few brought down by the orc fire. The flaming arrows that land in the outpost hit little that catch; given that much of the inworks are of stone.

        Graim brings up his shield to block a few arrows, lowering afterwards with a grin under his visor. "Come, ye mutts! My mace is eager to meet your skulls!"

[Formin(#26827)] Up comes Formin's shield as the fire arrows fly and he kneels slightly, such that his body is fully covered by wall and shield alike. One arrow clatters away, but falls to the rampart underfoot. "Put out any fires!" he yells as other arrows similarly fall, and Formin stamps upon the barb until the flame is exstinguished. "Alas, I believe now may be the time to descend from our magnificent ramparts," Formin sighs, already turning from them to find the stairs down. It seems he intends to meet the wolves head on if and when they find a break in the defenses.

The charge is dreadful to behold indeed, for voiced within all those howls and cries is intelligence, malice, and bloodlust. Theses monsters care little for their comrades -- the fallen are swiftly trampled without a second thought. The wolf-scouts brave leaps at the walls, reaching out with knife-sharp claws to tear and scrape against the strong logs that bar their way. But none of them linger in one spot for long, and soon their forms are furry blurs as they dash hither and thither in their efforts.

The silver warg tails after the white, his own pace decreasing in speed as he observes with crimons eyes to see if his leader's rush against the gate is successful. And when it proves not, the feet rip and rend the earth as the second creature supplies a charging bash of his own in the hopes of creating entrance. Behind them, a handful of flaming arrows vaults through the air, whoosing by with hellish streaks of light. It appears some of the orcs have gotten more cunning, and now many of the darts are aimed for the wooden walls...

The eyes of the white warg narrow too as they espy the failed assault upon the gates, but with a low growl he nudges his silver-maned companion and jerks his muzzle upward. High atop the newly-hewn battlements the Beorning archers can be seen, but so too might the remnant of the dwarven improvements; a rough scaffold left in neglect or by mistake still hugs one portion of the wall. A rough bark of the white beast seems likely a suggestion to his silver comrade, and a nod to a small group nearby indicates his intent.

This done he snarls savagely to the others around him, and as a mass of mottled bodies they hurl themselves against the gate once more. One by one and two by two they crash against it, some bones snapping in the hurly-burly, but the workmanship of the Dwarves is being tested indeed.

[Graim(#20753)]         "Square formation!" Shouts Graim to the Dwarves below as the wargs continue to attack the gate. Beornings continue to rain down arrows upon orcs and wargs, and Graim makes his way towards the stairs as well as the Dwarves finally get into formation.

        "Brace up, lads, brace up!" Shouts he to the Dwarves. "Prepare to kill them all!"

Poised upon a large orc next to the warg commander is an orc ranked dog, he wields a short bow, letting fly flamming missiles into the outpost, his red eyes gaze with a malicious joy as he wreaks havoc upon the settlement.

[Formin(#26827)] Clambering down the steps, Formin finally comes to ready, sinking back easily into a defensive position. A number of dwarves hurry to shore up the shuddering gates, but the wooden barriers were created to withstand raids from the mountains, not an army of wargs. They shiver and shudder, shaking under the force of the countless canine bodies thrown against it. It groans loudly, even as logs are thrown up against to brace the structure and dwarves set shoulders to the thing.

And then it comes. A high-pitched squeal followed by a rippling of small snaps, then CRACK.

The shuddering gates fall inwards, spraying splinters, clay, wolves and dwarves into the outpost. For a fraction of a second, all is chaos, and then the defenders within seem to realize what has happened, for then a hundred dwarven voices raise in defiance.

The white warg's scheme appears to be understood, and the silver wolf crouches lower into the grass as he lopes forward in a zig-zag pattern for the piece of forgotten scaffolding. Arrows rain down all about, and a yelp is bitten back as one of them steals into the beast's shoulder. But determindely he slinks on, and once he has drawn near enough to the building structure, the wolf settles himself onto his hindlegs. Fur bristles as he prepares for a leap, and then up he goes, the great paws flying out to find purchase upon one of the scaffolding boards.

And even as the gate finally breaks, sharp nails find a hold, and the warg hoists himself upon the lowest wooden ledge. The silvery head turns for a moment to determine the location of the white leader.

As the roar of the Dwarves hits the invaders, it is met with the fierce baying of the wargs, and teeth are bared once more as they catch sight of the steel of Erebor. Strength they seem to reckon in numbers, for while their charge is halted for a moment by the stern defiance of Graim and Formin's khazad they are not held at bay for long. Lupine shapes charge and spring into the fray, frenzied eyes glaring as their jaws snap for whatever Dwarven flesh they can find.

Meanwhile the silver warg is not alone, for a good dozen of the beasts follow suit and as they lope away the white warg is left alone at the rear.

His eyes train upon Formin as the mighty Silversmith sallies forth, and with a snarl of relish he pads forward with intent. A third howl of challenge erupts from his throat into the morning air, but this seems reserved for Formin alone, and with his lope quickening into a charge he closes the distance between them. Mighty shoulders heave as the beast leaps into battle, and the claws of the warg captain seek to tear out the noble Dwarf's throat if they can.

Warg Captain attacks Formin with its massive paws!

Warg Captain attacks Formin, but Formin parries the attack with his shield!

[Formin(#26827)] But can they cannot. As the white warg's claws leap for Formin's throat, the silversmith's shield lifts quickly and knocks them away with a clatter of claw on iron. The warg is far quicker than an orc, however, and Formin's usual taunting seems absent this day as he saves his breath. He wastes not a second in shoving the beast away with his shield, which is quickly followed by a downward hack with the brutal short broadsword. This aims to land between the white captain's shoulders.

Formin attacks Warg Captain with his Short Broadsword, but he misses by a handspan.

[Graim(#20753)]         The Chief's trip down the steps is aborted as the Dwarves and Beornings near the scaffolding cry out as the wargs begin to make their way up. It is there that Graim runs to now, mace in one hand and his shield held before him. "'Ware the walls!" Cries Graim to alert the rest of the Dwarves; the Beornings continue to rain down arrows.

Up and up the silver warg climbs upon the neglected structure, leading the way for the others that follow. Splinters are sheared off under their cruel claws, and one of the boards threatens to topple under the weight. Two of the wolves swiftly relocate to a lower board, seeking a different path with sturdier footing; meanwhile a couple more of the creatures shriek and truly tumble to the ground, dwarven shafts protruding from their necks.

There is a silver streak, and with a mighty spring the first beast lands upon the top of the wall. He pauses for an instant, crimson eyes flashing here and there until they espy the form of Graim. The warg's body tenses, and a single growl is send forth as if in challenge. The tail flicks from side to side mockingly, and behind a handful of his comrades slip onto the rampart as well. These snarl viciously at the khazad defenders that accompany the Chief.

Sachem has arrived.

The melee in the gateway becomes savage and fierce quickly enough; claws and fangs duelling with the hammers and axes of Erebor, and more than one mottled corpse is thrown down by the might of the Dwarven defense. But no mere wolves are these, no scavengers and cullers of the herd's weak -- the snarls of the invaders redouble as they see their fellows fall, and the Children of Durin are hard put to it under the weight of their assault.

Meanwhile the white warg proves nimble indeed, for as Formin's blade cuts out the beast rolls to one side; cruel eyes watching the khazad's feet as he circles about. Quick as a flash the warg captain lunges forth, jaws snapping as they seek to clamp upon the Silversmith's ankle.

Warg Captain attacks Formin with its massive paws!
Warg Captain badly wounds him!

[Formin(#26827)] "Ah!" Formin cries out, the warg captain's attack bringing him crashing to his knees. Jaws lock onto the silversmith's unprotected ankle, slicing through boot and flesh alike. Formin's ankle quickly spouts a flash of blood and the dirt underfoot is stained red, but it is the force of the wolf's lunge that brings Formin to his knees, jerking him halfway around as he falls. Yet the silversmith growls under his breath, "Not nice!" and quickly pulls back his short blade. Then his lunges forward, driving the tip of the blade towards the warg's white haunches.

Formin attacks Warg Captain with his Short Broadsword and moderately wounds it!

Little Pup hangs back, though it nips here and there where he can as he dances amid the churning legs of those bigger than him, catching at wisps of dwarf beard and pulling for all he's worth!

[Graim(#20753)]         "Ha! You shall make a fine rug!" Shouts the Chief to the silver warg, a small party of Dwarves forming up with him. Graim levels his mace at the silver warg before he charges against the beast, swinging his bejeweled mace at the warg's snout.

The silver wolf yields a hateful hissing sound to Graim's statement, and the mottled fur bristles all the more. As the mace comes down, the monster attempt to slip sideways, but even he is not quick enough for the fury of the dwarf; a wound is won along the cheek and the top of the neck, earning yet another enraged snarl from the fanged mouth. The wargs that have climbed beside him howl in anger, and they turn their attention and attacks upon the defenders nearby while the silver beast launches itself toward the Chief. Teeth and claws flash out for legs.

The white warg captain looses a fierce howl of anger and pain as Formin's blade stabs into his hindquarters, though fortune smiles yet on the beast for the steel of Erebor finds only flesh this time. Still, the pain is enough for the beast to hop around in a bid to loosen the blade from its hide, and a raging malice smoulders in the warg captain's eyes as they train upon the Silversmith anew. Snarling, jaws ravening once more as they prepare to take another chunk from Formin's own flesh, the white warg lunges a third time -- his paws swiping for the jaw of his adversary.

And all the while, battle rages on; for even as yet more lupine bodies are struck down or their limbs hewn, they are joined now by the claret of khazad blood. A warrior or two of the Mountain fall as the vicious melee continues, and the assault shows no sign of slackening.

Warg Captain attacks Formin with its fearsome claws!
Warg Captain's attack misses Formin.

Little Pup jumps and snags a dwarf's beard, clamping its little jaws hard on the wisp, entangling its teeth and holding on for dear life. (A dwarf PC is invited to deal with this as he sees fit with either himself or an NPC.)

A growing thunder now comes from the enemy or seemingly so, a steady pounding accompanied by a growing roar. AT frist, at least among the Beornings, there is dismay, a hestiation in their fighting. Then, a roar of laugh from some of the fiercer Beornings, and their fight is renewed. At the gate, behind the mass of orcs and wargs, there is suddenly a huge mass of brown fur barreling toward the enemy headlong. Grimbeorn has arrived.

[Formin(#26827)] "Now lookit that," Formin says through clenched teeth. "Stained...your pretty coat, I did! What...will your mother think!" This he says as he attempts to rise quickly on his good leg, shoving the edge of his shield into the crowd to force himself up. His good leg supports his weight, but he leans terribly. Although the injured ankle seems not broken by the warg's jaws, the bite must surely go straight to the bone, judging by the pained expression the silversmith now carries.

Yet he is by no means finished, for he moves quickly to avoid the warg's flying claws for a second time. Avoid them he does, but at a painful cost. Badly unbalanced by his weak ankle, Formin's attempt to skip away from the warg's paws sees him put weight onto his ankle, which crumples under the strain, driving him once more to one knee. "Ahhhggg!" Formin shouts, flailing out with his sword as he falls. The blade flies wildly towards the captain's shoulder.

Formin attacks Warg Captain with his Short Broadsword and lightly wounds it!

[Graim(#20753)]         Graim brings his shield down quickly, in front of the warg's snout. "Ha! Not today, mutt, not today! Have to try harder to try this fine Dwarf!" That said, he brings his mace down at the silver warg's head.

        A Dwarf in the yard, annoyed at the Little Pup hanging from his exceptionally long beard, swings the blunt end of his axe at the small warg, inadvertently sending it towards Formin.

As Grimbeorn barrels into the fray, it is the wargs' turn to howl and cry out in dismay, for even as the beijabar arrives already a couple of wargs are sent rolling from his path. The melee at the gate is no less fierce, but even faced by the Dwarven steel more than a few sly eyes are filled with fear as they roll towards the mighty son of Beorn, and even as a few more khazad are felled the assault wanes a little. Lithe, snarling bodies slink away from the front, turning to challenge this new foe, forming a small guard around the duel between their captain and Formin as though to bar Grimbeorn entry.

But the white warg meanwhile has no time to pay heed to the new arrival; his teeth bite back a fresh yelp of pain as Formin's blade slices into his shoulder. But huge is this beast, and fell, and a dauntless look is in his gaze as he eyes his foe anew. Snarling then, perhaps mocking the Silversmith's limp, the warg captain streaks forth, jaws seeking to rip away the Dwarf's arm if they may.

Warg Captain attacks Formin with its fearsome claws!
Warg Captain badly wounds him!

A fire blazes behind the crimson eyes, and even as the mace sails down for a new strike, the silver warg dares a bound of his own for that weapon hand, his jaws spread wide to try and clamp themselves thereon and halt its flight.

All the while, the rest of the wolves atop of the wall harry the Beorning archers and their fellows. Occassionally orc arrows flit down, skipping over stone.

 The circle of wargs around the captaiin seem to be little more than an irritation at best, though they do serve the purpose of slowing the great bear down. Wargs fly, warg body parts fly, the ground slippery with blood as the bear smashes its way through toward Formin. There's a bit of delay and then he is on toward the Captain, coming from behind to try to take it, a ton of bear flesh versus the Captain.

Grimbeorn attacks Warg Captain with his Beijabar Fists and severely wounds it!

[Formin(#26827)] Again does the warg captain find a weak spot in Formin's armor, for he wears a hauberk of chainmail, but it extends only so far as the silversmith's elbow. And positioned awkwardly as he is, Formin can do little more to avert the warg's attack than jerk his shoulder back, and that is not enough. The warg's fangs sink deep into the dwarf's forearm, savaging flesh and cloth and coating the beast's jaws in dwarven blood. In an instant Formin's hand is already red with his running blood, so ferocious is the attack.

The silversmith's ankle seems forgotten, as does his sense of humor. The short broadsword is dropped uselessly, leaving only one weapon available to Formin and only one outlet for his pain and anger. A gutteral growl without words boils up from Formin's throat as he drives the edge of his metal shield at the warg's head. Not that he need bother, as there are bigger, furrier things that are about to become the captain's most pressing problem.

Formin attacks Warg Captain with his Short Broadsword and badly wounds it!

[Graim(#20753)]         Graim moves his arm so the silver warg bites into the vambrave rather than his hand. A hiss of pain comes from the Chief as he shakes his arm, trying to get the warg off, before he swings his shield to bash the warg in the head. The Dwarves around him surge forward to fight the wargs, shouting their battle cries.

Little Pup growls, lost in all the fur.

The warg captain, tensing for a killing blow upon the noble Silversmith gets so such chance, for even as the jaws open wide the fist of Grimbeorn batters into his side. Like a rag-doll the beast is flung against the wall before Formin, a shudder of the very stone given at the CRACK of the impact, and down the warg tumbles at the feet of the Dwarf. No defense is thus offered as the broadsword comes hacking down, cutting a deep rend into the beast's white hide, and he lies there panting upon the ground; a steady ooze of blood trickling from his jaws.

A moment or two passes by ere with a whine of effort and a murderous fire blazing in his eyes the warg captain struggles to rise to its feet once more...

Meanwhile the ranks of the wargs explode into frenzy at the sight of their champion struck down, and while none dare stray near the paws of the son of Beorn they claw and bite frantically in a bid to vacate the gateway of the Beorning Outpost.

Stubbornly, the silvered beast hangs on, its rear legs scraping upon stone as the arm motion shakes him back and forth. But then the shield clangs against the monster's skull and for a moment his grip loosens, the mouth parting to emit a terrible yelp. The warg falls to the ground, shaking his head feriously. And then, the claws shoot out and the wolf keeps low to the ground as he tries to lash out for Graim's thigh.

At the left, there is a cry and a gargle as one of the creatures is smitten by the defenders. His fellows roar and curse anew at this, returning with strikes of their own.

Little Pup burrows through the fur and sticks his head out into the fresh air. He yaps and crawls free just in time to see a new target right at its nose, a new wisp of beard that he reaches out and grabs hold, paws raking the attached dwarf for extra purchase with his little claws.

[Graim(#20753)]         With his shield in such a position, Graim brings it back easily to block the claws of the silver warg. "Bad mutt," grumbles the Chief before, more gingerly than previously, he swings his mace down at the warg once more. The other Dwarves continue to fight back against the wargs, one or two giving sounds of pain as they are bitten or clawed.

The bear doesn't rest, even as the warg captain whines, and when the thing struggles to its feet again, a roar signals the bear's response. It leaps forward nimbly, slashing out at the captain.

Grimbeorn attacks Warg Captain with his Beijabar Fists and terribly wounds it!

Warg Captain collapses to the ground, defeated by Grimbeorn!

[Formin(#26827)] Formin nearly collapses with the effort of striking the warg captain with the edge of his shield, but he punctuates each pummel of the shield with a word. "Bloody. Stinking. Beast. Filthy. Brute. Die. Already." Yet each pummel grows weaker and when the captain lies still, Formin teeters unsteadily on his knees. In an instant, the warg is no longer Formin's problem as the great bear leaps, and Formin instead slowly shirks his shield off of his unharmed arm.

Ah, but bad timing, alas. For even as he shed the shield, what appears to be a miniature warg struggles out from between bodies and has the gall to snap its not-at-all adorable jaws around the end of Formin's quite long beard. Before Formin can even cry out in alarm, the little brute's claws are digging into the dwarf's face and chest and he flops awkwardly backwards. "Arg! Gerroff! Away!" Lines of red streak across Formin's face until his flailing hand finally finds his dropped sword nearby. His punches out with the hilt of the blade, aiming to smack it across Little Pup's snout.

And with an almighty crack of bone the bear's fist staves in the skull of the warg captain; his brains splashed against the newly-wrought stone defenses of the Dwarves.

Howls rend the morning air, vicious cries of dismay and anger, and while the sight of their fallen chieftain gives a measure of pause to some, many more are driven to frenzy by the sight. A few wary eyes turn now to their silver haired lieutenant, baying as though calling for vengeance, and a dozen savage brutes leap at Grimbeorn all of a sudden; hoping perhaps to mob and bring the mighty bear down.

All the while the melee continues in the gateway, for as the Dwarves press forward they are met with the bloodlust of the wargs. A full fifty or more of the beasts have fallen already, but there are plenty eager to take their place and seek reparations for their lost captain.

Little Pup yelps as the hilt lands true. The yelp causes the mini-warg to lose his grip on Formin's beard and he falls to the ground. Not deterred though, he nips at the boots of the dwarf as best he can, yapping and scurrying back and forth from boot to boot.

A sickening crack follows in the wake of the mace's attack, and with a horrid snarling and spitting the silver warg is battered aside. Blood streams freely from a large gash on his shoulder, and a chunk of fur has been torn off. Drool streams from the stained lips as the beast backs up a moment, his crimson eyes flickering over the form of the Chief as if searching for a weak spot. Suddenly they narrow, and the hindlegs tense.

With a mighty leap the silver wolf bounds higher into the air with the intent of sending his weight crashing ontop of the khazad with full fury of fang and claw.

Warg Captain attacks Graim with its massive paws!
Warg Captain badly wounds him!

Grimbeorn is taken up by the attack, and roars and howls follow, some from the bear, many more from the wargs. A small circle of dead and dying beasts starts to grow around him, though the attack does prevent him from getting to the gate.

[Formin(#26827)] Hugging his bloody arm to his stomach, Formin rolls onto his left, uninjured arm and pushes himself to his knees, still cluntching his sword. And as the silversmith struggles to come to his unsteady feet, still the warg pup harries him, snapping at both ankles and knees and yapping incessantly. "Oh go away!" Formin grits out angrily through clenched teeth. "Come back when you're big enough to eat more than beard, yeh mad monster!" He swings his blade at the wildly quick Little Pup, but he holds his weapon now in his non-dominant hand and the sword is not near so steady now.

         Running towards the battlement is the Dwarven Priest Farak, thou dressed in a crimson robe, it is more than apparent he is covered in the blood of his enemies, his shield looks worse for ware, his robes are tattered, upon his back there is a long gash, still bleeding. He looks beaten and tired but he drives on, moving through the outpost, swinging his mace at any beast that comes near. Still running he makes for the ramparts where the Chief Master Veteran fights, shield at the ready and mace up ready to strike.

[Graim(#20753)]         The Chief Master Veteran brings up his shield, taking the weight of the silver warg upon it, but is still driven back onto his back. One of the paws manage to smack heavily against his helm; while the weight forces his weight to dig into him briefly before he hits the battlements. A grunt and hiss of pain comes from the Dwarf.

        "Ach, ye beast! I shall turn ye into a cloak for this!" That said, he frees his mace before short-swinging it at the silver warg's head.

Graim attacks Warg Captain with his Mace and lightly wounds it!

Little Pup easily dodges aside and yaps, enjoying playing dodge-the-sword with his new friend the dwarf. He scurries back and forth and lifts his head, watching the sword as he yaps and barks playfully.

And down below the din of battle is reaching fever pitch. Hardy as they are, the arms of the khazad are beginning to tire, but so too are the wargs they battle panting and moving with less surety than before. More and more blood stains the Beorning Outpost as the beasts go down, and the King Under-the-Mountain will see fewer of his folks return home than we would have liked. Still despire the onslaught the defenses hold; aided no doubt by the piles of bodies that now lie in the attacker's way.

Grimbeorn himself will find fewer assailants, so many necks and backs broken they fury of his mighty arms, but even so he is not left alone, for a feral light shines in the eyes of his enemies -- they too of the animal kingdom -- and still they seek to bar his way from the gate.

Eyvindr has connected.

         Nearing the Silver beast the Priest sees him attacking the Chief Master Veteran and with that he shouts "You skull will be crushed beast.." and with that he swings his mace while in mid run, bringing it down, aimed for the skull of the Silver Warg..

Farak attacks Warg Captain with his Mace and mildly wounds it!

Upon the ramparts is perched a figure, still as stone. He has just appeared -- or has he been watching? Tall and slender, he is nevertheless strong enough to draw a war-bow, tall as his person, and send away a white-fletched clothyard at the pack of beasts below.

Eirdis has connected.

Once again the bejewelled mace lands a sure hit, glancing off the silver wolf's head so that it earns a fresh hiss of rage. Blood now leaks into the monster's eyes, and twisting his neck from side to side in a bid to clear his vision, the great paws seek to pin the dwarf against the ground. The mouth parts as fangs are lunged for Graim's weapon arm. But the bite never comes.

But Farak's arrival safes his hand, for the priest's attack sends the creature tumbling away, and he raises spitting with hatetred. The glare is aimed to the robed figure now, and a new swipe of claws is given for the crimson target.

Warg Captain attacks Farak with its fearsome claws!
Warg Captain badly wounds him!

[Formin(#26827)] "Gah, stop moving, will you!" Formin growls. "It's most impolite when a poor old dwarf is trying to take your head off!" Still swinging unsteadily at the pup, the silversmith is suddenly struck from behind by the weight of a felled warg. Once more his savaged ankle crumpled under the sudden weight and Formin crashes to the ground. Among other things, he will have a few bruised knees by the morrow, it would seem. But he glares savagely at Little Pup, daring him to come closer.

With a sudden burst of fury, Grimbeorn breaks through the orcs remaining around him, bodies flying, and the other wargs left behind. He charges towardthe clustering fight at the gate.

Little Pup runs up to Formin's face and licks his new friend.

[Combat(#13388)] Haldir wields a longbow.

The wargs assailing Grimbeorn are flung aside like bodies of straw as the bear charges forth, and strangled yelps rise up above the battle as he crashes into the melee. More than one of the feral beasts is tossed aside, battering into their fellows, and while still sending glares to the Dwarves they turn to mass against the fabled beijabar. Dozens of them bite, tear and claw at his hide -- can even the son of Beorn withstand so many at once?

Eldarin aim fells yet another of the wargs upon the battlements, and a few of the beasts that remain turn their wrath upon the Elf perched on the wall.

[+LIGHT:#20753] Graim lights Sun.

[Graim(#20753)]         "Cousin," says Graim through gritted teeth when he sees Farak's strike against the warg. "Fine day for a fight, eh?" That said, he pushes himself up and swings his mace again for the silver warg, from the looks of it trying for a strike to break the creature's spine.

Graim attacks Warg Captain with his Mace and lightly wounds it!

         Not expecting such a fast and furious attack from the silver beast the Priest goes to raise his shield, but not in time for the claws of the beast slash at his chest, tattering his crimson robe and breathing though his chain mail in places, blood begins to flow from the priest chest.. Backs stepping the Priest turns his head so that his one good eye now faces his enemy, and lunging forward he swings his mace once more aiming for the nose of the foul beast while he says with a half, obviously fake smile "Tis a good day to test my skills with one eye.."

Farak attacks Warg Captain with his Mace, but he misses by a hair.

[Formin(#26827)] The look that descends over Formin's face is...incredulous, to say the least. It is only Formin's unsteadiness that saves Little Pup from an attempted swing of the silversmith's blade, which gives the warg pup a chance to...dart in and lick Formin? He kneels thus for a second, eyes wide, sword held aloft, as doggy breath asails him and a wet tongue licks at the thin lines of blood that trail aross his face. "Um," Formin says dramatically, blinking. "Um."

Haldir, for it is the figure, spots a trouble-spot in the form of the blood-spotted silver warg. He steps onto the edge of the wall, aiming an arrow down at its shoulder...

Haldir launches an arrow...

Haldir's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.

There's blood staining the beijabar's fur, for certain, but even with a pack of wargs on him, the bear seems to shake them loose, sending the beasts flying, bones cracking, blood spurting. He's still heading toward the warg now at the center of the fight, but many are in his way.

Eirdis comes from tending to severely wounded Dwarves in a more secure location, then sees Farak get hit severely. Rushing towards him, she screams, the noise bloodcurdling and banshee-like with rage and fury. "Farak, get back!" She aims a blow with her battle axe at the silver warg.

Eirdis attacks Warg Captain with her Battle Axe, but she misses by an arm's length.

And so too in Grimbeorn's way is the fracas with the folk of Erebor, for they have not forgotten their defenses, and they move as a unit of Dwarven steel to press and harry the warg host. Beset by the wrath of the khazad on one side and the fury of the Beijabar on the other, many of the beasts' eyes lose their vengeful light, and more than a few turn hither and thither with thoughts of escape.

Alas for the Chief's mace fails to crack spine, though it does win a wound along the beast's hide. The brushy tail flickers from side to side, as the gaze flits between Farak and Graim, and swifltly the creature darts out of the way of the former's weapon to dare a bite toward the second dwarf once more. An elven arrow whistles overhead, unheeded. Eirdis's missed strike is answered with the taunting swish of that silver tail.

Warg Captain attacks Graim with its massive paws!
Warg Captain badly wounds him!

Little Pup isn't exactly house broken yet despite making a new friend. He yaps and runs around and starts chasing his tail for awhile before barking at Formin.

         Seeing the foul silver beast once again attack the Chief Master Veteran the Priest glances to the healer for a moment before once again pressing the attack on the beast, leaping forward and bringing his mace down grunting as he does so, aiming for the rump of the beast, or one of its hind legs.

Farak attacks Warg Captain with his Mace and moderately wounds it!

[Formin(#26827)] "Augh!" Formin grunts indignantly as Little Pup demonstrates wetly just HOW excited he is to have a new friend. The silversmith crawls away a pace and painfully hauls himself to his feet for a third time. All around the battle rages, blood and iron and flesh and bone flies, yet somehow Formin and the warg pup remain uninterrupted. Narrowing his eyes, the dwarf cocks his head at the pup. "Go on then, get lost. Go play somewhere else," he grunts, still through clenched teeth. He waves the pup away with the hand that clutches his sword.

"Or go attack one of your compatriots or something," he mutters. Then his brows lift and his tone lightens somewhat. "Bet they pick on you all the time, bet you just want to chew on one of their legs, eh? Eh? Go on then!"

[Graim(#20753)]         The Chief moves to bring his shield to block the warg, but is not quick enough; the silver warg bites Graim on his leg, bringing a grunt of pain from the Dwarf as he drops to a knee. "Die!" Hisses the Chief, bringing his mace down to try to crack the silver warg's skull.

Graim attacks Warg Captain with his Mace, but he misses by a hair.

And as if on cue, one of the wargs flees the roiling fury or Grimbeorn, charging straight toward Formin and Little Pup. A kick and a swipe of its paw is sent at the little pup, presumably to bat him out of the way.

Little Pup still thinks Formin is playing with him. With his attention diverted, he gets hit before he can scurry out of the way. The little warg hits the ground and rolls away into a pile of hay and does not move.

Eirdis gives Farak a grin and a wink before snarling menacingly at the silver warg, itching to get at least one hit in.. After all, she had sparred with the great Lord Gimli and injured his leg! Battle axe at the ready, she aims and uses the momentum of the swing to propel her forward a bit, trying to block the warg's view of Farak as she tries to land a thwack of her axe and possibly mortally wound the warg.

Eirdis attacks Warg Captain with her Battle Axe, but she misses by a hair.

The priest's hit lands square on the beast's rear, and there is a great scraping of claws as the silver wolf turns about in pain and wrath; it is an angered motion that saves his head from another assault from Graim's mace. But as the warg's furious glare searches for Farak, there stands the khazad healer in the way...

Slipping sideways to avoid the axe swing, he charges forward, attemping to shove his bloody shoulder into Eirdis as if the push her out of the way.

Warg Captain attacks Eirdis with its fearsome claws!
Warg Captain moderately wounds her!

[Formin(#26827)] "Oi!" Formin suddenly growls as a larger, rather more unfrienly warg bats aside Little Pup and the pup rolls away and becomes still. "Come here, you fiend!" He lurches forward unsteadily, but the tip of his sword drives at the bigger warg's neck.

And the larger warg seems to pay little heed to the fate of Little Pup, for its eyes dart hither and thither in search of flight, and thus sees not the blade of Formin as it drives forth. Into its mottled neck the sword stabs, and the Silversmith is rewarded with a lurching yelp and a slick tide of blood as it falls.

         Now seeing the foul beast facing him the Priest says with much disdain "Come meet your end foul beast, come sniff my mace.." swinging his mace once again, aimed for the beasts nose he says "Let me bring it closer for you!" swinging his mace with all his strength.

Farak attacks Warg Captain with his Mace, but he misses by an arm's length.

Again does the Elf upon the ramparts aim an arrow at the silver-furred warg. The hem of his cloak flutters with the shaft's passing, and he whispers a curse lost in soft words...

Haldir launches an arrow...
Haldir's bowshot hits Warg Captain, moderately wounding it.

Eirdis winces and hisses as her shoulder is injured, possibly with a hairline fracture. The healer is still able to fight, though. She watches, waiting to back Farak up with another swing of her axe, as she aims yet another hit to the Warg.

Eirdis attacks Warg Captain with her Battle Axe, but she misses by a hair.

The assault, meanwhile is beginning to break, and by now a hundred or more of the lupin corpses litter the gateway and the ramparts; the legacy of Grimbeorn's wrath and the stout valor of the Dwarves. One by one, deprived of their white-maned captain and seeing the silver lieutenant beset by a fresh arrow from Haldir, they turn to flee. Claws skitter on blood-stricken stone as a rout ensues, and those that can begin to lope away down into the vales of the Anduin.

[Graim(#20753)]         "Ach, do not turn your gaze from me, cloak!" Says the Chief to the silver warg. Slowly pushing himself up, he moves to the side slightly before swinging his mace, gems glittering in the sun, to cave in the warg's ribs.

Graim attacks Warg Captain with his Mace, but he misses by a hair.

[Formin(#26827)] When his blade sinks into the bigger warg's neck, Formin allows himself to sink to one knee. His arm is full red now, whereas his face is pale, and he must dig the point of his sword into the earth before him just to keep from falling forward. Blood loss and battle weariness seem to have drained the silversmith, even as he watches the warg army begin to flee. Blinking, he casts about for Little Pup suddenly, as if having temporarily forgotten it. He spots the pup's prostrate form. "Oi! Pup, oi!"

Once more a twisting motion sees all three dwarven weapons missing by a hair's length -- but alas, for even as the silver warg raises itself up for a new attack, Haldir's arrow finds wolven flesh and a howl rends the night air. The beasts begins to back away from the press of its foes, its tail flicking unhappily. Then, suddenly it barrels forth toward Farak, the fire in its eyes fell and wroth.

Warg Captain attacks Farak with its fearsome claws!
Warg Captain badly wounds him!

Little Pup is stunned, though it looks as though he's breathing okay.

The grey-cloaked figure watches the retreat begin, then stretches his bow again, to pepper the backs of the wargs with his white-fletched shafts.

         As the Silver Warg barrels towards him the Priest raises his shield, but to no avail, for the strength of the beast knocks the Priest to the ground, as the priest hits the ground he bounces his head upon the stone.. And mace falling from his hands.. Shaking his head the Priest grabs his mace once again and swings it at the foul beast upon him.

Farak attacks Warg Captain with his Mace and badly wounds it!

Eirdis sees Farak go down and, not yet being able to tend to him, she takes one last swing at the Warg atop the Priest. "Hold on, Farak! You -must- stay awake!"

Eirdis attacks Warg Captain with her Battle Axe, but she misses by a mile.

[Graim(#20753)]         Pushing himself after the warg, the Chief Master Veteran swings his mace down at the spine of the silver warg once more.

Graim attacks Warg Captain with his Mace and moderately wounds it!

Farak's mace strikes heavily on the silver wolf's snout, and more blood rains groundward from the battered and torn lips. But even though he has the priest beneath him, Graim's attack spurs the creature up again, snarling as it connects with the lupine spine. Leaning awkwardly toward one side, the beast wriggles out of the reach of Eirdis' axe head, and makes a bid for the stairs and the broken gate. Not even a second look is given to its slain fellows that it leaves behind.

Grimbeorn, meantime, continues to work his way through the remaining warg pack, killing any that don't manage to flee from him. As the wargs run out of the outpost, he tears off after them, disappearing into the wilderness, though his roars can long be heard.

         Raising his shield after he sees his blow strike the snout of the beast the Priest waits.. Then seeing it flee he slowly gets to his feet.. shaking his head the priest blinks his eyes a few times and then looks about the ramparts, from dwarf to dwarf, from body to body.. Blinking his eyes a few more times the priest says with a shout "My eye.. Its not a blurry!!"

And with that, the last resolve of any of the lingering wargs is broken; the sight of their lieutenant put to flight dimming the feral fire of their eyes. Those that can bolt for the safety of the vales, and those that cannot are mercilessly set upon by the Dwarves that stand strong in the gateway, or torn down by Grimbeorn.

Long after their escape, mingled with the triumphant roar of the beijabar, their howls of anger and dismay can be heard echoing in the foothills of the Misty Mountains.

[Graim(#20753)]         As the wargs flee from the Outpost, Graim laughs quietly before slipping his mace into his belt. "Run, ye little flea-bitten rugs! Come back again, and we shall do the same!" That said, he glances down at his leg with a brief frown, sliding up the visor of his helmet. "Have to fetch my pack and see to that..."

Eirdis winces as she tries to put her axe up on her injured shoulder, and moves over to Farak, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "If you aren't mortally wounded, I'll see you later." She glances at Graim and quickly retrieves her healer's satchel, limping over to Graim. "If it pleases you, Master Graim, I could tend to your leg for you."

         Giving a nod to the Healer the Priest says "They are artificial wounds, they will only require a good washing.." walking to the Chief Master Veteran the Priest blinks his eyes hard and says "It would seem I needed a good blow to the head to force my eye to cooperate cousin.." Looking at the injured leg of the Chief Master Veteran he says "The Maker has made us strong, and proven that our folk are most sturdy.." Looking about the ramparts he bows his head closes his eyes and mumbles something to himself..

OOC: My log ends here, but dwarves might have gone on for a few more.

Date added: 2010-09-05 12:05:49    Hits: 82
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