Night lays heavily upon the plains, a thick mist its herald in the winter season. Yet in the midst of the cold, a traveling party is camped near the shores of the Silverlode, a few twinkling camp fires burning defiantly against the mists, chasing away what shadows they may.

Along the periphery of camp walks a lady tall and fair, her cloak of wintry green billowing with her long, fluid stride. Though not foremost among the numbers of travelers, Eryndae's gaze searches beyond the few quendi who walk before her, remaining trained upon the lands beyond.

In a tree a ways from this camp sits another Elf, the slender Edhel is nestled on a branch, his bow out and strung but not nocked. Mornferedir sits in the tree gazing up at the stars, listening to the quiet.

Moving silently amongst the woods, along the trail ahead of the main tirith is a scroungy looking one. He moves quickly, pausing every now and then to check the trail, taking notice of every little marking along the path. However as he moves, boots make naer a noise, the only, if any sound coming from him, is his silent padding as he moves along. He keeps to the brush and other pathways.

The Ranger pauses again as he kneels, taking time to check what looks like a track along the forest floor. His hand goes down to the hilt of his sword, as he stays out of sight of the fair kind whom he scouts for. Mornaer pauses slightly to sniff the air as his right hand moves slightly over the marking, before ever so slowly looking up, grey eyes searching the night.

In the misty darkness there are orcs, a scouting party out of Moria, they move through the brush quietly enough, spread out to cover more ground. In there midst a wiry she-orc, in dark leather garb and acrrying a bow, prowls--Snurga hisses a command to those around her and they spread out further. As yet the company of dark creatures is unaware of the the othere--this is just another patrol as far as they are concerned.

Amongst the Eldar is also Randinen. His tall figure looms in the flickering lights of the encampment, as he lurks amidst the tents. Their veil, however, he abandons, a preference held for the open. His gait swift, the Hirvaethor walks towards the edge of camp.

Soft his voice calls out to those at guard or at leisure, " Mae govannen..." ere inspecting in perfect silence the troubling mist which surrounds them. " The weather is queer tonight..."

As the Morian scouts creep through the undergrowth, a small uruk at the rear paddles along, struggling to keep up with his larger, stronger comrades. Nazdatz, a bow of his own strapped across his shoulders, sniffs the air curiously as he scurries along, the runt's feet making no sound as they nip through the brush.

From the center of the camp, a dark-clad elf-woman moves towards the outer line of tents. Unaware of the pending threat in the darkness, Arwen nods a greeting to the Tirith on guard before turning to the general direction where one could see the Golden Wood in the distance, if it weren't for the mist.

Linnuial stands as a statue near the rear of the camp, his forehead wrinkled with frustration as he tries in vain to peer through the mists. One white-knuckled first clamps about his bow at his side, his entire body tense--the journey has been without incident so far, and their destination is so near. His eyes are quick to spy Arwen as she moves about the camp, and the wood of his bow creaks as his grip tightens even further. With deliberate pace, he approaches her, motioning for the Elentiri around him to remain alert.

A small group of guards follow the scouts across the Silverlode splashing quietly through the water they are lead by the tall uruk Dwoe. Dwoe carefully sniffs the air for any sign of elves.

Another elleth leaves the firelight to prowl the edges of the encampment, wandering feet taking her on a vaguely circuitous path. Ailiell sings quietly to herself, fair voice clear and pure, and heavily written with gladness. Eagerly, she looks along the path she knows well, and up to study what stars make their way through the mists. A distant nod and warmer smile is afforded the Hirvaethor as he passes her by, his words bringing her somewhat back to earth. A slight frown slips over her brow, song falling silent, as she, too, becomes aware of the strange tension.

Ah, a Winter's night! So fine and frail a peace it is that settles upon the land, as brittle as crystal, as crystalline as the sharp air. Indeed, it is chill, so that the Silverlode, cold as it is, lets forth little steam to add to the icy ground-mist that slips amidst the hummocks. There is a shimmering there, through that mist near the shore, golden and ruddy: flame, the ancient sign of civilization...and destruction. Which will it herald tonight as the tableau dramatis is being set?

Gurstaka sniffs the air as he steadily treads with the scouts, his bulk and clumsy gait marking him out from the scout trained uruks easily enough. Near to the she-uruk Snurga he takes a look at the sky, trying to judge how long it will be until the cursed yellow face rises - he will wish to be long within Morias halls before then.

"" he grunts in the crude urukish language, not bothering to keep his voice down. "" he continues, scowling into the darkness

Shadowing the Lady, behind her shoulder and to one side, Nimmeril remains quiet, pensive, in respect for Arwen's mood or simply by habit to her own nature. She shrugs her shoulders, settling cloak and bow and quiver upon the narrow length of her graceful frame, and diverts her attention toward Lothlorien...then to the Evenstar herself. Affection and adoration are imbued therein.

Ever since the ill wind brought by the Beornings, Tiramen has been upon his guard in the nights of middle earth and this night would be no different. A patch of snow, a gnarled bush, and an elven cloaked figure kneeling beside it are often one and the same before mists of night. Same except that one has eyes and ears that turn to watch the darkness with suspicion.

Mornaer sniffs the air once more as eyes narrow, looking forward into the dark, as if the shadows' movements were a tell tale sign of something. The Ranger's head snaps up as a hissed command reaches his ears, and eyes blink, before narrowing with that, he stands, as darker speech comes into his hears. he moves slowly, cautiously, whist drawing his blade, and so he advances to the sounds and the scent...

Mornferedir meanders through the trees, his bow over his shoulder now and his eyes locked on the sky aimlessly. The elf's ears catch something like a hiss but he decides to ignore it for now as he lounges upon a log, taking out his bow and strumming it's string sa if it were a harp.

At the back of the orc scouting party, Nazdatz pauses, and sniffs again. His small brow wrinkling, he peers into the gloom behind him, and takes a few inquisitive steps in that direction, his sharp eyes making out the Dwoe and the guards. With a quick look back to the scouts, the uruk, darts back towards Dwoe's party, falling into its ranks with the barest trickle of a splash upon the water.

Serenity veils Eryndae's countenance, leaving all that would otherwise linger there in the shadow of a discerning gaze to the east. " We can expect little better until we walk beneath the canopy of the Golden Wood, I fear," she murmurs to Randinen, her voice speaking little of the thoughts behind her wintered stare.

Yet her eyes linger nowhere for long, falling last upon the Heryn and her companions. A hue of sorrow paints the depths of her eyes at this. " It shant be long, as is my hope." A shallow sigh rises and falls in her chest, though seems to bring little peace through its release. Tension hangs on the air as heavily as do the mists.

Dwoe sniffs the air and finds a scent he wasn't expecting. The smell of a human in the air. As he carefully procedes his hand unfastens the heavy mace from his side.

Obghash twists the chain firmly held in the palm of his shield hand, shifting the cloth padded links in near complete silence. His right arm holds a spiked war hammer of great size, a weapon of metal with no luster or gleam to it. He creeps forward behind the screen of scouts, already grinning hideously in anticipation, his pale yellow fangs barely visible in the mist. The Shaman looks to his side, at the creature restrained by the long chain and collar..

*Clink* *Clink* *Clink*

The padding of a surely wretched creature rings a rustily, metallic jounce every fourth step as its' quadroped trot keeps it instep with the bearer of 'The Chain' above. "Glllrrrrrrr.." Indistinct, gurgling moans and sighs trail in the creature's wake from the muzzle binding the uruk's gnashing jaws. An intermingled sniff and occasional breathy huff of rancid reek herald the unfortunate orc's bestial tendencies and wary reflexes.

A small sized uruk carefully creaps at the back of the group, trying his best not to make a sound. His war hammer is firmly gripped in his hand and torsoe is covered by leather armor.

Snurga glares, her eyes like glowing green embers at Gurstaka "" her voice drops to a quieter tone "". The Senior Scout gestures for the bulky Gurstaka to keep close as she gestures for the others to keep moving onwards but suddenly she stops and straightens up..she has caught sight of something shining in the mist--the Ranger's blad. Snurga blinks and then speaks to those around her ""

Gralshnak stays mainly behind the scouting party, not really much of a courageous uruk. He holds his scimitar ready, quite nervous just from standing here with the group. His studded, leather helm is atop his head, and he has leather aromor on his chest and back. Hearing the words of company from Snurga, he starts to shiver a bit, his scimitar wobbling back and forth a little.

A slightly amused smile appears on Arwen's face as Linnuial sees her shielded, but she makes no comment, simply nods, and then turns to Nimmeril behind her. "Perhaps I was over-worried." It seems a random statement, but perhaps it makes sense to the Lady's maid.

The waters of the Silverlode burble quietly along as they have for time immemorial, for an Elf's age. But now they are disturbed by the filth of orc-boots! Oh, the insult to these clean waters! If only the Elves near knew of it; they could perhaps write a mournful song about it...

"One may hope, Heryn," answers Nimmeril with a gentle touch to Arwen's arm. "My heart is this day light in thanks to the nearness of the trees that have lured me here...along with, of course, the simple pleasure of company." In this she includes, by nature of her glance, both Arwen and Eryndae, the soft lengths of her lips curved into a delicate smile.

And the Ranger hurries his pace slightly as the voices become clearer, distinct, as well as the small sounds of chains and the splashing of water as things move. Soon does he come about a small twist in the path and he is there, looking face to face with a small group of the foul things he could hear and smell. A slight pause as he seems to just look at them, before a sneer and his blade come up. And then comes his cry, heralding loudly, hoping that the elves will catch wind of it.

" Yrch! Tirith to me! Yrch on the path!"

Nazdatz too, his small frame quivering in the night air, appears to take note of the scouting party's actions, and he nervously removes his bow from his shoulder, his hands gripping the weapon tightly as he readies it for action. He glances up towards Dwoe, as if waiting for a signal or prompt.

" We should not have tarried so long..." murmurs the Hirvaethor his reply, vigilance drawn away from the swirling fog, to settle upon Eryndae; a friendly smile he derives from this. A shiver then disturbs the elven frame, swift to gather his mantle and shroud his form in the warmth of the folds.

Tilting his head to one side Randinen furrows a light brow. Although his wariness is fleeting this night, for a moment passes and he smiles anew. " Perhaps the mist combined with our journey nigh at end gives rise to anxiety and discomfort, mellon?"

And then a cry rises from within the fog, to justify the elven vigilance! Randinen turns his ear to the call, still to tarry in his actions.

Mornferedir blinks as the Ranger sounds his cry he would be too far away for his voice to reach the camp, he nocks his bow quickly, jumping from his perch and shouts, " Tirith! Orcs! Many of them, to the south of the camp!" he then pulls back his bow and lets the slender shaft loose through the night.

The heralded words of Mornaer bring about a singular change in Tiramen. That of drawn bow. A motion so slow that no note sings thus and yet still Elensul trembles as an eager branch waiting to snap the face of its foes. Turning his gaze south, his eye and shaft are one as he hunts through this accursed mist for a target.

Gurstaka grunts out a few more oaths and then closes his mouth, his eyes straining to pick out that which the keen-eyed scout did. He grips the heavy mace he holds in his hands, drawing confidence from it, raising his shield in front of him, well accustomed to the pain of elven arrows. "" he suddenly hisses out, his eyes picking up the target now.

Bunching his muscles, the Uruk lets out a roar of bloodlust, splitting the night with his shouts promising pain and death, raising his mace he charges. He brushes past Snurga on his attack, his eyes locked squarely on Mornaer, his heavy tread closing the distance supringly quick. ""

Before her roving eyes might find and return Nimmeril's glance, or reply to Randinen's subtle inquiry, the call that rends the near-silence of night brings Eryndae's blade forth with nary a pause. Thus is the veteran transformed, serenity compromised in a rush of action as she springs down the banks at Mornaer's bidding, looking once over her shoulder to seek out the swordsmen of her company. " Magoriath! Ready your blades! Orders shall follow!"

Linnuial's mouth, just beginning to open in order to utter some small greeting to his charge when the warning comes. The words are distant and difficult to make out, but one word--" Yrch"--is quite clear. Seconds later, Mornferedir echoes the warning--leaving no doubt as to the sudden danger. Eyes and mouth widening, Linnuial barks out his orders crisply: " Elentiri! Guard, three clusters!" Rushing over to Arwen, he grabs her arm, leading her to three of her guard who have already readied enormous tower shields. " Nimmeril, keep her down behind the shields!" Strangely, two other triplets of Elentiri also form shielded clusters around two other ellith--decoys. The Hirvaethor tries to give one quick reassuring glance to the Heryn before forming a line with the remaining Elentiri and drawing out his bow.

His ear pricking up at Gurstaka's cry, Nazdatz halts for a moment, and peers ahead cautiously, quickly resuming his pace, he reaches into his quiver, and nocks an arrow to his bowstring, once again looking up to Dwoe as if for guidance. Nazdatz wields Bow.

Obghash tugs on the chain and murmurs to his chained companion, "" The Shaman squats down near the trunk of a tree and gazes into the mist.

Mornaer grits his teeth as he watches the orcs before him. " Valar, let my message get to them.." he mutters slightly before backing up slightly, bringing the blade up , as he awaits the charging uruks advance. He is one and they are many. and so he takes the defensive position.

The Ranger's eyes lock to Gurstaka, as he charges, before calling out again. " Yrch along the path! Tirith, to me!" seemingly enough he hopes his battle cry and warning will be of some use.

Hai! The jig is up now, lads! Some filthy scrawny-one has started to yelp! And here we just wanted to invite ourselves to the campfires, praps pull off our boots and toast our toes! As always, we are simply misunderstood. Nevermind one or two gargling cries of bloodlust...the impetuosity of a few youths, that's all! Bother: Now we have to kill and maim and gather scalps instead of sharing some miruvor and sweet songs.

Arwen seems about to answer Nimmeril when first the cry and then Linnuial's fast reaction stay her words. Eyes widened in startlement, she finds herself surrounded by her guard. A fast glance reassures her that Nimmeril is still at her side, then she straightens some to see past the shoulder of one of her guards, eyes narrowed tensely.

Snurga shifts her bow, of dark wood into her grasp and pulls forth a black fletched arrow from a quiver "" This is shouted in response to Gurstaka charging at the Ranger who had suddenly be spied in the path ahead.

Mornferedir rushes through the woods, nocking another arrow as he goes taking eye of the Uruk charging the Ranger he continues before taking cover behind a log on one knee. Pulling back his string he aims carefully at the charging orc and lets it fly.

Dwoe glances at Nazdatz and noticine his bow motions for him to hide behind a nearby tree to launch arrows as needed then slowly and carefully proceedes down the path.

Hesitant manners falls to a nimble pace, as Randinen overcomes his moment of wonder. Aware of what lurks behind the whirling veil he storms through the encampment. During his thundering stride, clear and strong rises his voice, to surpass the clamor of alarm and surprise, " Cuthalion! We have been discovered, ready your bows! Line up behind the Magoriath!"

Making towards the south of camp Randinen plucks a bow from near one of the tents; more bowmen rush forth by his call, weapon in hand.

Roho gurgles slightly as the chain about his gullet is yanked smartly. Sliding to his haunches, the pathetic Morian waits at his master's side, panting heavily with the oppressiveness of the dense air.

Nazdatz nods to Dwoe, and shuffles silenty to take up position behind a large oak. Clicking his tongue in thought, he reches up, and pulls himself up onto a branch, squatting on the bough as he readies his bow once more, and scans the dale for targets.

Nimmeril's hands had already taken her longbow in hand at the outcry of "Yrch!" but at Linnuial's command and the forced placement of Arwen behind guards, she steps behind the arrangement of shields, obediant as always. Frustration briefly marks her visage, but her hands lower slowly. "Stay close to the guards, Arwen, please," murmurs the Silivriel, pleadingly, as if reminding her of the last time they were in such a situation.

Linnuial's legs carry him hurriedly forward toward the cries, yet he halts abruptly, realizing that his duty requires him to remain back. Frustrated, he shouts out, " Randinen! Eryndae! March upon them and aid the Dunedain! Push the fiends away from the camp!" Of the fifteen Elentiri, three guard Arwen, and eight others form the two decoy groups. Those remaining are some of the finest bowmen of Imladris, and even at this extreme range, they seek to find targets in the dark.

Gurstaka continues his charge on the Ranger, an arrow hissing past his head, barely even noticing it, so full is he of bloodlust, Bone-crusher ready to be fed. "Your blood is mine, man-thing!" he growls in harsh Westron as he strikes, the heavy head of his mace flying out with jarring force toward the humans weapon arm. The mace makes a whistling sound as it carves through the air....

Pough sits in waiting, looking on from position within the brush and fog, he watches the others rush in attack. Having stayed toward the back of the party for the main time, the Maluuk remains there, taking his decisions casually...

There is a jangled note from the elf-camp, sweet harp-notes struck discordant as the cry of "yrch!" is let up from the perimeter. Woe! The ancient enemy is upon us once more! Ay, and for that they will gather the reward they ever have, from antiquity: Chastisement at arrow and sword-point. Fie, thee, filthy ones! Better for you to tumble back up the vales and into the holes you have issued from, then to face gilded Elvish steel! As the guards fly forth to reinforce the defense, or gather so obviously around this Notable One or that, those not on duty gravely gird themselves for the contest ahead.

And it lands, but the Ranger moves back, letting it glance off. a low growl is issued forth as he brings his sword up. Eyes narrow as a slight bit of blood flecks out but he grist his teeth and pressures the attack.

"Maybe, but I'll send you and your kind back to where you came from before I die.." and with that he rbigns down Ihamnaur in a vicious arc for the beast's collarbone, hoping to cleave this one into peices.

Dwoe closes in on the ranger behind Gurstaka but at a slower pace raising his mace ready to attack.

A continuous line of stern-faced swordsmen forming steadily behind her, Eryndae presses on toward the chill waters, a wave of the hand drawing them forward at the Hirvaethor's command. "Battle through the waters and their filthy hides, swordsmen! We shall compromise neither ground nor life this eve!" Booted feet splash lightly near the banks of the Silverlode, what may heavy steps still inherently graceful in the face of danger.

Gradually the Cuthalion assemble, to form a strict line. Bows are readied, strings pulled back, arrows eager... and yet no projectile flies, for the signal is not given. " Bowmen stand ready! Defensive fire, engage not the foul ones. The mist is our foe as well!"

Lowering his longbow, Randinen looks round, gaze restless, " Eryndae... can you muster a small force to retrieve the Ranger? We dare not shoot ere he returns, the mist leaves us partially blind!"

Snurga takes up a position behind the broad trunk of a tree, similar to how Nazdatz stands and fits and nocks an arrow. She draws back the bow string, for now aiming at the Ranger but before she can release the string and let the arrow fly Gurstaka has attacked.

Groups of the Scouts move still through the underbrush, advancing slowly past Mornaer's position and towards the elven camp..

The silver haired elf in the woods keeps a cool head but frowns lightly as he misses his target. Mornferedir hops up onto the log in a crouch for a better shot and nocks his string quickly. He pulls his string back and peers into the mist, spotting the outlines of Orcs not yet attacking he looses another arrow.

A half raised eyebrow is Arwen's answer to Nimmeril, but she is silent, drawing her maid closer behind the living shield of her guard, still following the exchange outside the protective line intently.

Obghash's lips draw back to reveal the full extent of the uruk's maw, every last tooth and whatever section of tongue can be seen through the fangs. He leans toward the animalistic uruk at his side and points at the swordsmen, Eryndae, ahead in the fog, or at least in her general direction. The Shaman murmurs one word, "Kill!" And the chain falls from his hand..

Though quite a pathetically simple creature, Roho is well trained... The word 'Kill' lands a solid blow upon his mangled capacities, and the aiming finger another weighty direction.

The Shaman's wretch is off...

Clanging links trail in the clingy dampness behind the galloping Morian: phlegm, froth, and general refuse catching in the rusting iron as the truly filthy animal charges recklessly toward the Flame-predestined maiden, yet careful to be wary of those descending with blade before her. The scraping of a thoroughly oxidized scimitar grinds upon the earth with each landing of the creature's right forepaw.

Pough shifts his weight, rustling the brush there within the mist. He snorts, squinting, and trys to see the fight taking place. He continues to hold himself back, waiting for his time to attack. and go forth..

Like a small, puny statue, the runt uruk Nazdatz continues to perch upon the branch of the tree, and peers down at the scene, his keen eyes searching for an exposed elf. As the quendi draw about in a protective circle around Arwen, the orc sneers, and licks a fang excitedly, but fails to find a good shot. His attention switches to the silver haired elf that fires arrows from the log, and he grins, tensing the bowstring as he lets an arrow of his own fly!

With one on one, Tiramen is loath to fire into a melee. But one thing he can do is keep the fight a middling thing and remove the meddlers. To this end, he tracks upon the yrch 'Dwoe' and sends a lone shaft into the night, preparing his next arrow even as the first is in flight.

Gurstaka hisses in pleasure as his mace impacts heavily, dancing to the side and deflecting the humans longsword with careful positioning of his shield, the weapon skidding off the hardened surface harmlessly. "I will feast on your bones, Man-thing". he growls again, feinting once with the mace and then jabbing the head out toward the humans face.

Once again the heavy weapons arcs out, propelled by large muscles and a bad attitude.

Dwoe winces in pain as he is struck by an arrow and with his left hand he grabs for his metal shield and continues his advance on the ranger.

Not bothering to see if his arrow to Mornferedir finds its mark, Nazdatz looks back to the fracus involving Gurstaka. Nocking another arrow to his bow, the uruk waits to pick his moment, and lets another arrow fly at the ranger.

Caught halfway between the camp and the outcry, Ailiell wavers, weighing out the wisest course of action. A moment only does the healer linger, before slipping into the treeline (and out of the way) to quickly string her bow. Another moment as she stares at it, mutters at herself and her folly, and looks back to the well-guarded camp. Drawing up her hood, she slips back in that direction at a crouch.

Mornferedir eyes the mist and suddenly hears the arrow cutting through the air towards him. The silver haired elf leaps off the log towards the ground, landing safely he scrambles about, picking his bow back up. Then examining himself he finds a Orc arrow stuck harmlessly in his cloak. Mornferedir sighs in relief and plucks it out then starts to stalk throught the mist and forest to get a better angle.

From out of the mists pierces the din of metal on stone, arrows taking to the air as well. Her place in the water now pinpointed by those that barrel towards her, Eryndae hops back on step until her feet find steadier ground. Then with a glint of lingering firelight on her blade, the veteran places her strength in a swing to meet their arrival, her wrath bent first upon Roho.

Snurga flickers a gaze across at Nazdatz and then back towrds where shouting can now be heard, elven shouting that is and the form of an elf is glimpsed by the Senior Scout. "" at this point she spits "" The she-orc adjust the arrow on her bow string and aims at Tiramen. She pulls the string back as far as she can and releases..

Behind those shields Nimmeril does indeed stand with Arwen, remaining close to the Lady as if she wishes to ensure that her own body will protect at least part of Arwen's form. The two, guarded by one of the three groups of Elentiri, must watch and wait from relative safety whilst their kith and kin risk life and limb for the sake of all. The position for either, physical and emotional, is less than comforting.

Tiramen is silent as his arrow finds its mark. Though a scowl marks him as the cursed beast continues on. Would that the fool human fly to the elvish lines he could do more for him. Such is the price of valor. As he takes aim, a shot comes out of the night and strikes his side, kept from deeply wounding by his armor and cloak. A grunt of pain and he tracks the source and Elensul craves revenge.

Frustration dominates Linnuial's features as he tries to make sense of the melee in the mist. Already he has an arrow nocked, tilted upward toward the sky, awaiting a target to make itself known. An arrow suddenly flies out to strike Tiramen, and Linnuial smiles thinly. Brantoril creaks as he gives it a final pull and releases. "There!" he shouts to his fellow Elentiri archers.

Gralshnak , hiding in the back of the group, decides to run around through the mist to see if he can possibly cause some damage. He spots Mornferedir stalking through the mist as well, and he charges toward his side, scimitar raised, and attempts to slash downward at the elf's side.

As Dwoe sees the arrow launched by Tiramen he changes his dietction and increases his pace charging toward Tiramen at full speed.

Roho whimpers a chilled shriek as the elf-maid's blade seemingly materializes from the mist itself. Quick feet however are what allows this 'thing' to continue to draw breath. Growling loudly amidst a series of short, breathy barks, the dogbeast sinks to mere inches above the sodden earth, crawling almost spiderlike toward the very feet of his assailant. Quick as a flash, the uruk's well-used blade scims across the detritus, aiming to rid the elf of the necessary tendons required to stand.

As the first arrows are exchanged targets reveal themselves on both sides. And still Randinen preaches caution to the Cuthalion, " Mind our swordsmen and the Ranger!" However, several shots are made, an accurate support for the Magoriath in their stride.

Searching the field ahead, Randinen grumbles softly, ready his own bow to fire at one of the orcish archers. Releasing his arrow it whistles a deadly tune, soaring to rip apart flards of mist.

Obghash's dry laugh causes the mist to eddy and swirl as he walks, not charges, toward the swordswomen. The Shaman of Moria rasps in the common tongue, "It will please me to kill you and drink your blood." His eyes follow the elf's blade during the course of his approach.

Mornaer grunts and he moves back again, bringin his sword to somehow deflect the blow, only to have it land hard into the side of his chest, causing blood to spurt with guttural cough. eyes blink as he brings the sword up again "I'll make sure, that you don't.." gasps out the Ranger as he brings his sword about again, this time, moving for the Orc's side. hoping to score a hit

The gray clad elf continues to stalk until his ears catch heavy feet coming his way. Mornferedir turns quickly to see Gralshnak coming at him, his bow nocked he lets loose the arrow at the Orc almost at point blank then his side is met with a scimitar leaving something that will most likely hurt in the morning. The Thandir collapses back grasping at his side his arrows fall out of his quiver and he scrambles wildly to return them and finish this uruk.

Pough grunts and stands, enough of this hiding game. Like duel flames, the Morian's crimson eyes pierce through the fog, searching for one who may fit his axe. Stepping forward, he slowly joins his fellow Uruk... Searching.

Gurstaka laughs and slips the sword easily, the blade sliding past his hip harmlessly, barely glancing the armour there. "Your soul is the flames" Gurstaka states in a serious tone of voice now, still harsh and cruel, but somehow reverant. Using his momentum from his dodge he steps in close, sweeping his mace sideways for the humans chest again.

The arrow from Mornferedir passes so closely by Gralshnak that it cuts through his cloak, leaving a hole in it. Oh well, it goes nice with the other hundred holes and rips in the cloak. Gralshnak tries to stop the scrambling elf from getting back to his arrows by leaping on top of the elf, swinging his blade in a horizontal way at the elf's lower belly.

Nazdatz nods to Snurga, and peers with relish into the gloom to search for a new target, but a sudden squeal rends the night air as Randinen's arrow flies from the dark and into his shoulder! Missing his heart by mere inches, the force of the dart is enough to knock the small orc from his perch, and he tumbles to the ground unceremoniously, laying still.

Snurga growls as an arrow, that shot by Tiramen whistles past and takes a groove out of her upper left arm, seconds later a second arrow shot from somewhere amongst the elven number just manages to pierce the ring-mail of her mid-section. Another growl follows as she yanks the arrow free and yells a command to a group of scouts that hang back behind her with their bows ready, as she sees the group of Elentiri, "" The Maluuk then picks her way closer to Gurstaka, her bow still in hand.

Mornferedir grasps at his arrows wildly, his hands close over two arrows and kicking his feet into the ground he bounces away from the Orc that tried to leap atop him. With the Uruk on the ground, Mornferedir lunges back at him. The Elf rises his arms and tries to plunge the arrows down into the Uruk.

The Ranger darts back quickly, as his second wind comes to him. A slight laugh as he brings his sword back, and he pushes foward again, aiming for a score about the neck, as the sword is brought up in a vicious arc. "Sadly the only flames I hope to see are of the Sun..."

Ah, yes, the fracas is joined! The Elves glare about in time-honored fashion, intent upon carrying themselves through the melee to be worthy of the sagas. The goblins howl and scratch in time-honored fashion, intent upon spilling as much blood as they possibly can. Is it not meet? Has it not been the plot of this tale, for a thousand generations? Here a hapless orc looks down in shock as the Elf he fights quite rudely puts a sword through it's chest. There, an Elf goes down beneath a shrieking pile of flailing goblins who surge out of the mist to tackle him, knives flashing in the nearby firelight. Ah, it is a bloody drama; tragic! or fine and toothsome, depending on one's perspective...

Pausing in her retreat, Ailiell murmurs an oath or a prayer spying both Tiramen and his assailant between herself and the camp. Slipping into the shadows she takes a steadying breath and swings her bow from her shoulder. Her healer's sack is dumped unceremoniously upon the ground as swift fingers draw and nock an arrow, tracking the foul creature as steadily as she can manage. Another moment, a twitch of her fingers and the shaft is sent hurtling through the mists.

Metal sent singing through the misty air finds no mark this time; thus does Eryndae withdraw her blade still clean. But before she might recoil fully, the orcs own weapon nicks her leg with speed that surprises her more than wounds. Nonetheless, blood is drawn along the side of her leg, and for that the Silmaethor's anger grows. "A nasty bite! But you shall have it twofold upon you!" she hisses in the common speech. But before her wrath is further drawn upon her assailant, another's nasty words draw both ears and eyes. Eryndae swings around with fluid grace, bringing her sword down in an arc toward Obghash.

The arrows that Mornferedir stabs down hit the back of Gralshnak's leather armor, barley going through it at all due to the little force applied. However, Gral knocks the elf off of him, swinging his sword wildly in the air once more, and then he stumbles away through the mist.

Dwoe pays little attention as another arrow grazes his left leg causing little damage and continues his charge toward Tiramen.

A fleeting glimpse of turning yrch is all Tiramen needs to redirect his shots to his former target. The foul 'Dwoe'. He might not be able to help the ranger Mornaer but the Valar curse him if he cannot force more than one yrch to flie the field this day. Death brings him no joy, but Elensul sings with the flying of arrow from its grasp.

Mornferedir flies back into a tree, gasping wildly for air, he quickly retrieves his bow and an arrow nocking it quickly he takes one last shot at the Orc fleeing through the mist.

Snurga mutters to herself and selects another arrow, black feathered like all the ones in her quiver and spins towards Ailiell's direction. The arrow is soon fitted to her bow and the the string pulled back till it rests near the she-orc's scarred cheek, then it is released with a *twang* sound.

The Group of Scouts that Snurga commands has begun to fire arrows at the Elentiri as instructed.

The Shaman's war hammer snaps into position, going from rest to knocking aside the she elf's blade in the blind of an eye. Obghash snarls, fetid breath spilling out of his mouth as he steps back, twisting to keep his shield in the fore, and launches his own attack. The War Hammer flies in a tight horizontal arc, a quickly vanishing slash of silver and black to a human eye, as it strives to connect with elf flesh.

Linnuial growls to himself as he tries to take in all of the battle at once, and seeing some orcs advance, he shouts out, " Elentiri, fall back twenty paces! Keep clusters sparse! Archers, spread yourselves out so as not to give anyone a large, solid target!" The Elentiri do as commanded, shuffling backward from the threat and keeping Arwen's location between the three groups a mystery. Eyeing the battle once more, Linnuial's view of Eryndae's flaxen hair is eclipsed by some foul black shape. The young edhel risks an arrow.

Pough's keen eyes catch upon the ranger, a sneer passing over his face. Gurstaka is near him and he falls into a trot, making for their position. "Hay, I join!" He rumbles in his broken westron, pulling his axe forth as he goes.

Gurstaka grunts as his mace connects quite viciously with the air, the return slice from the ranger gashing through his chain mail and into his shoulder. Dark blood almost immediatly begins to seep out of the wound, covering the blackness of his armour and seeping in. "Skai! You will pay for that with your life, prey-thing!" he hisses. "I will add your ears to the collection of your cousins!

Regarding his opponent now with what might be a little more respect, Gurstaka tests the humans reflexes with a few light blows, then strikes properly, his mace flashing out toward the humans weapon arm again, perhaps seeking to knock the weapon free.

As Dwoe closes in on Tiramen a couple more arrows fly nearby missing their target. He raises his mace and swings it at Tiramen's left leg.

Oh, if only words had meaning to Roho..

Gurgling happily as his blade is blessed with the immortal's own red, the Shaman's pet howls loudly, back arced to the hazy sun as puffs of raunchy mist burst from the muzzle ending his pocked gullet. Intent upon the kill, the truely wretched messenger of the Deeps leaps from the tufted earth as pre-ordered.. yet..

*Fwap Fwap Fwap*

Roho is intercepted by another! Cruel shafts of the light-lovers pound into the airborne orc's sailing spine with mechanical rapidity, though chain lengths and leather padding absorb their brunt. The Shaman's pet whimpers and whines pathetically as it twists and thrashes vioelently in an attempt to rid his armor of the new threat.

Thus the fray thickens. And where the Magoriath stride onward to deliver battle, the Cuthalion remain at the edge of the elven encampent. Their line is a grim formation, arrows whizzing from their midst, hurled towards the skirmish ahead.

The line breaks at a yelled command, smaller groups formed. And yet these gaps offer no easy passage to the orcs. Those foolish enough to draw too close may fear the considerable amount of bows held at the ready, swords to guard their flanks; some of the Magoriath have remained.

With a groan, the fallen form of Nazdatz awakens, and sits up, his hand still grasping firmly his bow. He stares in horror at the elven arrow sticking out from his chest, and begins to pant in desperation. Dragging himelf to his feet, he looks about him in alarm, and sees the ongoing fray up ahead. The orc nocks another arrow to his bowstring, and draws it back with a wince, before letting the arrow fly into the elven midst.

The on rush of Dwoe brings Tiramen to his feet in a motion likened to flight. A stare upon the face of death and Tiramen dances to one side caring not for the range of target. Pulling back of his bow once more, he fires. Trusting to elensul once more to bring death to his enemies.

Ailiell frowns both with anger and swift kindling fear for Tiramen as her arrow barely gives Dwoe pause. Settling further into her shadows, she nocks another ashen arrow taking aim once more at the relentless beast. Drawing back the bowstring with one steady hand, she releases the shaft -- just as another flies, seemingly from nowhere, to leave a light furrow along her bowarm. Hissing sharply through her teeth she looks wildly to find her shot...

Dwoe is scratched by an arrow followed by another sinking into his left shoulder. He again swings his heavy mace. This time aiming for Tiramen's left ear.

The Ranger's left hand darts out slightly as he draws his weapon hand back, unfortunatly, or fortunatly, it slams into his left arm, knocking it about with a sickening /THOK/ slinging it out of place. he yells back in deffiance as he continues his slow backtreadf, right handf coming out to cleave down on that orc's own retched weapon arm, hoping to lop the hand off.

Mornferedir quickly retrieves arrows from the forested floor and piles them into his quiver as he begins to rush through the woods, grasping at his side and panting. At spotting a Orc, he crouches behind yet another small log and nocks his bow. Pulling back the string he looses a arrow at Nazdatz.

"Aah!" Eryndae cries sharply, staggering backward as eyes cloud fleetingly. What wound was suffered beneath Roho's blade now disappears beneath the searing pain in her shoulder. Obghash's weapon carves a deep gash in fair skin, the pale green of her soaked with red mere moments later. Silver eyes flicker wildly between the two dark forms as a sword held by two hands is now forced into one, her right. Speed of movement now lessened by her ailment, the lady slashes out in retaliation, blade singing towards whichever of the two she can more easily reach: first Roho.

Nazdatz yelps in alarm as Mornferedir's arrow speeds to him. The sharp tip of the dart scratches his cheek deeply, and he takes a step backwards in further alarm. As dark blood begins to seep from the cut, and he glares about to find the elf who fired it. His small eyes fixing on the silver haired quendi, he growls as he looses an arrow of his own, and then slips behind the oak tree for cover.

Sounds of cries and pain latch onto Nimmeril, and as the Elentiri safeguard Arwen's withdrawal, she steps to one side and murmurs, "I will join you in a moment, I swear it." The fall of Eryndae is enough to inspire haste and need in the Silivriel, and, inhaling deeply, she takes aim at the orc threatening the Hiruvorthaer.

" Prepare for a volley!" cries Randinen as he heaves his hand, ready to give a signal for release -- strings are drawn, arrows set, elven archers keen to watch the battlefield. And yet no sign is given... for their Commander is struck by an arrow himself.

Hit in the chest, Randinen hisses, shrinking as a wave of agony courses through his frame. Still he straightens anew, a fire kindled in his visage, " Fire!" Biting his lower lip he adds one of his own to the volley.

Pough nears Gurstaka and Mornaer, wripping from him an arrow as he does. "" He grunts, nodding briefly to Gurstaka. Lifting up his shield, the other Morian moves swiftly in, pulling his axe through the air in a diagonal cut, he aims for the humans stomach region.

Desperation pervades Linnuial's speech as he roars, " Get the ranger out of there! Our archers must have a clear lane to shoot!" Looking over his shoulder one last time, he decides that the combination of range, large shields, and indirection leave Arwen sufficiently protected for now. One eyebrow raises as he witnesses Nimmeril join the fray, but a moment later he is letting loose his own barb, once again at Eryndae's assailants.

Indeed bravery is a fool's errand and rather than fly before the orch, Tiramen takes his beating. As Dwoe's retort swings in earnest his own feet prove not nimble enough upon the snow covered ground and he is battered mightily in the side. Half his quiver spills upon the earth as he rolls upon the ground having the presence of mind to grasp for his bow upon rising. There is a snap most unpleasant but it is simply the arrow in his side breaking with the impact upon ground. Coming to a knee, Tiramen refuses to balk in the face of certain end for here is an errand that he should see himself ended lest he fail. Another shot is fired upon his deadly foe.

Gurstaka grins a death heads grin at Mornaer, his mace living up to his name, crashing into Mornaer's arm. "Death creeps closer, Manling" he snarls as he steadily steps after the backpeddling human, mace flicking out a few times, trying to find a weak point in the humans defences and end this fight...

The longsword carves nothing but the air once again, the usually clumsy uruk showing suprising speed, well-honed reflexes from long days spent training recently. Appearing at his side is Pough, Axe at the ready. Gurstaka times his blow in sync with the other uruk, Bone-crusher thirsts for more blood and the Uruk happily complies, sending the mace out in a heavy blow towards the humans chest.

Mornferedir crouches behind his log as the arrow whizzes past his ear and even makes a light nick on his ear.. goshdarn pointy ears. He scowls lightly in pain then nocks his bow again, pulling it back he fires at Nazdatz whenever the Orc is visible, panting heavily. Black specks float across his vision. "Grrrrrrrrrlthgaaah!"

The dog-orc is rocked back to his bestial senses as a cleaner, and yes much sharper pain laces across the rear of his upper clavicle in a short burst of ebony. Roho spins hotly behind a deafening snarl as he pushes the bruises of the shafts now forming an odd, medial fan across his spine. The creature abandons senses and common wariness as he lounges bodily toward the elf-maiden, scimitar for the moment forgotten as it quivers within the earth where it was only moments before sheathed. Gnashing claws and foaming spittle soar before the beast as it strives to tackle and pin the elf and her blade.

The ranger's sword quickly comes in, trying to ward off this new attack as he continues to back away, however, his blade is not quick enough, and the tooth of the blade cuts along his ribs, sending blood forth, but soon he is caught again, by mace, sending him stumbling back, and onto the ground for a bit before he slowly stands, and with this, he makes hisnwild run towards the Elvish lines. as the foes try to over run him.

Snurga paces back a little way out of the main line of sight, grinning as her shot against Ailiell goes without any repayment. The Morghash Maluuk produces another arrow from her quiver and repeats the process of nocking it--an action that causes a rivulet of black blood to flow down her arm..the tall form of Tiramen is now in sight of her and her black bow.."" She cries as the arrow is set free..at the same instant she let the string go another white fletched arrow stings as it embeds with her shoulder, cutting past the armor.

Obghash laughs, a malicious contemptuous laugh, as he steps back. The laugh stops, replaced by a howl and the sickening thud of an arrow. The uruk snarls, "" He glides forward, war hammer twisting in his hand so that the blow can be delivered on the long metal spike. Again he swings in a horizontal arc, though this time the blow is more reckless. Eyes filled with rage and hate guide the blow..

As Tiramen rolls to the ground and again stands shooting another arrow Dwoe swings his mace again at the top of the elf's head.

Arwen draws a hissing breath as Nimmeril steps out of the shielding line, eyes sharpening. A quick impulse makes her move after her maid, but just as quick, one of the Elentiri pushes her back behind their backs as the battle heats and more and more elves are being wounded and driven back.

Assailed from all sides it would seem, Tiramen trusts to his agility and continues to circle away from the orch Dwoe towards the encampment. With so many arrow spilled upon the ground he trusts not the moment to retrieve them. Not before orcish onslought anyway. Despite what assailant he faces beyond, here is his chief concern and so he draws back another arrow and fires upon Dwoe. Elvish skill being perhaps the only reason he draws no knife or blade.

His head peeping out from concealment for just a moment, Nazdatz squeals as Mornferedir's arrow embeds itself in the tree with a dull thud. Darting back under cover, the uruk whimpers darkly, and seems to come to some conclusion, as he springs to his feet, and blots for the cover of the brush, his thin legs pumping furiously as he pelts away west towards the Wooded Vale.

Linnuial steps forward only enough that his orders may be heard over the din of battle. " Draw them back to the archers, but no farther!" More softly, he utters to the archers beside him, " If those fiends insist on attacking, they will meet a wall of arrowheads. Let us do our best to dissuade them! Cover the Silmaethor" Again, he tries to cover the retreat of those locked in melee combat, as do his four fellows.

The Ranger's peril is remarked. Grimly Randinen cries his next command to the nearest group of elven archers, " Aid the Dunadan! Delay his assailants!" Thus he nocks another arrow, aiming for the orcs bothering Mornaer; eagerly the projectile flies towards its target.

Snurga curses as her own arrow misses the elf that dared to shoot at her, she scrambles back a little way, looking for a better vantage point from which to shoot. Her strides are long and loping and each sets teeth, deffinately human, that are tied in her lank hair to clattering. From a little distance back she spies Randinen and her eyes narrow..silently she takes an arrow nocks it and uses its staff to aim along..

In what time Roho's nearly missed lunge buys her, Eryndae draws up again, biting her lip firmly in defiance of the pain she suffers. A wild-eyed survey of the scene nearby finds Mornaer struggling. A broken cry to the swordsmen rises in the Silmaethor's throat, though she cannot afford to look back. " Bring your blades forward, Magoriath! Your aid is sorely need--"

Yet even before her cry falls silent in the heavy night air, Obghash strikes anew, with fury undiminished. The blow drives her forward to her knees, back crumpling slightly before she can manage a roll to her side. Thus as the swordsmen pass on their way to Mornaer's aid, the lady attempts to crawl after them. Her sword, though still at the ready, seeks no more blood.

Swallowing, fingers trembling ever so slightly - how long has it been since last she had fired her bow at anything but straw? - Nimmeril watches her first arrow fly wide. A swift backward glance reassures her of Arwen's position, even if the handmaid has not the courage to meet the Lady's gaze, before she nocks and aims again at this foe of Eryndae's.

Mornferedir rushes after Nazdatz, nocking his bow and firing as fast as he can as he stalks after the fleeing orc.

As Tiramen starts retreating toward the camp Dwoe is again hit by an arrow and raises his mace for a killing blow to the head as another arrow flies harmlessly past.

Mornaer continues his dead out run towards the elvish lines, blood trailing behind him, before he manages to break down into a stumble, arrows whizzing past him on both sides.

With his sword slightly dragging behind him, the ranger manages to escape as Swordsmen come to his aid, and Randinen covers him, and so he takes off, into the east.

Gurstaka eyes light up in glee as the human trips, raising his mace for the deathblow.. and stumbling backward as an arrow impacts solidly into his armour, giving the human enough time to escape. Roaring his fury at both the shot and the escaping human, Gurstaka turns baleful eyes toward the direction that the arrow come from, shield before him he charges at the Elf, the ground thudding with his heavy stride.

A flurry of sailing topsoil echos Roho's quick change of direction as he shrugs off the fury aimed toward the elf-maiden and makes for his still vibrating blade. Scooping up said scimitar, the dog-beast charges headlong into the fray, dodging to and fro deftly as he scims into the slimmer ranks of the battle, all the while making for Linnuial and his gathered bow-elves with grim precision.

Hiding in the shadows of rock and tree, Ailiell watches with growing frustration as Tiramen is repeatedly assaulted, the cries of yrch and elves beyond her line of vision speeding heart and breath. Grimly she grits her teeth, raising her head to quickly scan the fray -- both for a path out, and for those she may aid. Grabbing up her rucksack, she tosses it over one shoulder, taking up her bow once again for another strike against Tiramen's foe, hands steady with fury, though her face betrays her fear.

Obghash's eyes widen in shock, a silent testament to the pain inflicted by the enemy dart. The Shaman stumbles back, muttering curses. And tugging at the two arrows stuck fast in his body. His eyes follow the crawling swordswomen and so do his words, "Yes, go, take your fear back to the fearful. Hide in the cursed sun while you can. Soon I shall come for you.." He turns about and walks back, away from the main battle.

Pough snorts, not taking the time to look upon the fleeting human, his broad bare feet quickly pushing him along again, close at the heels of Gurstaka.

Helmet ringing with the blow of yrch, Tiramen once more rolls to the ground. A shake of his head and as he comes to his feet, he finds his quiver empty. A curse to the foul winds of fate is uttered and retrieving his bow, he makes a dash for the lines of magoriath.

Linnuial smiles as the flurry of arrows slow Obghash's attack and allow Eryndae to reach the safety afforded by the line of archers. Her other assailant, Roho, manages to make a mad dash into the camp, toward the small group of Elentiri archers. The Hirvaethor smirks, and a small, cocky laugh comes from some place deep within his throat. "Drop him." Leveling his bow upon the dog-beast, he releases an arrow, his companions doing the same.

As Dwoe gets hit by another arrow and Tiramen makes a mad dash toward the east he changes his battle tactics and turns and runs back the way he came.

Mornferedir crouches behind a log glaring at the fleeing orc, he nocks yet another arrow, pulls back and lets the shaft loose at Nazdatz.

The archers do not flinch at an onrush of orcs. More arrows they send to greet the foul creatures. Only increasing deadly precision awaits any orc drawing closer to the defensive line. Another volley is ordered and released, a protective veil for the returning Magoriath.

A smirk to mar his lips, the Hirvaethor Randinen observes some of the approaching orcs. His contempt is clear, as he raises his slender bow to land another shot.

Nazdatz, for his part, continues to run, and as Mornferedir's arrow flies, he howls in agony as the tip pierces his thigh. Tumbling forward uncontrollably, the uruk falls to the floor, and curls up, his body rolling away into the foliage. Nazdatz cries out again, and is lost to view...

Nazdatz crosses the rushing Silverlode towards the west using the large boulders strewn amidst the river's path. From Wooded Vale, Nazdatz arrives from the east, across the rushing Silverlode. Nazdatz's lower legs and feet are soaked by the icy water.

Roho's right shoulder sags beneath the weight of a protruding shaft of mocking silver. Another flurry of detritus heralds the beast's movements, though this time it is the skull drag of his bolted features into the soft, spungy earth. No matter, for this is a thing of the Deeps, is it not? Roho pulls his thoroughly scratched cranium from between his forepaws with a snarling whimper even as several more shafts dot his hide harmlessly with bruises as thier barbed extremeties find not flesh.

The distance between Linnuial and Roho is disparingly close... Obghash follows the path back toward the mines, passing through the wall of fog and out of sight in a matter of moments.

Snurga's rasping voice commands again for the uruks with bows behind the lines "" She points a clawed finger at the Elentiri and then growls, the arrows that had hit her, one still sticking in her right shoulder, now paining her as she sets another arrow to her bow and aims across the lines to Linnuial..

Mornferedir grins in triumph as the Orc flees from him, then starts to nock his bow again and decides it's time to get back to the Elf lines. He pants heavily and those black specks continue to dance on his vision. He starts to walk back and stumbles, lying on the ground, breathing heavily.

Watching her arrow strike home with no small amount of satisfaction, Ailiell takes a deep breath, abandoning her hiding place. Holding her breath, she runs at a crouch towards the encampment in a whirl of grey cloak and dark hair, following on Tiramen and Eryndae's heels.

Another useless bolt is let loose...or perhaps it allowed, in its small way, Eryndae's escape. Nimmeril again looks behind her, secures visually Arwen's location, and retreats a few steps whilst her fingers pluck another shaft from her quiver and fits it, aiming with care at Roho lest that...thing reaches Linnuial.

Gurstaka hesitates as a seeming storm of arrows sweeps toward him, only a hastily raised shield letting him emerge unscathed, if you dont count the one arrow lodged in his thigh. Rethinking his offence, he backpedals off, shield held in front of him, moving toward the meelee fighting closer to the place of the initial encounter.

Snurga's arrow is too wide to strike Linnuial, yet it is spaced perfectly to strike the Elentiri archer beside him. The elf clutches his chest--the arrow struck his heart dreadfully. With but a moment left to sputter, he falls.

Linnuial's eyes widen as he watches one of his own fall from an arrow meant for him--his rage is heightened by the fact that he saw not where the arrow came from. The only outlet for his anger is the wretch before him, Roho. Dropping his bow at his feet, he reaches for the dagger at his thigh, whipping it out and lobbing it at the dog-beast. "You will pay!" he growls in Westron.

Having dove behind the lines of magoriath, Tiramen lets his wounds speak to him. A deeply bruised rib, a mild concussion, and bleeding at his side from yrch arrow...it is the latter tha concerns him most for the foul creatures are ever wont to poison their tips. Staying low beneath the arcing of cunir aim, he crawls slowly to the rear of the encampment.

Now safely behind the Magoriath- or as safe as can be expected in such black company - Eryndae stumbles to her feet, her stride steady though its grace remains broken. " Guard the Cuthalion! Let your blades be a force to be challenged, should any dare advance our numbers!" the Silmaethor cries, much of the energy expended in lifting her voice now drooping her shoulders.

The formidable ranks of elven swordsmen heed the veteran's order, regrouping into a wall with Tiramen and Eryndae among those behind them. With sickening skill Roho dips aside the flung dagger, though unfortunately in the way of another shaft. The dog-beast howls angrily as the arrow does naught but to speed the creature to further, and oh, much hotter ire as it skips luckily across his temple. Bounding to his haunches, the Morian grasps the scimitar therin with both hands, allowing his momentum to bury him in a full out blast of orcish fury toward the unarmed bow-elf.

Arwen stands frozen to the spot, face pale, eyes fixed unblinking at Nimmeril, open fear painted clearly in her expression. Her hands curl into fists by her side and she does not even seem to notice one of the Elentiri trying to pull her back even further...

Mornferedir pants deeply, sliding his bow over his shoulder and crawling through the woods slowly, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Coming in behind the Archer's lines, the battered ranger, seems to pull himself in just well enough..save for the trail of red bloody, that soakes the earth behind him. A low grunt leaves him, as he slwoly berings his dnagling sword up, and drops it without effort into his sheathe, before continuing to stumble fuurther back behind the lines. But Mornaer, is not so strong, and soon, he finds himself collapsed safetly behind his allies's lines.

Pough stopped before Gurstaka, and is now waiting for Gurstaka to return back to him. Another wave of the terrible missiles carry their way toward him and he ducks once again beneath his shield. "" He rumbles to Gurstaka, ebony blood now dripping from his leg. An arrow has narrowly grazed him in the last assault...

Scowling as his dagger is wasted upon air, Linnuial falls back onto one knee to avoid the swing of the scimitar. With swift and practiced efficiency his hands bring forth his sword and shield, and his coiled knee then springs him forward upon the beast, his face a mask of rage and disgust.

Once behind the line of the cuniriath, Tiramen staggers to his feet and makes to join the line of Elentiri. No weapon bears he save a woodsman's hatchet. No arrow left either. And yet he will give himself to the last afore dark hand touches Heryn.

There are more orcs dribbling out of the darkness now, behind their comrades, pairs of green, crimson and orange eyes peers through the gloom and then at command advance towards the line of elven swordsmen..intent on breaking their ranks.

" Drive them back!" bids Randinen in triumphant voice, his eyes with the retreating orc. For he fails to discern the hazard Linnuial faces. His attention drifts to one of the lingering orcs, Snurga, this one a nuisance in returning an arrow for an arrow.

Mornferedir continues to crawl untill he is able to support himself against a tree, he then weakly gets to one knee and starts to shoot at the orcs, he is mostly to the side and behind them now. He continues to pant and grunt every now and then, the pain getting to him.

Gurstaka takes another step back as an arrow thunks into his shield with a solid sound. "" he growls back to the Hammerer. ""

With this he hurries back to the melee, just in time to see Snurga take a severe arrow blow and crumple to the ground. Attaching his mace back to his hip, he kneels down and carefully picks the she-uruk up in his muscled arms, slinging her casually over one shoulder and retreating, his shield still held high to ward off any arrows.

Linnuial's posture - or, more to the point, that of Roho - precludes another bolt from Nimmeril's bow, and, with great reluctance she obeys her basic instincts and the promises earlier made. The length of elm is lowered as she backs further, cautiously, toward the Elentiri and the place by Arwen's side earlier abandoned.

Roho dissuades the singing longsword with a vibrating clang of his sleeved arm, yet pivots swiftly to put the bow-elf commander in the line of sight of his own. Snarling viciously, the wretched beast attempts to unseat his assailant with a sweep of his left claw while its' counterpart right seeks the other's lower abdomen with a generoud thrust of the scimitar at its' tip.

Pough grunts, "" Stepping back, another arrows bounces off the metal serface of his shield. Once again he falls into the frey of Elf and Orc.

Linnuial's coat, bearing the arms of Arwen nos Peredhel, makes it difficult to find the exact boundaries of his abdomen, and the scimitar only grazes his ribs. His own anger further inflamed by the injury, Linnuial throws his full wait at Roho, his longsword at the point of his lunge. The Elentiri surrounding Linnuial remain back for the moment, perhaps knowing that their commander wants no help with the foul creature.

She who was clothed in green now bathes in blood, her left arm nearly useless at her side. Nevertheless, Eryndae bites back outward hate and anger, funneling its focus into her words to the swordsmen. " Hold true, and break not your ranks until you hear the word." These remain her final words to them, her following silence implying her confidence in their strength as conflict seems to diminish. Argent eyes find Linnuial among those still engaged, but she herself follows those backing towards the numbers of Elentiri, able to offer little more than vigilance toward his predicament.

Mornferedir looks up, dazed and dizzy he slides the bow over his shoulder and starts to stalk back towards the camp, he's all the way behinds the Orcs now. He tries to avoid any arrows that might stray his way and tries to make his way to the camp.

Plummeting through the safety of the elven lines, Ailiell pauses, unsure what to do with herself. Dark eyes dart over the Elentiri, the bloodied Eryndae and beyond, landing on the grievously wounded ranger. Wending her way somewhat dazedly through the crowd, she kneels by him, laying one hand on his brow, as the melee continues.

Slippery as a snake, Roho once more avoids the descending tip of the elf's rather lengthy weapon. The dog-beast sways to and fro before the taller being, attempting to locate a path beneath or above? that pesky steel that seems to want his flesh oh so bad. The way is given: With a hearty shriek the Morian lunges again as the longsward returns for another strike, sliding toward the other's shins as he aims a hearty upward blow the length of the taller immortal's body with the end result of... pulsing gullet.

A gasp leaves the ranger as his body writes, blood coming from his chest where ribs have been smashed by a mace, and blood seeps out from a cut just beneath them. his right arm is bleeding as his left arm just hangs there, and needs to be popped back into place. blood streams from his mouth, as he coughs and sputters, as well as varous cuts and scrapes along there from fighting. Yes, this ranger is grievously wounded..

Two calls, shrill whistles both, fill the air. The sounds fade as they began, though a figure can be seen briefly in the mist.

Driven to greater and greater levels of fury by the elusiveness of the small creature, Linnuial pauses in his hacking only to sidestep another swipe from Roho's scimitar. "Enough of you!" he growls, stepping forward with one leg to smite Roho with his large shield, his other leg bringing power behind a vicious thrust aimed toward the hopefully stymied orc.

Thus the valour of the Eldar prevails. The dark tide is mostly defied, the wounded now seeking aid. A line of vigilance still is kept, Magoriath flanking the Cuthalion, who keep their arrows at bay, for not many of the dark ones seem to remain...

Until attention is drawn to the strife betwixt Linnuial and Roho... With alarm Randinen bends his gaze to the pair, moving towards them. As do other elves who are not needed to guard the fog should more of the accursed decide to assault.

A tumble of frightened whimpers trickle from Roho's muzzled maw as he is pushed off-balance by the unseen barrel of the elf's well-kept shield.. Perfect for the sliding of a longsword beneath and toward the unprotected groin of the shrieking beast. The wretched Morian thrashes in the moist earth like a stuck pig, taking a generous moment to drag his hind quarters across the ground behind him as he screams in agony. Respite is gladly given and accepted. The two-whistle call reins upon further action by Roho, calling him blessedly to the rear of the fray and toward the shady figure beyond: The Bearer of the Chain.

Mornferedir starts scrambling towards the camp, but there are orcs in the way. The silver haired elf takes a knee, his quiver filled with only three arrows. The Thandir takes an arrow, nocks it and draws back his string. With a soft command of, " Die Yrch." he aims as best he can and lets the shaft fly at Roho.

Linnuial collapses to all fours after the force of his strike, the blow having knocked Roho out of the edhel's range for another swing. Already he starts to gather his feet under him, to further pursue, but some shred of sense takes hold of him and he halts, turning instead back to the fallen Elentiri behind him.

"Hush-sh-sh," Ailiell murmurs, bending almost protectively over the man, Mornaer. Through the remaining clashes of metal and cries, the healer speaks softly in a pure, alto voice, cool hand lingering on his brow. "You are safe now. Rest." A pained howl and feral screaming cuts through the fracas and she bends nearer, taking up a clear wordless song as counterpoint.

And as the remnant force of the orcs makes their retreat, the scorn of the Cuthalion is unleashed one more time... " Swipe them back! Offensive sweep!" bellows Randinen, and he is one of the first to prepare for a final burst.

Linnuial neatly blocks further retreat of the leaking creature, accidentaly dissuading Roho into the embrace of a now shuddering cedar tree following the force of his weighty attack.

*Thud*

The frightened Morian plumets to the earth and a rush of tossed leaves and flung topsoil, wailing pathetically as arrows sink about him as though dropped from the tree above in response to the attack it not so long ago received. Darting to his feet, the dog-orc makes for a second attempt at freedom from the light-lovers and their dangerous darts, even as one, belonging to Mornferedir, plants itself firmly in his exposed rump. Roho runs screeming on all fours toward the west as fast as his hampered haunches will carry him.

Mornferedir says in Sindarin, " continues to scramble up to join the Elves, not wanting to get swept up with their charge he calls out, "Tirith aid me! Behind the Yrch!" he looses his last two arrows at the fleeing orcs and tries to avoid them as best as he can.,"

The man continues to groan slightly, but seems to quiet as a strained nod is given to the healer's words. Silver eyes continues to look up towards Ailiell, blinking every so often, and eyes dart about for a few moments, before Mornaer focuses on the healer again, his right hand clenches and unclenches as he tries to keep his body from squirming.

Mornferedir continues to scramble up to join the Elves, not wanting to get swept up with their charge he calls out, " Tirith aid me! Behind the Yrch!" he looses his last two arrows at the fleeing orcs and tries to avoid them as best as he can.,

As the last of the orcs seem to be driven off, Arwen disengages herself from the grasp of the Elentiri who join Linnuial once more. For a long moment, she looks at Nimmeril, face blank and expressionless, before turning away wordlessly to join Ailiell by the wounded Mornaer's side.

Tiramen yet stands, albeit unsteadily, aside the Elentiri. Blood trickling slowly from his side and eyes gazing as though through a double fog from blow to skull. His sweet tongue is hindered now by broken rib and failing breath and yet he stands. Stands until he breathes no more or there is no yrch yet left to face. And upon that moment, he takes a knee heavily. Lowering his gaze to the soft snow covered earth.

Nimmeril's shoulders slump, head hangs; she nods once in answer to an inquiry as to her health, assuring the guard she is untouched, then she places her bow over her shoulder and stands still, away from harm and out of the way. As she should have done in the first place, as she had promised to do in the first place.