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When Turin asked Azdiur about the past and the latter mentioned his brother, Kaylin refrained from following up on her earlier discourse with the newcomer. It sounded like Azdiur's brother had fallen in the line of duty, and Turin might be able to share a few good memories. Kaylin feared that if she would venture to say something on the matter, it might be out of place - tact had never been her strongest suit. So she gave Azdiur a respectful nod, and left it at that. Perhaps they could talk a bit more after Turin had told him a bit more about the experiences with his brother...

When the Lieutenant and the Commander joined them in the courtyard, Kaylin curiously eyed Amathen. He definitely wasn't one for words, their new big chief. He delegated all the talking to Lieutenant Macardil, who didn't do a bad job at it, but Kaylin wished the two men in their command would share the duties a bit more evenly. She wanted to get a good sense of who they both were, but up until now she'd mostly seen the Lieutenant organizing everything and scoring points by doing stuff like cooking breakfast.

A Ranger (Beren) looked over at her with a grin forming on his face and asked whether it sounded like old times. Kaylin gave him a hesitant smile. While she got his meaning - and she quite agreed - she didn't remember the man from "old times", and wondered if they might have met in a pub when she'd had one drink too many? Otherwise she was generally not that bad with faces or names. "Aye," she just ended up saying, after which she shot a look at Ziran and shrugged her shoulders, mouthing: "WHo IS this guy?"

There was another who'd joined them whom she DID recognize. Hirluin! Kaylin remembered him as a broody man she'd met at a pub. A bit surly, too, not very receptive to fun and games. It had only been afterwards that she'd realized he might have just been looking for a drink by himself, in peace, but she'd shrugged off her lack of perception by telling herself he shouldn't go looking for that in a pub with darts in the patrons area and several decks of cards behind the bar. She caught him ducking her gaze, and had to hide a smirk. She wasn't about to invite him to a game when they were about to ride out. Not being one to feel very shameful, she just raised a hand to Hirluin in greeting, and left it at that - for now.

As they set out and she saw Thûllir glancing at her before riding out first with the rest of the first squad and the Lieutenant, her face settled into a serious expression. She was on the clock now, and while the muscles in her legs protested against more riding (an activity she rarely did days on end), Kaylin appreciated the burn. It made her feel alive, and that was never a bad thing.
They made good time, although the Lieutenant took care to spare their horses, and the redhead was impressed by his knowledge of the area. When the village came in sight, at least no great plumes of smoke was rising into the air. Part of her had feared the orcs would have gotten there first, would have done their slaughtering and then burned every home and hovel. Yet all seemed well from this distance.

The Rangers all drew to a halt, and Kaylin caught Beren's words. She frowned and nodded slowly. She didn't want this place destroyed either: it was a home to the people here. Beren's suggestion that the Orcs might be waiting for nightfall sounded plausible. She'd learned in her years with the army that they preferred the dark - but she'd also learned that when it came down to it, they could and would fight in the light of day, too. Their hatred of Men was much greater than their hatred of the light, especially on a cloudy day like this, when the sun was shrouded. Kaylin found herself frowning, just like Hirluin, especially when Beren wondered aloud how many of the people in the village would still be alive when the light failed. Kaylin cleared her throat. "Well, all of them. Or that's the hope. At least we're here now. We can do the best we can to make a difference for this place." Her grey-blue eyes looked to Ziran. "Something doesn't feel right, though," she mumbled. She couldn't put her finger on it, nor could she explain the reason behind it, but her gut was twisting - and her instincts were rarely off base.

Pele Alarion
Squad Two

She might not have any rank to authorise it, but Pele still felt that she was obliged to look after her squad. Besides... She was a healer and should keep an eye on their well-being, even though she had not been doing it for herself that much; yet it was motivating to be in a team, and it gave her enough reasons to take care of herself as well. Thus, she counted quietly to herself as she looked at each member of the squad in turn, nodding at Mourgan and Abrazimir.

Pele couldn't help but wonder what Abrazimir thought of her, taking into consideration some of the past events, and all the trouble he and the others had gone through to get her out of the fix. How would it affect their teamwork? And yet again a thought visited her that she should not have returned and that she no longer fit here, but she quickly chased it away. Luckily she was saved from any other thoughts by the Commander and Lieutenant getting them ready to move out.

They rode at a steady pace, as their leader chose paths that did not cause any obstacles in their way, and when they came to a halt near the village, Pele could feel some pains and aches here and there, though these were not the priority and would cause her no harm. What did cause her worry was the fact that they had not encountered any orcs, and there was no way they could have passed by 30 - 40 of them, as reported. She doubted that orcs had learned to camouflage themselves that wisely not to be seen in this environment. And the village seemed not to be under any attack either.

"I don't know, Abrazimir," she responded, overhearing his thoughts. "I suspect the enemy might have set up a trap first and now waits for us to step into it. At any rate it would probably be wise to warn the village - they seem quite unsuspecting. They should be prepared to ward off the attack, and if anything - set out watchers around the perimeter of the village, as the orcs might come from any direction." Pele shifted in the saddle, looking for a more comfortable position, as she added more quietly: "Though I wonder if there is something hiding within the village itself. Or our attention was purposely drawn away to this village, as orcs attack elsewhere."

At any rate, she expected that they would do something about the situation, so she turned towards Commander to see what instructions would be given. If anything, she disliked them sitting here, and this fact in addition to the whole strangeness of the situation made her feel uncomfortable and vulnerable.

Unalmis Raxëlilta and Ilisys Azrubêl
Squad 2 – From the Fort out to the Village


That Pele was surprised to find him here, should not have surprised Unalmis. The former Sergeant was certainly one of the officers he had plagued with attention and questions back when he was looking to enlist, and she had even saved his neck when an ill-advised camping trip out in the Grey Wood had attracted Orcish gatecrashers. The young man tightened his leather bracers as they sized each other up and he tried to stand as tall as those about the stables, to compensate perhaps for high jinks of past. He was not the shortest, he had discovered last night, but he was yet slight and nimble where so many of those gathered here seemed square shouldered and built like ballistas. Pele though herself, looked a little worse for wear, tired perhaps. This must be the first time he had seen her since before the War ..

“You always manage to catch me up,” he grinned. “This time, my turn,” he figured with a careless shrug. “And it has been quite a time since ..” his slow understanding of quite how long it had been since he’d seen Pele last was diverted by the arrival of others in their group. “Good is not quite good enough a word,” he met Abrazimir’s greeting with a broad smile. Confidence in their small contingent was growing with each face he recognised. A rather more measured glance was offered though in Mourgan’s direction, for Nal had not missed the other Ranger’s exchange with Beren, close by. They had found one another then. Inwardly, he was dying to hear how the reunion had gone, but with a good deal of difficulty the young man refrained from asking. He doubted that Mourgan would appreciate everyone’s attention upon the matter for one. And reasoning how he himself might feel if his mother somehow strode back into his life now, with no warning, Nal figured he could imagine some notion of the other’s mind, and should respect therefore the privacy of the situation. “Here we are then,” was all he concluded, gladly.

Ilisys was yet pondering at Pele’s confirmation about Morwen, paring an apple from her pack with the knife in one hand, while she ate of it with the other, glancing from one to the other of them. The lady’s great spear propped between her boots and leant at her shoulder for support. If Pele herself was not troubled now by the other’s presence, then she and Morwen must have since resolved their issue. Which boded well, for their group to work together. Hopefully with more cohesion than had been demonstrated on the riverboat. Ilisys said nothing further of it, her face a distant plane with no apparent tie to the goings on around her. Presumably she observed the Lieutenant’s address, though her grey eyes fell with surprise it seemed upon Abrazimir, belatedly. “My Lord Dimaethor,” she marked him with a tone that seemed overly unfamiliar with the name she clearly hadn't needed to be told.

Designated to the Commander himself, their squad received no further instruction, lest it were to follow by their leader’s wordless example. Which was managed with all due professionalism, until it became clear that all was not as expected. The village itself seemed in no apparent risk, at least upon the surface.

“A bait has drawn us out,” Ilisys noted quietly, to meet Abrazimir’s suggestion. “I would see what it is we are not seeing,” she replied to Mourgan ambiguously, craning on a long white neck to survey their surroundings.

Beside the spear maiden, Unalmis frowned, trying to make sense of the expanding theories. “But how would the Enemy even know that we are here, to set a trap ?” the young man puzzled as Pele leant her thoughts to the mix. “And if they did know, if they perhaps saw us all arriving, or got word of the recruitments to the fort .. then to set a trap at all, .. wait, what source was it exactly who told our fort of seeing the Orcs head this way ?”

“Nobody alive has yet put eyes upon the Orcs we came to hunt,” Ilisys sat back in her seat as she recalled from the briefing back at the city. “No estimation has even been gathered of their numbers before. They never leave survivors.” The Lady turned to her own steed then, and whispered a confidence about Gilbrathil’s astute ear.

It had been pleasant to chat with Arnyn briefly while the other Rangers in their smaller squad were showing up. Thûllir was glad that there was a diversity of talents in their squad, and her analysis of their abilities and versatility in combat seemed pretty accurate. He had to smile at her comments, but didn’t have time to reply with anything other than a nod, as the Lieutenant and Commander had joined them.

Thûllir mounted his horse at Lieutenant Macardil’s signal, and then stilled his hands on the reins to hear his address. His gaze turned serious as he listened, his brows furrowing in concern. It was good that they had gotten news, but how? He hoped the Lieutenant had been able to question the messenger some more, but perhaps there had not been time. Speed did seem to be of essence.

Thûllir cast a glance over the rest of the small company as the first squad began to file out of the gate, letting his gaze rest on Kaylin for a moment in silent farewell before turning his eyes forward and concentrating on keeping Bregil in line with the others as they moved out at a canter. Their travel was swift, and it took much of his concentration to stay with the Lieutenant as they took trails not often traveled. It would not have been taxing on foot, but it was more challenging for the slim ranger to do so on horseback. He didn’t like being so visible and high off the ground, and the hooves of the horses made more sound than the pad of his feet, even if he did appreciate the speed with which they were able to cover territory.

When they came within sight of the village, Thûllir’s brow furrowed once more in thought, and he immediately turned his gaze to scan the countryside around the village. Looking for sign, any sign, of those they had come to intercept. He nodded slowly at Macardil’s words, but paused to think a few moments before replying quietly. “I concur about scouting the area Sir. While it is true that perhaps some trap may have been laid in the village itself, the other squads are strong enough in numbers to deal with such if that is the case. I admit being mounted is not my preference for scouting, but it is useful for sharing information rapidly. Perhaps if we go in three pairs to scout, one mounted and one on foot, or both on foot and leave our mounts at the village? That way if we encounter the enemy one of the pair can return to warn the group, and the other maintain overwatch. We have covered one point of the compass thus far with our travels, but there are three yet that need scouting.” Others may have better ideas, but that was his first instinct.

Morwen, Squad 2: (Abrazimir, Ilisys, Morwen, Mourgan, Pele, Red, Unalmis)

Most were gathering now, it seemed, and she glanced around at her group, not feeling inclined to speak much, as the early morning and the inability to finish her coffee had made her rather grumpy. She half listened to Pele speaking to a woman with long ebony hair, Ilisys, but her golden eyes came into focus as she realized that she was being referred to. She gave a nod, and a small smile to Pele, and then decided silence would make her appear standoffish (Zev would be proud of how self aware she was becoming, but as she spoke, she realized she was so half asleep she couldn’t remember if she had already met the black haired woman. Well, fortune favors the bold, as Zev liked to say. Eru, but the lad was rubbing off on her.

“Forgive me, if we had met, I’m not much of a morning person, and my mind is slow to wake. I am Morwen. And yes, Serg-Pele and I have … a history.” She realized the words sounded more ominous than she meant them, but it was too late to take them back. Oh well. She shifted uncomfortably, and ran a hand over her freshly cut black hair. At least she had managed to clean it up before they headed out. The ragged shaggy cut was cleaned up now; she had shaved the sides and back almost all the way down, and left the top a neat short cut. Much more convenient for fighting. Very little for an opponent to grab onto in a fight.

Luckily the potential awkwardness of the moment was interrupted by orders of Lieutenant Macardil, and she shifted her attention to him for the time being, giving Abrazimir and Mourgan nods as they joined their squad.

<> <> <>

Arriving at the Village

As they neared the Village, Morwen felt the uncertainty of her companions, compounded with her own. She unconsciously rubbed a hand over her shaven black hair, and then caught herself; it was no good to have such obvious tells. She had picked that one up from Zev. She nearly rolled her eyes. That lad would be the death of her.

She caught sight of Mourgan leaning over to mutter something to Ilysis, and suspected it was concern at the lack of, well, carnage. Where was their enemy? It was not a good sign that they seemed to have missed them entirely.

She clicked her tongue softly, and nudged Andreth nearer to Pele. She worried about the woman; not so much about her capability, but that she would take on too much guilt and cut herself off from others. It was an easy trap to fall into, Morwen knew first hand. Pele was already engaging with Abrazimir about the orc situation, and she waited until her old friend had finished, before stepping her horse a bit nearer.

Pele seemed to be doing fairly well, but she thought Arnyn was right that she should keep an eye out for her, and she suspected that Pele was likely to be experiencing pain from old injuries from all the riding and moving. She had no idea the extent of the injuries, but she had been working on a balm for muscle and joint aches that she thought might help. She spoke up as she came near, and reached out, holding a small container of the salve. “Something I made for aches and pains a little while ago. No doubt you are more skilled at such things, but this is for you, if it’s useful.”

She listened as the Rangers pondered their next move, taking in their thoughts. Something didn’t feel right here.



Zev, Squad 1: (Durien, Jaena, Kamion, Thûllir, Zev, Arnyn)

Zev was a bit haphazard in coming into the stables, and focused on getting Apple ready for the road, as quickly and efficiently as he could. Leading the buckskin out, he joined the Rangers already gathered, and mounted as the Lieutenant began giving orders. It seemed they would be at the front of the group; and as they took off, their group took the lead.

He was starting to get used to being on horseback again, though he was never particularly fond of it, but he tried to pretend his horse was like a tiny ship, hoping it would help. It didn’t. The path they took seemed strange, but Zev wasn’t too concerned- though he had no doubt Morwen was probably inwardly critiquing and questioning the choices being made. She was hard won over, but she was a stalwart friend once she was.

As the village came into view, he suddenly wondered how they had missed the orcs. From the sounds of it, they weren’t being particularly subtle. Lieutenant Macardil seemed equally thrown by this, questioning whether they had far outpaced their enemy. And now he was asking for their opinions. Zev was a bit surprised, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been. He wasn’t used to being asked his opinion in such a way from a commanding officer, but they had all been chosen for their experience and expertise. And he might be young, but, well, he wasn’t as young as he had been when he first joined years ago. He had seen a lot since then.

A thought of his uncle and the abandoned quest flashed through his mind for a moment, and he squashed it down. He had a job to perform, and he couldn’t let that get in the way. Not for the first time, he wondered briefly what he would do if duty conflicted directly with the opportunity to take the man down. But that choice hadn’t arisen, and was unlikely to. It would be difficult if it did. That man was capable of evil and destruction as great as their current enemy. It didn’t help that it was personal. He shook the thought away and refocused on the Lieutenant, listening as his fellow Rangers gave their opinions.

Thûllir’s thoughts aligned with his own, particularly about not preferring mounted scouting. “I agree,” he began, “We’re going on very little information right now. But what of this village? Perhaps it might be wise to speak to the people here, first, to see if anyone has seen or heard anything. Though I have my concerns about the village being as calm and peaceful as it appears. Before we consider leaving our mounts there, or heading off and leaving the other squads, I think the village itself bears some investigating.”

Arnyn
Squad One

Her conversation with Thûllir had been cut short, but she thought they would be able to work together well. Arnyn gauged the man as quiet but efficient, and that was very useful when on duty. Plus, in her experience, people like that could also make excellent friends.

It was interesting how little Commander Amathen liked to talk, but since the Lieutenant was capable enough, she didn't think much of it. Everyone had their strengths, and perhaps their Commander was more of a grab-the-cow-by-the-horns man, rather than the orator. As long as the two were functional, it didn't matter who did what in Arnyn's opinion. Looking over her shoulder, trying to spot the Commander on his horse, she noted he was a skilled rider. The horse that bore him was a muscled war horse, however, unlike the Lieutenant's. Her dark eyes looked forward again. Macardil's mount was lean and quick on its feet. Arnyn smiled softly. It once again illustrated the difference between their two officers.

Once the fort was out of sight, her attention focused completely on their surroundings. She saw no trace of their enemies, not on the horizon, nor on the paths they took. No trampling of many heavy or armored feet; only evidence of cart wheels and horse hooves. The more distance they covered, the more suspicion took hold of her mind. Arnyn frowned. Hadn't the Lieutenant said, back at HQ, that these orcs always operated in a way that gave no warning to where they would attack? They had never given soldiers the chance of aiding one of their targets, always closing in on their prey before anyone knew where they would go next and before anything could be done.
And the day after the Rangers arrived at the fort, some local individual just happens to spot them and report to them in time, before the village is even attacked? Her fingers tightened on Narsulë's reins to the point that it became uncomfortable.

The more she thought about it, the darker her expression became. And when they arrived at the village and nothing seemed wrong, reason was screaming at her that this wasn't possible. When the Lieutenant asked them for input, Arnyn was hard pressed to wait her turn. Listening to Thûllir and Zev, however, it became clear that they had a choice to make, and while Thûllir's felt intuitive, the better one might be the counterintuitive one.

"Reason tells me this whole situation is illogical, Lieutenant," Arnyn offered when Zev was done speaking. "It makes no sense that no one has ever seen these orcs previous to an attack before, and once we arrive in the area we immediately receive a report of their activity. The odds of them suddenly making such a mistake where they have never made it before, are infinitesimally small. Therefore I am forced to conclude we were meant to get that report. And that in turn tells me they have something in store for us. Whether it's at this village, or whether they are planning to make a move elsewhere now that we are here, I'm not sure..." She hadn't quite thought that far yet. "...but I am inclined to argue that ensuring a report reached us was would have been unnecessary if they had been planning action elsewhere. We wouldn't have been able to stop them anyway if their attack was planned today. It is a large area and we still had to set out from the fort to begin our search for them. I think Zev is right and we need to focus on this village before we send part of our Rangers out into the country."

She'd said a lot, and wondered if it was too much, or said in a way that was too authoritative. She supposed she'd find out soon enough by the Lieutenant's reaction.

The comments that Zev and Arnyn made were sound, but one piece was left unmentioned that made Thûllir shift his shoulders in unconscious discomfort. Surely the Lieutenant would know the wisdom of only sending in a handful if a trap was to be sprung? But perhaps it was a test to see how their critical thinking worked. If that was the case...Thûllir ducked his head slightly as he looked over the village again for a short beat of silence before clearing his throat to catch Macardil’s attention. “Sir, whether we search the countryside first or the village, I don’t think we should commit all our forces at once. Whether we are the ones who go into the village or another squad, let it be only one. Thus, if there does happen to be a trap, whether in the village or somewhere nearby, our options are not limited to ground chosen by the enemy and we maintain mobility.” He could elaborate further if called upon, but had voiced his main concern.

Jaena
Squad 1

After they arrived at the fort, it was not long until a Ranger named Mourgan came to summeron her to Lieutenant Macardil's office, where she was assigned to the scouting squad, a position that suited Jaena very well.

She spent the evening mostly on her own - her first priority was to see to Sáira, her black mare. Cleaning out a stall for her, and finding fresh hay, and giving her a thorough brush down, and cleaning out her hooves, and polishing and checking all of her tack - these were not tasks that Jaena felt she needed to rush through. They had already been travelling for several days, and from what the Commander had said they would begin scouting and intelligence gathering on the morrow, so both mare and rider would need to be at their best.

To that end, she went to bed early, and slept long and deeply.

***

She rose before the sun - early enough to double-check her packing, and to give Sáira a short warm-up. She made it to the mess hall for just long enough to grab a quick breakfast before a fellow ranger (Pele) summed them all to the courtyard. It took her a minute to find the rest of her squad - although many of the faces were vaguely familiar, it had been a long while, and names were a different story. However, when Lieutenant Macardil summoned the first squad to ride with him, it was easily apparent where to go. She mounted up immediately, and followed him out of the gate. There were orcs to find, and a village to protect.

***
Or was there a village to protect? They made excellent time - and found no orcs. No orcs en route, and no orcs anywhere to be seen as they arrived. She listened attentively as her fellow Rangers discussed the best course of action. "I agree we should scout the area, leaving the majority of our strength here to guard the village. It is very possible we have simply made such good time that the orcs have not arrived yet. I don't know enough about your source, Lieutenant, to know how likely it is that we have been diverted from another target - are there any other villages or settlements in the area that could be at risk? And, before the scouting parties leave, is it perhaps worth speaking to some of the villagers briefly first, and finding out if there is anything that has troubled them recently?"

Her input, she realized, was more questions than input, per se, but there was a lot of information - not only about the Lieutenant's source, but also about the area - that she simply didn't have, so she was hesitant to offer concrete advice when others presumably would know the area far better.

Squad 1

Kamion mounted up and fell in with the rest of his squad and Lieutenant Macardil, and they moved out swiftly towards the village. When they arrived, however, nothing seemed to be amiss, no sign of the orcs that had reportedly been threatening the area. Kamion’s cobalt eyes drifted over the scene, taking in the tension of the people as they huddled together, and the lack of tension among others, who seemed to be simply proceeding about their day. Strange. "Perhaps the light of day has slowed them considerably," the Lieutenant said, "The second and third squads could stay here and provide a line of defense if need be. Perhaps we should go and scout the countryside. Thoughts?" The Dúnadan listened to each of the other members of his squad and their suggestions, nodding in particular when Arnyn spoke. “There is much to consider, and all have good concernes,” he said levelly, when at last he spoke. “I think Arnyn has a point worth considering. We would be mistaken to assume that the enemy is not clever, having survived the downfall of their master. This village needs our protection if the report we received is true, and we cannot yet discount it. I agree that we should question some of the villagers here, and then proceed to send at least a few scouts to survey the area. My inclination would be to do so on horseback, so that if we discover anything, we can report back more swiftly- or, should we encounter any orcish scouting parties, they are less likely to be mounted and we will have the advantage.”

It was during the ride that Abrazimir had chance to take stock of his squadron companions. He nodded back to Morwen, sure that he had met the man before somewhere. He too found Unalmis’ broad smile of confidence to be quite contagious in regards to their line up. Old friends, and new. Of course, his smile lessened in length when she, Lady Ilisys, addressed him so formally. "My? Surely you do not get the only claim.” He retorted to her brisk formality with a dry tone. It was meant in jest of course. After he nearly died and was enslaved on their adventure in Umbar? But after a moment, he flashed her a grin to show it was indeed a warm feeling to see her again.

The voice of Pele was first to answer his spoken thought, at first sharing his general doubt about the quietness of the potential field of battle before them. He knew what she had been through, though it was hardly an appropriate time for a check up of any kind. She had helped mentor him into the military wing of the Realm and he owed her dearly and it was emboldening to see her upon the field once more. For him, that was enough to sate his curiosity. She was here, ready to fight, and that could never be faulted.

And as usual, the Sergeant had a brilliant grasp of the tactical. Further proof he needn’t worry about her state, but all the same he would be watching her back, and the others. ”I fear I must agree with you on something hiding in the village. This land bears the mark of strife. How could they be so unsuspecting to danger lurking nearby, when they live in sight of…well, that land” His grey eyes swept to the shadow of the dark mountains just further eastwards, and then about him, wondering if a pack of orcs could indeed remain unseen and undiscovered just beyond the horizons. He did agree with the wisdom of warning the village. How is it that the fort knew of the attack, but not the village itself? The people just…went about their business as if there had never been war occurring in these lands for centuries prior.

Isys seemed to think they were the ones falling for bait, before discussing with Mourgan other possibilities. Abrazimir tightened his grip on his reins, not liking the idea that the King’s own could be tricked in such a fashion, but such pride could be blinding to judgement. The Commander was wise though to split them up into two forces so not all would be risked if there was a trap. But the other squadrons might find time pressing if they needed to rush to the rescue. Abrazimir didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do outright, except to follow orders and do his duty.

The others were exchanging their thoughts with the Commander and Lieutenant, and Abrazimir found his confusion about the relatively quiet state of the village shared by some of the others in the first and third squadrons. All seemed to be with securing the village first…but Abrazimir didn’t know. They were mounted and had all the advantage in the open. The village, however small, would have narrow laneways and obstacles, seen and unseen. He didn’t have anything to add that wasn’t said already and kept quiet, not wanting to make redundant statements. The officers were officers for a reason.

Then, a thought. He could hear them debating in front. Was it only a conversation for first squad? He felt he should say something.

”I have a query.” He said a little loudly, to break into the ongoing conversation. ”The report we received of these orcs…was it only orcs, or did it make mention of any mannish allies of theirs as well? Arnyn makes a strong point that the report we received is rather too timely. How do we not know that a group of mannish foes, southrons even, have not already seized the village and await to ambush us? Mobility is our advantage. Let us blow a horn, and call the villager’s attention to us, and make one come to us and explain the report. At least we can warn them, and hurry their own preparations of defense which may assist us, if they truly be unsuspecting and unawares.” He suggested, wondering if such a thought had merit, or he was merely being overcautious. Just because they won total victory against their master didn’t mean the Gondorians should lessen their preparedness.

Lieutenant Macardil

Thûllir's response was measured, the Lieutenant noted. Focused on scouting the area, as per his own suggestion, yet he considered the possibility of a trap in the village as well. The man was an advocate of the second and third squad remaining near or in the village and of the first squad investigating the countryside more. Macardil smiled. He had someone here who was a true Scout at heart, judging from the way Thûllir verged right into the suggestion of going in three pairs and either going on foot or combining a mounted Ranger with a non-mounted one.

The white-haired Zev seemed to agree with Thûllir's preference to leave the mounts behind when scouting, but focused more on the village. He would talk to the villagers, to see what they had heard and seen here. Zev also didn't want to assume all was well in the village proper, and felt it needed investigating by the whole unit rather than only by the second and third squad. The Lieutenant nodded thoughtfully. Surprisingly, perhaps, Zev was on the careful side when it came to decisions such as these. That was good to know.

Arnyn's emphasis on reason and logic made Macardil raise his eyebrows. It was no surprise to him - he'd served under her and troops talked - but the way she laid out her thought process was direct and almost impossible to disagree with - which he wasn't sure he liked. He'd asked for thoughts, not half-orders - but perhaps he was being sensitive. Regardless - her words struck a cord. She was right that these orcs had never been spotted before an attack - until today. That was the whole reason that they had needed to come out here; regular troops and militia hadn't been able to find them. A cold shiver ran down his spine. And the way she concluded their attention wasn't so much being diverted here but rather drawn here... was interesting.

When Arnyn explained this was why she agreed with Zev and would choose to investigate the village first, the Lieutenant glanced at Thûllir. He looked uncomfortable. Would the man voice disagreement?
It turned out that he would, which impressed the Lieutenant. He focused his full attention on Thûllir when the latter voiced his opinion that not all three squads should enter the village at once, especially if there was a trap. Macardil very much wanted to respond then, but he held himself back in the hopes that more of the Rangers would speak up first. He really wanted to get a sense of their way of thinking.

Jaena agreed to scout the area and leave the other two squads at the village. She offered they might have actually beaten the orcs here. Ah, an optimist. It made him smile again, despite the serious situation they were in. It was interesting that she should mention his source, and to link his source's reliability and credibility to the situation. She was clearly entertaining the possibility that their attention was being drawn here, so the enemy could attack elsewhere. She seemed to revisit her own opinion as she thought the situation through more and then suggested to maybe speak to some of the villagers before sending out scouts.

Kamion showed his past as an officer when he said everyone made good points. The man agreed with Arnyn, specifically adding that they would be remiss to believe the enemy was unintelligent. Macardil frowned. He didn't want to admit that they were facing a smart enemy, but he couldn't deny it was true. Kamion suggested to question some of the villagers first, and to only then send out scouts. Unlike Thûllir and Zev, Kamion seemed to prefer to scout on horseback, for the sake of speed and an advantage in case they would be set upon by the enemy.

Durien was the only Ranger from the first squad who remained silent. Perhaps the woman figured everything had already been said.

When Abrazimir from the second squad spoke up loudly, the Lieutenant's eyes were drawn over to him. He posed the question whether their enemy only consisted of orcs, which made the little hairs on the back of the Lieutenant's neck stand on end. By Manwe. Macardil couldn't believe he hadn't entertained that idea as a real possibility. Perhaps he had - but if so, he had mostly forgotten, until Abrazimir brought it up again just now. Might the orcs be guided? Or even controlled - by people with sound minds? It would explain a lot. Another agreement with Arnyn, this time on the suspiciousness of the report.

"Thank you for your thoughts and suggestions, everyone." The Lieutenant looked around at those who had spoken up, and then made eye contact with Commander Amathen. "One thing is clear. Something isn't quite right about the situation, and we need to investigate the village itself before spreading ourselves thin across the wider area."

It was never the most pleasant place to be, riding at the tail end of a fast moving column, but someone had to do it. Ziran pulled up her green scarf to cover her nose and mouth and filter out the dust that managed to be kicked up by the hooves of the horses on the dirt tracks they followed, and kept a watch out for attack from the rear as they swiftly made their way through the countryside.

She was relieved when they finally pulled to a halt near the village, and she was able to lower the scarf and breathe clean air again. They hadn’t encountered the enemy as yet, and there did not appear to be signs of distress from the village as yet. Her dark eyes were watchful as she noted the first squad’s muted conference with Lieutenant Macardil between scans of the surrounding terrain. Sound had a way of carrying, but from where she sat her mount it wasn’t entirely clear what they were saying. She was impressed that the Lieutenant appeared to be soliciting suggestions, which seemed confirmed by Abrazimir of second squads loud commentary. Her eyebrows furrowed at his last comment, however. Calling someone out to talk wasn’t a bad idea, but using a horn call? Signals such as that could be heard for miles. Thankfully the Lieutenant didn’t take up that suggestion, as his orders when given were decisive and did not include horn signals. So the archers were to stay as overwatch while the rest took a foray into the village to seek further intelligence on the situation. Ziran nodded in acknowledgement and reined Cantor to the side while the majority followed the Commander.

While Ziran was an excellent archer, her skills did not include much practice from horseback with the longbow she carried, so once the dust had settled she dismounted onto the grass and unslung her bow so that it was ready in her hand. If needed she could remount quickly for movement, but her feet were a better platform for accurate archery when on the ground. A glance at the Lieutenant had a serious smile crossing her lips. He had done well, and she was beginning to trust that he would continue to do so. As tempting as it might be to watch the village, she knew that her primary task was to look outward, so turned to face northeast to watch and listen until such time as the enemy appeared or the Lieutenant redirected them.

Pele Alarion
Squad Two

While they had stopped in their advance towards village to discuss the next step, Morwen approached her with a small container of balm. It made Pele wonder whether she was giving away any notion of the physical discomfort that she felt, but then again the golden-eyed woman had had her own experiences which would probably make her more aware of such things.

"Thank you," Pele accepted the small donation with a smile. "I am sure it will come in useful. I have developed some too, but wouldn't mind testing yours." She meant to apply this salve as soon as they had a moment to rest.

It seemed that almost each one of them had an opinion of the strange situation they had found themselves in, and apparently their commanders thought it was a good way to found out what the collected Rangers were made of. Now, if only it had been a training session rather than a very real situation they were now stuck in. In silence, Pele listened to what others had to say, and awaited the Lieutenant's orders.

She thought the orders were reasonable, though it was with nearly tangible consternation that her eyes followed the comrades heading into the village: she did not like the fact that they might be ambushed there by an unexpected and very skilled enemy. She would have wanted to join them, though that would have been foolish, considering her current condition. Besides, she had her orders.

Pele glanced at Karis who had dismounted and taken the position to watch for any approaching unwelcome visitors. For a while Pele thought that she would dismount too, as standing on solid ground was better for the aim, yet she could handle her recurve bow rather decently on horseback as well, so she remained seated on her horse and watching the village intently for signs of an attack within it. Meanwhile her hands reached for the bow, and she spent a few moments inspecting it and preparing it for battle.

"I really don't like this setting at all," she grumbled, mostly to herself, not addressing anyone in particular.

Ziran was pulled from their team, but the rest of them was sent into the village with Commander Amathen and most of the second squad. With her gut telling her something was off, Kaylin couldn't help but watch the villagers as well as the buildings carefully as they entered the village. She hated that they still had their horses with them, but at least they were walking them in and not riding them anymore. Still, Kaylin would have preferred to have both of her hands free. Now, her shield remained on her back, her left hand was holding Cocoa's reins, and her right hand was idle at her side but itching to reach for the hilt of her shortsword.

Every few seconds, her eyes flicked to the Commander, who seemed incredibly calm. Especially when one of the villagers finally acknowledged them and started heading their way, Kaylin silently bit down on her own teeth and made eye contact with Arinelle. She didn't trust this situation at all.



Kaylin's eyes snapped to the Commander when she heard him speak. He was speaking as loudly as the woman who'd approached them, and many of the Rangers would be able to hear both of them. Part of her couldn't believe just how direct he was. Did he want to scare the villager? Or was this his way to get information? Poke the bear and see whether it lashes out?
She had to admit at least a part of her liked Amathen's style.



The longer Kaylin was standing there, holding the reins to her horse and listening in to that conversation, the worse the whole situation felt. She also wondered who the "we" was that Ruma was talking about. She was just about the only villager in sight anymore.

Nodding acknowledgement of Lieutenant Macardil’s directions, Thûllir silently watched the rest of company pass, with both relief at the tactical decision and a twinge of concern for those heading into the oddly acting village. He had only fought in the same engagement as Kaylin once before, and knew this could well be a second, but his mind tucked that thought away. Three days hadn’t been quite enough to grasp all the changes, but this was not the time to deal with them all.

Dismounting like Ziran had, Thûllir untied the cover of his back-quiver and readied the saddle quivers of extra arrows for action by doing the same and then taking his longbow in hand and setting an arrow to the string in wary precaution. No good watching for danger without being prepared to deal with it immediately if it appeared.

His attention was split between the fields outside the cluster of houses, the strangely stilted actions of the villagers who were flat out ignoring the group approaching them, and the advancing Rangers. It was a shifting in the feel of the place, like an indrawn breath after the Commander’s loud reply to the village woman that had his gaze flicking back quickly from analysing the shadows of a hedgerow.

Thus it was that he happened to be looking when doors around the courtyard burst open to emit the forms that were decidedly on the orcish end of the spectrum, and the enemy they had been searching for if roars and raised weapons could be taken as a sign. Thûllir’s voice was low and harsh even as he turned and raised his bow. “‘Ware the village! They are under attack!” Bracing his shoulder as he drew the bowstring back to his ear, he aimed, tilted his bow up for distance, and loosed, all in one swift motion. His first target was the far side of the courtyard and the leading attacker against the Commander. It was a risky shot, but Thûllir was confident that he had judged it rightly. If he missed it would be long and strike another behind, but he had an inkling to make his own statement with the long grey-fletched arrow that went winging off.

He didn’t take time to watch the first one strike, selecting his next target on the closer side of the courtyard as his hands automatically went through the motions of drawing another arrow, setting it to the string, drawing and loosing again.


She had been looking away from the village, but whirled at Thûllir’s words of warning. Taking two swift strides, Ziran came up level with him on the other side of the trail while she drew the first arrow from her quiver and set it to the string. Her targets were close on the east side of the courtyard, starting further from their own people while it was still safe enough to do so at this distance.

She'd nodded when Thûllir offered they shouldn't all enter the village at the same time. It was sound advice, and spoke of the Ranger's tactical mind. Arnyn listened to everyone (Abrazimir's mention of blowing a horn made her frown, but she shook it off quickly enough) and then waited for the Command's judgment. Meanwhile, her dark eyes kept scanning the area around them. There was so little to see that it was starting to feel wrong.

The Lieutenant then made the call. With some surprise, although it wasn't visible on her face, the swordswoman looked over at the Commander. He seemed perfectly comfortable letting Macardil take the lead, however, and that was good enough for her. Some of the archers were ordered to stay with the Lieutenant at the edge of the village, but the bulk of their unit was to investigate the village. Under the leadership of Commander Amathen. A slight smile played about her lips as she followed the Commander, who easily took the lead - once again with as few words as possible. She realized that the most she'd ever heard the Commander talk had actually been back at headquarters... when he'd thrown chalk at a blackboard and had told them they should leave their pride about former ranks in the dust. Arnyn wondered if Amathen would ever say more than just a sentence or two when it wasn't absolutely necessary. Even though she wasn't the chattiest person herself, it was hard to be as quiet as their new Commander. Her faint smile grew for a moment, before fading again when Arnyn noticed most of the villagers shunned eye contact with her.

Narsúlë stamped a hoof next to her while they waited for the villager's approach. Rather than focusing on the woman who was about to talk to their Commander, Arnyn frowned as she looked around. How was there no more activity at the village center? That made no sense to her. She expected a trap to be sprung any second.

The Commander's voice and his what felt like a sudden plethora of words would have made Arnyn's jaw drop if she hadn't been so guarded about outwardly portraying her emotions. It wasn't just that he was no longer taciturn, though. His word choice was rather astounding. Almost as if he was trying to frustrate or annoy the woman. As if he was trying to make her lash out?

Arnyn's hand was slowly inching toward the hilt of her longsword when the doors to the hall opened and Orcs ran out. Her right foot slid back in the dust when more doors opened - more and more Orcs came into view, from every direction, and soon choas was upon them. Arnyn withdrew into that quiet core within herself, that place of serenity where there was nothing except for one thing: the fight.

They were outnumbered, but it mattered not.

There was only the fight. To incapacitate. And to survive.

With their enemies still at a distance, Arnyn wasted no time. Her fingers pulled out one of her throwing knives. The small, sharp blade cut through the air, finding its target. The creature fell down, the knife sticking out of an eye. Her second knife found its way to the neck of another orc, just off to the right. He clawed at it and dropped to his knees. Arnyn drew her longsword as arrows started zipping through the air, picking off one enemy at a time.

"Zev! Kamion!" They were the only two of her squad present other than herself, and she figured they'd best work together. It would be easier to group their mounts and fight in a small group to be able to protect them if the need arose. She led Narsúlë towards their horses and let go of his reins when he was positioned next to Zev's horse. One advantage of bringing her own steed was that she knew her horse well. Narsúlë would have been fine trampling through these orcs, but Arnyn preferred more momentum to ride into the enemy than she would be able to build in the relatively small space they had in this village. Anyway - her stallion didn't scare easily and could keep his calm in battle; he had seen plenty of action in the past. "Together?" she asked Kamion and Zev, already stepping forward and meeting the vile-looking blade of the first orc to come into range with her own steel.

His fingers twitched excitedly, it was almost time to attack. He looked across the darkened room to his fellows. They were all hidden in the shadows, all as eager and excited as him. Normally, Sarghêst and the others would not have had the patience to wait, but this time was different. The orc’s fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of the blade at his hip. The anticipation was building. Again, he glanced back at his fellows. They were all in the same state of giddy potential energy. He smiled wickedly, his crooked, pointed teeth peaking through his black lips. His sickly orange colored eyes glittered.

Briefly, his mind flashed back to their arrival. They had come in force to the village, but instead of initiating slaughter and bloodshed, which had normally been their wont, they forced the villagers to hid them. That had been a fiendish delight. He could still smell the foul waves of acrid fear that came off the villagers. It nearly hadn’t happened though. All of them, Sarghêst included, had to fight their natural inclination for mindless slaughter and savagery. It was all they had known, and once everything fell apart, it was the only thing that had kept them together. Until now. Now was different. Now, they were coordinated, cohesive. Now they would be truly deadly. These humans would have no idea what hit them.

Sarghêst clenched his hands again, restraining himself from leaping out and howling his attack. Wait. Not yet. Not yet. Wait. The potential energy coursing it’s way through his body was reaching a fevered pitch. He needed to move, he need to kill.

Finally, the doors across the way burst open and his fellows began pouring out. “Now!” his voice was harsh and vibrant, alive with the malice that had sustained him for so long. He drew his falchion and burst through the doors. He howled a wordless battle cry, waving the sword aloft. A feral, atavistic glee was in him. He felt a fire in his veins, a power surging through him, pushing him beyond his previous limitations. At their most atavistic, orcs were consumed by a blind bloodlust, carrying them through their enemies like the mindless waves of the ocean. Not at anymore. Though still filled with the rage and lust for carnage, Sarghêst felt more cogent and aware of his surroundings. He was no mindless orc raging at the first thing he saw. He knew his targets, he knew who and what and where to strike. Now he was dangerous.

Two of his fellows followed him of the house in tight formation, flanking him. The entire village was coming bursting to life now, like ants pouring out of their tunnels to swarm an intruder. “Over there! Follow me!” he howled, pointing toward one of the rangers, his unit pivoted and began barreling toward the enemy. One in particular caught the orc’s eyes, a young, pale looking woman with black hair. (Illisys). Sarghêst, practically salivating, could feel his muscles contract, building up the energy to strike.

A deep sense of unease had settled inside Hirluin's gut. It made him restless, and he clenched his gloved fist tight to keep from fidgeting. Cropper could feel the tension from his rider, though, and showed his unhappiness with a toss of his mane. Hirluin relaxed his hold on the reins immediately and steadied the mount. No soft, cajoling words from him, though. The Gondorian did not believe in talking to animals. Not one bit. He would look askance if anyone called him out on how he fussed over his three hounds at home -- Fluffy, Tufty and Mr. Snuff. Yes, Hirluin named them. But he claims he did so to keep his little siblings happy. One usually nodded their head in agreement lest his face become set in a glower that no one liked to see on a handsome man.

As soon as word reached the rear guard that things looked suspicious and the squads were called to investigate, Hirluin urged his horse forward. At the lip of the village he dismounted, preferring to be on his guard with his feet firmly planted on the ground. His left hand fell lightly upon the hilt of his sword, and he cast a quick eye about him. The villagers did not seem to want to meet their eyes. There was something shifty and nervous about their movements. He listened keenly to the exchange between the Commander and the village woman who had boldly stepped up to them. But no sooner had she begun her conversation when Hirluin noted the villagers seemingly vanishing out of sight.

Hirluin let go his horse. Every nerve was strained. His hands hovered at the ready to draw at a second's notice.

A loud, guttural roar flooded the village centre, and before he could blink, black, ugly masses were streaming at them from every corner. Hirluin drew out his parrying dagger and short sword as one of the creatures ran on ahead of its mates swinging a deadly looking machete. The Gondorian turned to meet a downward stroke, parrying the blow with his dagger and stabbing his sword straight into its black heart. Even before it hit the ground, Hirluin was dragging his sword out of its chest, and parrying yet another blade that was being swung at him from his left. This one was a bit stronger and a bit more prepared than the first one he had downed. Not to mention, it had the weight of both its stout, mottled arms bearing down upon his left that held the dagger. Hirluin could feel the sweat beading on his forehead, as the creature leered at him with its yellow teeth, and its eyes gleamed with sheer gleeful malice.

OOC: (Leaving the floor open for someone to jump in any way they like!)

Turin
Squad 3

The Commander and the Lieutenant joined the rest of the group by the stables. The two gave each other nods then the Lieutenant gave the update on the situation.
"One of the locals reported a band of orcs on the move. They seem to be targeting a village which is a few hours' ride away, to the southeast. The report estimates about thirty or forty opponents - we do not have an exact count. We ride. This is a village used to the presence of the Enemy, but they will need our assistance, preferably before the orcs reach their homes. Such is our duty."

Turin nodded. It was nice to be able to get to some action. But deep down, he hoped he wouldn’t have to witness anything friendly demises. Thew marching orders quickly came next. He was to remain with the Commander. The second and third squads were going to be following the first squad and the Lieutenant.

Turin then saw someone approach he hadn’t seen in a very long time. An old Hyandaner buddy. They hadn’t been together on the final mission of his, but they had done several missions together. He accepted the hug from Beren. “Of course I remember you. I’m glad to see you well.” He mounted Canya and waited for the for the Commander’s orders to move out.

Soon they were on their way. The path the first squad took seemed to be a straight shot for the action. He wondered if they’d make it in time. But then again, he didn’t want all the action to be taken before they got there. Eventually, they arrived at the town, but there was nothing of note wrong with the place.

The Lieutenant then called for the second and third squads to setup defenses. He heard Beren’s comment about the possibility of waiting till nightfall to attack. It made sense. But part of it didn’t make sense. Had the other attacks not been during the night, or was he missing something. Kaylinn had turned to Karis and mumbled something about something not feeling right. He agreed. Something was off. It had taken them a few hours to get here, and the enemy had a time advantage, one good enough for them to beat the Rangers there. So where were they?

Someone in squad 2 had mentioned a possibility of a trap. That made a lot more sense to Turin’s mind. But as the conversations continued, apparently plans changed. The Commander and Lieutenant decided a group was to stay back for possible cover, while the rest were to enter the town to inspect things.

Turin dismounted. He followed the Commander in, several yards to the left. The ill feeling he had in his chest told him to be cautious. And if quickness was needed, him being off his horse would give him the best options to do so. Yes, fleeing would be easier on the horse, but it also gave a much larger target for enemy archers. As they entered to town, a woman approached the Commander. She called out, "Greetings. My name is Ruma and I speak for the village. What brings you to this far-out corner of the King's realm?" Her voice was bold and strong, but something in it spoke of anxiety.

Something in her voice started to sound warning bells. This along with the bad feelings, not to mention the possibility of a trap mentioned earlier, everything was telling him this was it. The trap was about to be tripped.
He kept his peripherals on the woman, but examined the huts and houses. Something wasn’t right. He barely heard the Commander respond to Ruma’s inquiry. “"Greetings, Ruma. I am Amathen, Commander of the newly formed Rangers of Gondor. A report that your village was likely under attack is what brought us here. Yet, here we are - and all I see instead of orcs, are uncomfortable expressions. All I hear instead of the sounds of fighting, are hushed tones and the strain in your voice."

The conversation continued, but the anxiety in the woman’s eyes only seemed to get worse. Suddenly, orcs came pouring out of the homes. By rough quick count, it appeared to be enough for a three to one advantage in the enemy favor. That was not good. It wasn’t the first time he’d been outnumbered, but still, being outnumbered was never a good thing. Turin drew Méla Macalne from his hip. “Time to drink your fill again.” He whispered as he stepped forward. He wasn’t going to wait for the command to attack. “Alright scum. Who wants to die first.” He said in a firm voice at the three who was charging at him. In his left hand, he held the sword. He was not left handed, but he wanted to gauge the strength of the orcs first.

He ducked under a slash and side stepped another attack. At least the tactics of the enemy made sense. Attack pretty much at the same time to overwhelm. But he could see the attacks coming no problem. He leaned to avoid another slash then parried aside one more. He then grabbed the handle with this right hand, and loosened his grip with his left hand. Then using it as a fulcrum, he quickly shifted the blade around an orc blade and then thrusted the tip into the neck of the enemy. He quickly jumped back and grinned. He could tell he was rusty, but the skills his old trainers had pounded into him were still there. “Come. Let this old Hyandaner Captain show you scum how to die to a blade.”

Pele Alarion
Squad two

As Pele watched the events unfold on the main village street with growing consternation, soon enough she learned that her premonition was right. The villagers had all but disappeared, and instead of them orcs suddenly burst forth from the surrounding houses.

"Orcs!" she exclaimed a split moment after Thullir, snatching up an arrow from the quiver and fitting it to the bow string.

With her legs Pele guided her horse into a position that would not hinder the others from joining into providing a rain of arrows at their enemies. She stabilised her position by positioning her hips as much as possible sideways, turning her left knee towards the horse and pressing the left thigh against the saddle firmly, while her right foot pointed outwards, bracing the calf against the stirrup leather.

Even though her first impulse was to shoot at the first orc she could see, she carefully evaluated the situation, so that her arrow would not hit one of their own if she missed accidentally. Choosing one of the orcs heading for Illysis as her target, she let fly of the arrow, and then immediately reached for another. Pele knew well enough that it would become near impossible to shoot without endangering the other Rangers, once both forces engaged in close combat. Yet she let loose an arrow at yet another orc which seemed the closest and not engaged in a fight yet.

The orc attack was strangely well coordinated and not chaotic as could be expected from these creatures; besides, the horses now seemed rather a hindrance than help in the whole situation. Pele found herself cursing the orcs under her breath, as she reached for yet another arrow and cast a quick glance at the Lieutenant to see if he would have any orders for them. It was hard to find a likely target now though, as she did not trust her archery skills enough to try taking out enemies that were already engaged in a fight. She'd be of more use swinging her sword instead, as much as her current fitness allowed. But... did the villagers not have any capable warriors? Why were they not assisting?!

Morwen, Squad 2: (Abrazimir, Ilisys, Morwen, Mourgan, Pele, Red, Unalmis)

Morwen was grateful that Pele accepted the balm. It was likely- in fact, she was fairly certain- that whatever balm the other woman already had made for herself was superior to her own, but the gesture of it was important to her. There was healing to be done, and she wanted Pele to know that she was here for her no matter what. The golden-eyed woman could seem distant at times, but truthfully she cared far more than she let on. (And, as Zev would say, she let on just a bit more than she knew).

After they had made their way into the village, she found her unease growing, and was glad they had left a squad of archers outside of the village, in case things went… badly. She had to admit, she was also glad Pele was outside of the village as well. Though it meant she couldn’t keep much of an eye on her.

And then all chaos broke loose. Orcs came streaming out from where they had been hiding all along, an ambush after all. Her first thought was Pele, but she remembered the woman was not near her, and right behind that thought came a flash of white hair and green eyes. Zev. But it was too chaotic now, she pushed her horse back word, keeping him behind her, and drew her sword. Before she could do anything else, she was set upon, and it was all she could do to keep their blades from reaching her.



Zev, Squad 1: (Durien, Jaena, Kamion, Thûllir, Zev, Arnyn)

Zev felt his mouth fall open into a small ‘o’ of surprise as orcs suddenly burst forth from where they had been in wait. He had suspected something akin to this, but suspecting and the occurrence itself were two very different things. He automatically dropped Apple’s reins and reached for his weapons, but then quickly snatched the horse’s reins up again. He couldn’t just abandon the horse.

But then, suddenly, Arnyn was near, calling to him and Kamion, suggesting they fight together. She brought her horse up next to Apple, and dropped the reins, and Zev nudged him nearer, and dropped his as well. He gave Arnyn a quick nod as he drew his sword and dagger, turning just in time to connect steel to steel.

Azdiur, Squad 3

The ride from the fort was mercifully easy, and Azdiur found riding with comrades more refreshing than he'd expected. Not that he regretted having had the hours of solitude that morning; he was certain he'd miss it before the day was done, but for the moment he was satisfied getting acquainted with his fellow Rangers. Most of the others were clearly more familiar with mounted travel than he was, but his steed was clearly well-trained for this sort of collective march and easily kept pace with his companions with minimal effort on his part. Definitely something he'd want to spend some time practicing when he got back from this deployment, though, if he was going to continue serving in the field...

The trip was uneventful, and glancing around he could tell that he was not the only one unnerved by that fact. Their scouts and the whole company's keen eyes should have found...something, if the reports were true. He stretched a bit, fidgeting noticeably in his saddle, holding his quarterstaff at the ready, braced against his stirrup. His vigilance continued to feel appropriate, even as the quiet trip continued uninterrupted. Surely if there were enemies out here they'd be quite aware of so many mounted soldiers?

As they arrived at the outskirts of the village and dismounted, Azdiur felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Surely there should be more people watching their arrival? He strode forward a few steps, leaving his horse standing where he'd stopped. Unsurprisingly, the animal's training showed through, even in the way it stood patiently and waited for him to return. He listened as the Commander greeted one of the villagers, but his attention was really on the homes that surrounded him. Why were they all so clearly shuttered at this time of day? He set his jaw and rolled his shoulders, working out the last of the trail stiffness his second stint in the saddle had accrued, then raised his quarterstaff and rested it on his shoulder.

With a shout, the worst of his fears were confirmed--the doors he'd eyed suspiciously burst open and a flood of wicked-looking orcs piled out, rushing towards his squad. Shifting his grip on his staff and settling into a defensive stance, Azdiur stepped forward into the line of Rangers that had formed without needing a spoken command. He glanced left and right, seeing Turin nearby, and then moved another pace forward, ensuring he had sufficient distance between him and his allies to take full advantage of his staff's reach. Two of the brutes from the village approached, snarling and raising weapons that clearly had known their fair share of battle. Az took a breath and reset his stance: two on one was nothing insurmountable, but left little room for error, and it was clear that the orcs knew enough to work together. As long as he could keep his distance and prevent them from flanking him, it would be difficult for either to close and strike.

As his foes approached, Azdiur shifted once more, adopting a more aggressive posture. Facing the orc that was a half step closer, he raised his staff in a horizontal sweep near shoulder height, halting his target's advance and forcing him into a defensive posture, sword raised. The weapon was unsurprisingly of poor quality, though it had been honed to a razor sharpness in preparation for this conflict. Az scowled, his inner craftsman disappointed. There was no way a weapon like that could hold its edge, even if used sparingly, but for the time being it was quite a threat. He'd have to be careful not to let them land a direct blow on his weapon's haft; even if it didn't shear all the way through, the damage would be difficult to repair in the field.

While his blow had convinced the first assailant to proceed with caution, the second seemed less convinced he posed a threat and pressed his advance. That was actually much better than if he'd stayed back and tried to flank, it gave Azdiur a chance to control the pacing of the engagement and keep them out of sync. Rather than repeating his wide sweep, which his opponent would surely expect, he quickly shifted his grip up the staff and went for a quick jab at the approaching orc's feet, trying to get inside his stance. The orc had raised his sword to parry high, but snapped at Az as he realized the changeup and managed to sidestep at the last moment, though the move interrupted his stride enough to pause his advance. Resisting the urge to step back and adopt his defensive stance, Azdiur pressed the slight advantage, stepping forward into the enemy's reach while he regained his footing. Without the time to bring the staff around for another sweep, he quickly reversed his grip, sliding his right hand down to the staff's midpoint, and swinging low, putting his full strength into a blow at his opponent's knee.

The blow landed with a sickening crunch, and Azdiur was surprised at how quickly the joint gave way--completely different than swinging a hammer at an immobile anvil. The orc cried out in pain and fell toward him, clearly trying to get his longblade around in order to do damage as he fell towards Az. There probably wasn't enough time to safely disengage, so he gritted his teeth and committed to the motion he'd already begun instead, lowering his shoulder and stepping well inside the monster's reach. He felt his shoulder connect to the orc's chest, then immediately through all of his weight into the charge, shoving the flailing enemy back up and pushing him away, towards the first orc that was already seeking to close the gap and aid his companion. The wounded orc had no chance of getting his feet under him and tumbled away from Azdiur, forcing the remaining assailant to jump back in order to avoid joining him in a heap.

OOC Squad 3: (Also opening this up, if anyone wants to join in and pair up :) )

Kaurzog

All had gone to plan: a crowd of orcs stood packed into the tark house, breath and sweat mingling in noxious anticipation. To squeeze the troop of orcs into this small space had required the destruction of a good deal of personal property. Naturally, this bothered none of them.

Kaurzog peered forward, trying to see past the hulking shoulder in front of him. His eyesight was sharp in here, with the windows shuttered to minimize the sunlight. And yet, there was nothing to see. But hear he did. He had heard the low snarls of the commander who forced the woman, under threat, to lie through her teeth whenever the army showed up. He heard the grumbles and hisses of his fellow fighters, all trembling with bloodlust. He heard the slow scrape of metal against metal as a nearby orc stirred and drew a curved blade, reading himself.

They were tempted, but they were disciplined. They held themselves still - relatively still, anyway. Restless shifting in place was great restraint compared to their usual rampant ravaging. Kaurzog licked his lips. He had caught the smell of men and horses. Their moment drew near. He lifted his battleaxe with both hands, readying it. Other, smaller blades remained strapped to his person, awaiting their moment.

The woman's voice rose in a frightened pitch. A man questioned her roughly and loudly. And then it was time. The crowd of his fellows seethed forward and his legs were moving before he could register that this was the moment, this was the time to strike. He drew a long, deep breath and used it to send forth an ululating cry as he burst from the house and landed with bent knees in the square, quickly glancing from side to side before fixing his gaze and his pent-up fury on a man with a shock of white hair (Zev). This man was a person to some, but to Kaurzog, he was merely a target - soft fleshy neck and exposed arteries and an insubstantial skull ripe for the crushing. He gave another cry and charged, raising his axe as he went.

"Hatred is a poison that eats away at the soul. It gnaws at it like a rat, till there is nothing left the darkness of hatred. Never hate, Hirluin. Never let yourself hate. Recognise the enemy and face him without hate, lest you lose yourself."

Wise words. His father had been a wise man. But it was only after he had died that Hirluin had ever begun to appreciate the weight of those words. It was easy to hate, and when his father had died in the accident at the forge, he realised that he had struggled to grieve at first because he had been looking for something to hate. To hate and take his anger out on. To strike and lash out recklessly and mindlessly.

It was not the first time that Hirluin recognised the truth of his old man's words as he gazed into the foul malice grimacing into his face. He had no pity. Only the knowledge that this was the face of hate, and he was absolutely sure he never wanted to look like that. Not to mention, one's head was never clear in a blinding rage. Hirluin's bright blue eyes cooled to a sharpness, as he kicked out into the orc's gut. It was a mean hit and the orc staggered back, taking the pressure off Hirluin's left arm, and allowing enough leeway for him to gain his balance and thrust his sword into the black heart. He did not wait to watch the result of his handiwork. It was enough that the life was snuffed out of its yellowed eyes almost immediately.

Hirluin turned around to face more of the enemy and found Azdiur a few yards away, his profile towards him, fighting an orc with... An eyebrow shot up. He had not noticed that his squadron mate's preference was a quarterstaff. Interesting. Curiosity taunted him to stand and watch this play out, but another orc was racing towards the man. Hirluin charged, his sword arm held out beside him, parallel to the ground, as he reached the creature, he swung his sword with a slashing motion right across its torso. That stopped the creature mid-flight, and Hirluin cast a glance at the other ranger. "That's an interesting weapon you have there," he called out to Azdiur, and positioned himself behind him, back to back, his sword and dagger held out in front of him at the ready.

Ranger Azdiur
Squad 3

As Azdiur's first opponent slumped to the ground in a heap, he quickly planted his feet and raised his weapon to face down the next one, already rushing in a bit too close for comfort. Fortunately the line that the Rangers had formed served their cause well, and with swift and deadly precision Hirluin stepped in and ended that problem before Az had to worry about it. "Thanks" he grunted, as he stood over the first assailant, jabbing his staff down on the orc's hand and using his foot to slide the blade he'd been brandishing back behind the line of battle. The creature looked at him with hatred and struggled to rise, but Azdiur completed the takedown with a single fierce blow to the skull, knocking him down once more, and ending any remaining struggle.

Pausing for a moment, he caught his breath--apparently he'd held it for most of the encounter, without realizing it. That'd need to change, proper breathing was important to keeping one's stamina during heavy exertion. Normally when at the forge he could breathe in time with steady hammer blows, but in the chaos of battle he'd need to be more flexible. He turned to face Hirluin, who seemed to be complimenting his "interesting" choice of weapon as he moved to take a position covering Azdiur's back. "Never been a sword man myself...perhaps I just made too many of them to ever appreciate one in my hand. Give me a solid oaken staff and enemies at two paces any day. Speaking of..."

Az nodded at the three foes that approached. "Let's try to give the archers some breathing room. I'll take the brute with the axe, think you can keep the sword busy?" He stepped forward sizing up the one he'd called, then gave a quick shout "And mind the crossbow!" Realizing he had only a few moments before the latter became a serious issue, Azdiur dashed forward at the axe-brute, who gave him a wicked grin as he swung his brutal axe. Az feinted with a quick jab, judging the orc's response. Much as he expected, the axe came swiftly, aimed squarely at the quarterstaff's vulnerable haft. Az frowned and quickly pulled his weapon back, but was disappointed that his opponent restrained his own swing as well. If he couldn't count on him to overcommit, perhaps he could force the issue a bit...

Azdiur squared up again and lunged forward, leveling a quick jab at his foe's center of mass. As expected, the orc tried to hew the end of the staff off. This time, instead of pulling back, Az leaned into his blow, but with a deft shift of his grip redirected the tip of the weapon away from the orc's chest, slamming it instead into the underside of his axe. The steel cap rang as it met the metal head, almost causing Azdiur's hands to go numb. While the blow had not been enough to disarm his opponent, it did give Az enough leverage to give the weapon a good tug. The attacker's grip on the haft stayed true, but as he'd already been in motion towards Azdiur he wasn't able to keep his footing and he stumbled forward, closing the gap between them but with both their weapons swung uselessly wide.

Thinking quickly, Az's right hand dropped to his belt where his backup dirk hung. He gripped it firmly just above the pommel, and with a fluid motion drew it and slammed the blunt end into the bulk that stumbled into him. While the creature's leather armor was little more than rotting scraps, they padded his chest enough that the blow didn't manage even to wind him. It had managed to leave Az enough room to maneuver the blade, though, and keeping the reversed grip he'd drawn it with he lifted the blade above the beast's shoulders and drove it into the base of the orc's neck, freezing the foul creature's face into a permanent snarl.

The body's full weight hit Azdiur like a sack of coal. He grunted at the strain, but rather than dropping the deadweight he withdrew his blade and swung his arm underneath the body's arm, hoisting it back up almost to standing. With grim determination he took a step forward, heaving it as best he could, as he attempted to keep the makeshift shield between himself, Hirluin and the enemy's leveled crossbow.

Her shield bashed into one orc's nose even as she slashed at another. There were more of the enemy than there were Rangers, they were wound up, fast, and coming from all directions. And the latter made it hard to form a decent line between the horses and the enemy when the enemy was coming from all directions.

There was only one thing for Kaylin to do that would keep her head cool: figure the horse would be mostly okay but keep an eye out for it regardless - like she would for a new recruit on his first campaign - and further to commit to the battle as she would otherwise. Her lack of heavier armor felt wrong as the fight commenced. She felt exposed. But the additional speed it granted her in return, the maneuverability... The orc she'd slashed at had blocked her and grinned half a disgusting set of teeth at her. Kaylin thrusted her sword at his face, which he moved to parry, after which she cut down at his leading leg. Her shield blocked his counterattack just before he was too close to work around it, and she felt and saw her sword cut through leather and into flesh. She returned his grin then, as she smashed her shield against his sword hand to disarm him and as his torso opened up kicked him square in the stomach.

She was enjoying the freedom her lack of heavier armor was giving her, and since it was the beginning of the fight could still draw on boundless energy. It wasn't perhaps the wisest not to only spend her energy on efficiency and killing moves, but this was Kaylin Maethyr, who thrived on enjoyment and delight. She was not about to deny herself any sort of fun, unless it became absolutely necessary.

Whirling around to the orc who'd tasted the edge of her shield earlier, she found him closer than anticipated. The redhead caught his weapon with her shield boss and stabbed at him around the shield's round edge. Her grin, which had still been lingering on her face, faded when she saw another of the enemy readying a crossbow at two of her squadmates, Hirluin and Azdiur. And while Azdiur had gotten him a shield of flesh and bone, Hirluin had no cover. There was no time for contemplation or tactics. Kaylin gritted her teeth and sprinted the couple of yards over to them, basically throwing herself against the orc with the crossbow just as he was about to pull the lever. The bolt went wide, off into nothingness - but Kaylin ended up falling down with the creature. She let of of her sword and pushed herself up in a seated position with her sword hand before grabbing her shield with both hands and ramming the iron-cast shield edge down right on the orc's exposed throat; not once, not twice, but a total of four times, until the gurgling and spasming beneath her stopped.

With splatters across her face as red as the fire of her hair, Kaylin wrapped her fingers back around her sword handle and rose back to her feet above her slain enemy.

Pele Alarion
Squad Two

As carefully as she could, Pele had chosen her targets, working hard against the sense of urgency, knowing it might make her aim inaccurate and dangerous to other Rangers. Having fitted yet another arrow, she tried to find a good target, but it was very difficult now, and she frowned. Luckily enough Lieutenant urged them forward to see what could be done to aid the Rangers beset by the crowd of orcs.

Bow and arrow still in hand, Pele wordlessly acted as ordered, guiding the mare forward. Perhaps speed would work in her favour, yet the Ranger felt that she just might not be able to stay atop the horse regardless her desire to ride down some of the enemies. Then there was also the question of whether any of the orcs were armed with the ranged weapons...

Having come nearer, Pele could finally get a better view of the battle field and evaluate the current situation. "Aha!" she stated in satisfaction, choosing as her aim a large orc that was still on the sidelines and looking for the way to get involved. Without undue hesitation she let the arrow fly for his neck, and then reached for another and moved her horse around to choose another position and target. She would shoot as long as she had any available enemies and sufficient arrows in the sheath.

Even though Rangers were outnumbered, Pele was glad to see that all her comrades were able to stand their ground, and all of them were still standing and fighting. Besides, the numbers of the enemy had already dwindled. With a glint of determination in her eyes, she chose yet another opponent and released an arrow. Another one down.

Ranger Azdiur
Squad 3

Azdiur's maneuver with his makeshift shield bought a few moments in the standoff with an enemy crossbow, but unfortunately it was a delaying tactic and not the kind of solution he needed. As Hirluin kept the sword-wielding Orc busy Az did his best to keep the other from having a clear line of sight, but sooner or later he'd fall behind and leave one of them exposed. From the look in the Orc's eyes, he knew that, too, and Azdiur's hope that the enemy could be baited into a hasty shot evaporated. Unfortunately for the Orc, his attention being fully devoted to his potential targets left him with quite a blindspot, one that Kaylin expertly exploited. As the bolt went wide, Az nodded at her, not waiting to witness the foe's unavoidable demise. He had other things to pay attention to.

Hirluin was holding his own against the sword-swinging Orc, but had yet to find an opening to end him. Given that they'd brought a crossbow to a sword fight, the Orcs had already abandoned any expectation of honorable dueling, and Azdiur wasn't going to disappoint anyone by getting hung up on ceremony. Letting his victim's corpse slump to the ground, he glanced around, piecing together a quick plan. His staff was solid and well-maintained, and so long as he avoided a direct blow from the sword would probably hold up. But in a battle where the numbers were so one-sided, even a glancing blow could damage the weapon, and he couldn't afford to weaken it and risk a failure at a less opportune time. Given how sharp the Orcs' weapons were kept, hewing through the haft was a valid worry. But without his staff, he had only the dirk, and while a talented fighter could certain win that exchange, he didn't like his odds. Fortunately, there were....other options.

With a shout, Azdiur raised his staff mostly parallel to the ground and across his profile, then dropped it. As he'd hoped, the Orc watching him out of the corner of his eye started a bit, clearly caught off guard. Good, Az chuckled, bet you've never seen anyone do this! As the staff approached the ground, he hooked his boot under the middle and gave it a kick, sending it it flying across the few paces that separated them, hoping it would connect with the Orc's legs and trip him up. Sadly the kick fell a bit short, and the creature smirked and stepped over the abandoned weapon, approaching Az with a wicked grin.

Things never could be that simple, could they. Azdiur sighed and went with Plan B. Tossing his dirk to his left hand, he knelt down and grabbed the recently ownerless axe that lay conveniently at his feet. Calling it an axe was actually a bit of an affront to his principles; little more than a slab of metal wrapped around a branch and sharpened along the edge, he wouldn't normally be willing to even chop up deadwood with such a pitiful specimen. But being such a shoddy piece of work had one significant advantage in this situation: he didn't care in the slightest what happened to it. So, grabbing it as close to the bottom of the of the haft as he could, he jumped to his feet, pushing off with his left leg and swinging the axe with his right arm fully extended, bringing it up as high as he could and wrapping around behind him as he pivoted his whole body around his immobile right foot. In the back of his mind he could hear his training sergeant yelling at him to never expose his back to his enemy, but he was banking on the move being enough enough of a surprise that the Orc couldn't close the gap fast enough to exploit it. Or, wait, was that his militia training, or was it his brother's voice he heard echoing in the distant reaches of his mind?

No time to ponder, Azdiur grunted with exertion as his swing came around. The axe weighed several times more than his forge hammer, and he felt it tugging at his shoulder in a way that would worry him in any situation that wasn't life and death. But his grip held and his spin continued uninterrupted,and over his shoulder he could the Orc approaching and raising his sword to block the blow. That...was a mistake. The axe fell from the height of its swing, angled straight at the Orc's chest, and though he raised his sword to intercept it, the weapon smashed through his guard and sunk several inches into his shoulder. As his foe tumbled to the ground, Az shook his hand and rolled his shoulder. Nothing seemed broken, but that was probably not something he should be in the habit of doing...

With a quick motion Azdiur knelt over the fallen foe and drove his dirk down into his heart, making sure there was no chance of survival. He withdrew the blade and wiped it off on the rags the Orc wore; not clean by any means, but enough to resheath his weapon. Retrieving his discarded staff, he rose to his feet and looked around, making sure the rest of his squad was safe and then looking to see where else they might be needed.

The first arrow she had sent into flight struck but only slowed her target by hitting the meat of the shoulder between straps of leather, while the second missed to skewer the orc beside it through the throat in a lucky accident that left it choking and toppling to the ground. Ziran’s third arrow ricocheted off a quickly lifted sword that interposed itself, but her fourth arrow that had been aimed more carefully at her first target managed to slip between wide open rows of teeth that had been set to scream a war cry. Instead the arrow blossomed fletching from its mouth, and the cry turned to gurgling exhalation as the light fled its eyes.

Another arrow was already on string when the Lieutenant’s new orders came, and she finished her draw to let it fly at one of the orcs about to attack Arinelle before lowering her bow with a nod. They were a bit far out for her preferred accuracy.
Turning to Cantor and grabbing the front of the saddle with her bow in hand, she mounted with a quick hop to gain height, catch the stirrup, and swing into the saddle. Ziran followed Macardil and Pele closely until they got within a quarter of their former distance, and then swung wide to the left past a row of houses to flank the fighting in the courtyard so that she would have a good view of the backs of the enemy. There was no compunction about whether or not it was honorable to shoot those engaged. Only fleeing foes were occasionally allowed to run.

Drawing up sharply, she dismounted on to the low wall of a garden so that she could use it’s slight height to gain a better vantage point to provide support to the fight. Steadying herself, she turned to brace her foot against a taller stone and selected her new target to measure with an arrow-length of cedar.



It was satisfying to see that his first arrow had done what he had intended, as the leading orc fell with one of his grey fletchings prominently displayed and giving the Commander a breath of space before the next reached him. More frustrating was the second shot, which only pierced the flesh of a limb in a way that did not hinder the orc who now bore it forward into battle against Turin. Thûllir didn’t have time to send a second after it, however, as it was in close combat with the swordsman, and he didn’t dare risk the shot.
Blowing out a breath, he refocused and noticed that several were headed toward the spearman Arothir. While the man could likely hold his own, multiple opponents were always a challenge, so Thûllir decided to help even the odds. This time he aimed at the attacker at middle distance first, and dropped him with a carefully judged shot that found the timing of the distance and pierced the unarmored armpit just as the orc hefted his axe to swing.

Under normal circumstances, Thûllir could easily let fly six aimed arrows a minute, but the challenge of having to aim carefully over the distance slowed him down dramatically as he took a heartbeat or two longer each time he aimed so as not to strike their own troops. Only that first had been at one closely engaged. Lieutenant Macardil’s order to move forward was met with a terse nod as the Ranger lowered his bow and then hooked it onto his saddle when he moved to mount. Thûllir may have been an excellent archer, but he didn’t trust himself to shoot from horseback without sufficient practice, and his longbow was not suited to the task. If he could dismount to shoot, well and good. If it was to be blades...well, he didn’t trust himself to fight from horseback without injuring his mount yet either. Definitely something to practice for the future. His sword he could handle, however, as Kaylin’s tutelage over the years had helped him develop great proficiency. On his own two feet he would trust his training against most opponents.

Thus it was that as they rode forward, Thûllir nudged Bregil to some speed when he saw another of the Rangers badly outnumbered. He didn’t take time to note who it was, but came from the side, aiming his horse at the rearmost orc who bore a thick shield and weighty sword. A few strides away, he kicked free of his stirrups and boosted himself up and off in one strong heave to propel himself at the next orc instead, who was focused on jabbing at the Ranger with a long halberd. Bregil and Thûllir hit their respective targets at about the same time. The impact hurt, singing shock through his shoulder and chest as he crunched into the well-armored enemy and tumbled them both to the ground with an arm around his opponent’s helm that tried to give sufficient snap to his movement to break the neck.

A furious yell and a sharp elbow to the stomach as they rolled was evidence that the brute was still ready to fight. The remaining arrows in his quiver scattered and the hilt of his sword dug into his back as he was momentarily underneath, but Thûllir hooked his ankle around the other’s leg and kept rolling as one of his throwing knives came free into his hand. Ignoring the blows that landed with bruising force, he slid the blade along until he found a gap between the pieces of armor and drove it in hard before twisting it and withdrawing to release a well of blood. Another gap and another stab had his opponent arching back with a grunt that smashed his helmet into Thûllir’s cheek with enough force to split it before he went limp. Thankfully Bregedyr had ended up on top of that particular pile, as he didn’t want to be trapped under such weight. He rose stiffly and swiped at his cheek with his sleeve but then drew his sword from the quiver sheath on his back and looked around for a new dance partner, sword in one hand and bloody knife in the other.

The Lieutenant regarded the Dol Amrothian noble for a moment after Abrazimir had spoken his piece. He couldn’t read the expression he was given, but a lack of a direct response, followed by a summation thanking everyone for their remarks, gave Abrazimir both a frown to wear and a slight blush of irritation and embarrassment. Entirely with himself. Was it that foolish of a proposal? But it was not his place to rationalize such thoughts to his commanding officer. He slumped back in his saddle and continued to wait.

Orders were swiftly given. Archers to hold back and give cover, while the remaining members of the three squad would investigate. At the command, Abrazimir urged his mount forward with the others, keeping in rank with his fellow squad members, slowly approaching the seemingly ominous village ahead. On closer inspection, it didn’t seem all that worrisome. No one was panicked by any possible attack by savage, marauding orcs. Surely such a thing was not that commonplace here to be so disregarded in an arbitrary fashion. Maybe he was just overthinking it.

As the Commander advanced to speak with a woman of the town, Abrazimir halted several paces back beside his mount, eyeing warily the villagers about. None seemed to look at them. Were Gondorrians that commonplace as well? Or equally disregarded as curious to them? Abrazimir remembered from his own boyhood memories whenever soldiers came marching through his home. It was always a sight to behold. None seemed to care here. Maybe they had no value on such things. Their business. He glanced back at his companions. Did they have any thoughts or suggestions? That was his mistake then, for he failed to watch the shadowy thresholds and dark doorways. That’s where evil could lurk and blossom easiest.

And with speed faster than a pouncing snake, the enemy made themselves known with savage war cries. They came from everywhere. And even as his sword rang as he cleared it from his sheath, he was far too distracted by his futile attempt to count the orcs.

No time to consider the logistics of how such an ambush could have been pulled off. The enemy was gushing forth, breaking apart to engage individually, in duos, trios even, his fellow Rangers. He saw his Lond Col kinswoman, Lady Illisys, engaged with a particularly fearsome specimen of an orc. He wasn’t about to be outdone by her or anyone else. Turning, he practically threw himself back on his mount, scrambling atop, no doubt hurting the poor beast in the process but it would be made up for later, for the consequences of delay could be far worse than a simple pinch or bump. Hurriedly, he unslung his shield from his back, shoving his forearm through the straps and binding it to his limb. And targeting the nearest group of orcs, he urged his mount forth with embedded heels and charged.

”Amroth for Gondor!” He cried the old battle cry of his homeland and burst upon a group of orc combatants. They of course saw and heard him oncoming and shifted aside as he barged at them, his sword catching, and yet harmlessly, bouncing off a steel cap that one of the orcs wore. Hopefully it left at least a nasty bump and dazzling throb. But the tightness of the village did indeed make it hard to maneuver a charging speed and already his mount slackened its pace, so as to not crash into the side of a hovel. That delayed Abrazimir, who had to urge his horse to swerve and turn, even as it neighed and fought against its own panic. The orcs stank, and no doubt that was upsetting, but the ones he had charged had now turned upon him.

He was stuck against a wall and doubly outnumbered. One came on with a mace, spiked and barbed, the other with a crooked spear of hard, black iron, upon either side of him. His shield tucked to his side, the mace-wielding orc was on his sword-arm and he hacked at the beast, using his height and reach to keep the orc back. A left handed swordsman, it was already a skewed match up for Abrazimir and the orc, perhaps still disorientated from the earlier blow, fell back after being parried by the knight.

But such was the rush of the moment that the other orc was able to flank on the horsemen and stab with its spear, striking the boss of Abrazimir’s shield and sliding up the barrier, leaving a long indentation as it did, until it reached the top hem and soared…right at his face. He threw his head back wildly but not quick enough, catching a cut upon his brow. Hot fury mingled with the sharp lance of pain and he lashed out with his shield, knocking the spear aside before the orc could withdraw it. And before the orc could reposition it for another assault or parry, Abrazimir reared his own sword-arm back, left hand nearly brushing the right side of his neck, before he hewed as massively as he could, and slashed the attacking orc across its face. It screeched and fell back, injured or fatally wounded, Abrazimir cared not.

The rush was still on. There was little time to think. The first orc was already back before Abrazimir could right himself again. Already tipping to one side, it didn’t take much for the orc to bash with his mace. His chainmail took most of the deadly bite of the spiked object, but the force still passed through, unleashing a painful momentum that threw Abrazimir off his saddle. He rolled to the side and sprang onto his feet while his horse darted forward, leaving an open lane between him and the orc.

Abrazimir spat and snarled, before tossing his shield to the ground, and wielding his blade two-handed now. ”Yrch.” He cursed at the orc, advancing to meet it in a clash of steel and blade.

Kaylin - Squad Three

She'd spotted Thûllir's arrival into the fray. How couldn't she? The area around her had been opening up, and... well, he had been quite an entrance. Even as her heart skipped a bit at Thûllir's recklessness, her grey-blue eyes lit as she saw him launch himself off his horse into an orc. She threw a quick look around her before looking back to her Ranger - and seeing he had ended up on top of his opponent and was now standing. She grinned and looked around again for members of the third squad.

Turin caught her eye, still engaged with two enemies. He was holding his own, managing to escape and block their attacks but not to finish the fight. She heard the new orders on her way over to him, but tucked them away for later - she had a prior commitment already, and Turin was in a tough position with one orc on either side of him. They'd been smart enough not to move next to each other, but to keep forcing Turin to fight in two opposite directions; not a position Kaylin wanted a squadmate to be in!

She hit her sword against her own shield as she closed in, hoping she'd get the attention of one of the Orcs before being assaulted by the two of them might become too dangerous for Turin, but neither reacted until she actually rammed into one of them from the side. The orc kept his footing but nevertheless stumbled back, away from Turin and allowing the swordsman to focus his attacks on the remaining Orc.

Kaylin immediately stabbed at the Orc she'd pushed away from her fellow Ranger, but her forward move was easily parried. She caught the counterattack with her shield, used it to lift the enemy's blade and attacking arm just a bit higher, and stabbed again, from below her shield. She couldn't see exactly where it would land, but it was a hit - she could feel the tip of the sword piercing leather and something much softer, although she knew it wouldn't go deep. She pushed forward, but her adversary was quick enough on his feet to move back in step, and at the same time to try and get around her shield.

Kaurzog

Kaurzog's axe struck steel - the man with the conspicuous hair (Zev) had blocked his blow. Two other tarks flanked him, but they each were engaged with an orc of their own. He did not know his fellows' names, but they all moved with common purpose: kill.

The metallic smell of blood rose around him as his fellows did their best but were bested, in many cases, by the humans. Their throaty cries filled his ears as they fell in the street, dead or wounded. The hairs on the back of Kaurzog's neck rose with excitement. Bloodshed like this - no matter whose blood - would normally arouse in him a frenzied, ravenous impulse. He couldn't stop, though. The man before him - eyes wide and mouth still hanging open - was his to take down.

The great orc stepped back onto his right foot, leaning back to dodge a swipe of the man's sword. He snarled, a mocking sneer on his lips. He narrowed his eyes and sized up the man, each waiting a split second to see if the other would first. He tightened his grasp on his axe. They couldn't stay in a stalemate like this forever; he'd already stayed his hand far longer than he naturally would. Enough waiting. He sprang forward, swinging the axe like a tightly-controlled scythe - the man's legs were the grass. The tark had the advantage of agility, though. He managed to jump aside, but the orc's axe made contact with the man's outer left thigh. There was a soft rip and slight resistance as he cut through fabric and skin and muscle. A fine spray of blood flew through the air. Kaurzog licked his lips and smiled.

The great orc shifted to the side now, positioning himself so that his opponent would be trapped between him and the wall of a nearby building. An arrow hummed past him but he paid no mind. He had on thick armor over his chest and back but, more importantly, his attention was fully fixed on the man with white hair. He stared straight into the man's shining green eyes. Kaurzog growled, tensed his muscles, and crouched low in preparation to strike again.

Within just a few steps, Sarghêst was up to full speed. The rush and rage of battle was on him, the fever in his blood, the voiceless whispers in the back of his mind that told him to kill and destroy. His senses were sharpened, he could smell the acrid stretch of fear from the villagers, it was a malignant beauty. He could smell the Rangers too, between the smell of horse flesh, steel, and nerves, it was a wonder these had been the people that defeated them during the war. They made no effort, that this orc could see at least, to even hide their approach. The trap was to easy. His hearing was better too. He could hear his fellows pouring out of the buildings like a kicked hornet’s nest. He could hear the buzz, the shouting, the frenzied singing of blade on blade, the screams of horror and of wicked delight. He had never felt so alive as he did now. His beady, oddly iridescent orange eyes found their target, a tall woman, taller than most around her. She hadn't noticed him yet. A kind of ecstatic rage filled him, a fit of laughter burst from his rasping lungs. She carried a wicked looking spear, though a glaive would have been a better description. It had reach, but if He was fast enough he could easily move inside it. She was wearing a chain mail hauberk too. It would make her harder to injure, but she would be much slower than him, armoured up in boiled leather with bits of mail scattered throughout it. His lips split wide in a hideous grin, revealing his yellowed fangs.

He was within just a few paces of his target now, he could see the cool grey glint of her eyes. Coiling his legs, he sprang with all his might, launching himself bodily into the woman. His arms stretched out wide, the wicked sharp scimitar held tight in his left hand. He sailed though the air for what felt like a lifetime. All at once the world slowed around him. He could see his companions, his soldiers, attacking their targets with equal gusto and frenzy. Surely they would have this day.

Mirdautas Vras!

He felt him self collide with the woman with the full force of an aurochs. He had angled him self at the last moment of his leap to hit her hard in the chest with his shoulder. In a rabid tangle of legs, arms, and blades, they fell. He could feel her compress underneath him, crumbling from the blind side attack. They both went sprawling into the dirt. Sarghêst hit the ground with a roll, pushing himself off the woman as he felt the impact through her body. A bare second later, he was up, blade held aloft in front of him. He recovered first, he realized. She was standing too, but had yet to orient herself enough to form a defensive stance. He took advantage, closing the gap between then in a single, swift step. Shifting his weight to his left foot, Sarghêst brought his scimitar low then, closing both hands about the hilt, swung in a tight upward arc, his strike aimed at space where chest and shoulder met. The steel connected and rang like a ringing a bell. He heard something crunch beneath. He snarled, inside the guard of the glaive.

Zev, Squad 1: (Durien, Jaena, Kamion, Thûllir, Zev, Arnyn)

Zev looked up in time to see an orc (Kaurzog) hurtling toward him and letting out a ghastly cry. He froze for a moment. Kamion & Arnyn were nearby, but already engaged. The orc looked delighted by this turn of events. Almost robotically, he managed to avoid the first few swipes from the orc as his brain caught up, but it was clear those were just a warm-up. Unfortunately, the next swipe connected with his outer thigh and a gasp of surprise and pain left him as the orc shifted. He automatically adjusted his stance in response, realizing too late that he was trapped between the orc and a building at his back.

The orc was crouching now, ready to strike, and he heard the Commander shout something; but he couldn’t hear it now. He had to do something, and quickly. A stain of blood was growing on his left thigh, and luckily the cut didn’t feel too deep; the leg took his weight, though the sharp pain did not lessen. He had to make a move now, get on the offensive. Weight, height, size; none of that was on his side, but hopefully speed was. He raised his sword and dagger, and brought the sword up first to strike at his opponent, but it was more a distraction than anything, as he struck out quickly with the dagger in his left hand, aiming for the orc’s groin, the femoral artery.

He might as well use their height difference to his advantage...

@Silmarë


Morwen, Squad 2: (Abrazimir, Ilisys, Morwen, Mourgan, Pele, Red, Unalmis)

She had managed to finish off the first orc to engage her, but unfortunately there was not time to catch her breath. Two more of the enemy were closing on her rapidly, and as one was armed with a halberd, and the other with knives, she could see she was going to be hard pressed to keep them off of her, let alone defeat them. At least, she thought, they were orcs; orcs often fought for themselves. Even if driven by one master, they were selfish in battle, and she could use that.

The halberd reached her first, due to its length, and she brought her longsword up to parry. And seconds later, she had to twist sharply to the side to avoid the first slashes of the long knives. The dance she engaged in now was a dangerous one, just managing to keep steel from slicing her flesh. It became almost immediately apparent that these two were not fighting with only their own skins in mind. They paired well together, using the halberd to get in quickly, while its owner stayed out of her reach; and as soon as she was distracted by that, the one bearing the knives would come in close to stab her.

Sweat quickly broke out across her body, and she wished she had tied a cloth across her forehead (note to future self), for it was beginning to run down her face and as it hit her eyes it stung. She could do nothing but blink furiously, bringing up her sword to meet the halberd once more, and then bracing against it, and throwing her weight forward and pushing with all her might, slinging it away from her. Not the best situation, or the best leverage against the larger and longer weapon, but it worked enough. The orc stumbled back just slightly, and she immediately moved forward to push her advantage, shoving into him roughly with her shoulder.

He stumbled backwards and fell down, but before she could do anything, she had to quickly twist to engage the orc with the knives. Her longsword was clunky and slow against the weapons, though she managed to catch one, but the second came hurtling in under her guard, and she was forced to let loose with one hand, as she twisted herself to the side, and the blade sliced through her sleeve. She inhaled sharply as she felt the blade bite the flesh of the inside of her upper arm, and gritted her teeth as she made the choice to clamp her arm down. The blade took another bite of her, but it was worth it. She twisted again, sharply, in a movement that the orc’s joint could not follow. Luckily, her enemy was distracted by the sudden crunch and pain, and did not attack again with the other weapon.

Unfortunately, the one with the halberd was regaining footing. Morwen was somewhat off balance, had an arm clamped down over the blade, and could tell both her enemies were beginning to regain themselves. She gave another sharp jerk, and the knife wielding orc grunted and dropped the blade from its injured hand. She drove her own body backwards, pulling the orc with her before it regained its balance, and into the halberd bearing orc.

They went down in a pile, and she knew everything depended on her now regaining her feet before one of the others did. If she did not, that would spell the end for her. She had landed on top of the halberd orc, and the other had come crashing down on top of her, and she pulled her feet up, and set them against whatever fleshy bits of the orcs were available, and pushed sharply, holding onto her sword in her right hand for dear life. She managed to push herself out enough to free her arm and upper torso, and pulled her sword up and out, but halberd orc grabbed her arm and wrenched it backwards before she could get any farther. She cried out as she felt a searing pain shoot through her shoulder; it was likely dislocated, and in this moment, useless. Her left arm shot to her thigh where her basic dagger was strapped, and while she did this, bit down hard on the halberd orc’s arm. The distraction was enough, and she freed the dagger, but she could not reach halberd orc, behind her, and drove it into the neck of the orc on top of her, still scrambling to get out.

The dagger sank a little lower than she intended, not an immediate kill, but a definite maiming, and enough for her to kick hard and pull herself further out. She wrenched the dagger from the orc as she twisted up and out, and staggered backwards, breathing heavily, and setting herself up in the best ready stance she could.

Her right arm swung uselessly at her side, and the halberd orc was now on its feet, growling angrily at her, but its halberd had been lost in the process. The knife wielding orc was bleeding out on the ground, and halberd orc seemed less than delighted by this; but it was looking for something. Morwen’s eyes landed on the halberd moments before the orc saw it. Their eyes locked for a split second. Morwen knew if the orc got its hands back on that weapon, she was done for. She might even be finished now.

Without time for thought, she flung herself at the orc, dagger held high. The orc shifted his upper body to move its neck out of harm's way, reaching for her injured arm to grab at it, but she changed direction from the feint swiftly, bringing the dagger low and sinking it into her enemy’s belly.

Hirluin lip quirked up a little. He preferred his enemies close up to. “Think I can?” He responded to Azdiur’s question. “Of course!” He sized up the orc allotted to him. “Should be an easy piece of mutton pie,” he growled under his breath as the orc with the sword arm rushed him with a battle cry. Hirluin stood his ground until he gauged the distance and timing right, and then lunged at the orc. But his opponent had been surprisingly swift about getting ready a defence. Not a foolish one, this one, flashed the thought through the man’s brain. With his lunge blocked, Hirluin brought forward his dagger arm, thrusting it toward the orc’s face. It didn’t meet its target, but he was able to startle the creature back, so that he was able to release his sword from the downward thrust of the orcish blade.

The orc snarled at him, it’s lips curling back and revealing a row of foul but sharp looking teeth. Hirluin swung his sword in a downward slashing movement. The orc was quick to tilt to the left, but the man had been anticipating it, and lunged his dagger into the orc’s shoulder. It gave out a cry and a snarl. Hirluin was getting ready to take advantage of his nasty wounded opponent when an arrow whizzed past over his head. It had startled him as much as the orc facing him, and had had them both momentarily distracted. Hirluin ducked and rolled, sweeping up with his sword, and realised two things at once. Kaylin (how did she get here?!) was busy bashing an orc archer on the head with a shield, and Azdiur had swept with aplomb to get rid of his orc.

Hirluin grimaced. His orc? Ridiculous! He watched as the other man wielded his staff, and was fascinated with this style. Concern clouded his gaze, though when the other lost his weapon, and he got ready to step in if needed. But soon, he realised, Azdiur had this orc in hand and he didn’t have to worry.

“That was a neat bit of fighting, Azdiur.” He told the other man when he stood up from stabbing the orc. Then his glance fell on Kaylin who was up and about and looking like she was absolutely enjoying this. Hirluin shook his head with a sigh. “Strange woman,” he muttered. But he noticed as her eyes searched the grounds and then lit up at the sight of one of the Rangers on horseback. It was only then it dawned on him that it had been some moments since the noises of battle had begun to subside…

Other than to communicate with her fellow Rangers and allies, Arnyn had always been one to fight in silence. No battle cries passed her lips, nor did she waste her time taunting the enemy or try and dishonor herself by yelling profanities at them. The Rangers knew what these Orcs were and what needed to happen to them. There was no need for her to yell it once more into the world. At the most, a grunt of effort would escape her - nothing more.

Still, she couldn't deny it felt good to specifically hold her longsword again in the service of Gondor. This... was who she was. Who she always had been. How could one man's death, regardless of how important he had been to her, have made her lose sight of that?

Her medium-weight armor allowed her to move fast and with flexibility, and Arnyn used it to her full advantage. When the blade-wielding orc who was now her close-range opponent would stap in to slash at her, she would step back and evade. When it would try to lure her in, she pretended to take the bait to then offer a surprise. However, she found the orc rather skilled, and the two of them started a fast-paced dance, where death would be the doom of one of them and a reward for the other.

She heard a familiar sound coming from the side, but also behind her - a startled reaction at pain. Zev, her mind told her in a flash. Arnyn couldn't turn around at the moment, however - her own opponent was still keeping her busy. Luckily, the orc she was fighting was beginning to tire. It had showed in its last couple of moves. When it stepped forward and slashed at her shoulder, it left an opening at its own right shoulder and right side of the neck. Arnyn deftly sidestepped the attack by moving slightly to the left, leaving the weary orc to slash at nothing, and aimed her own strike at its unprotected neck.

Her blade connected unhindered and sunk partway into the flesh. She hadn't put enough force into the strike to decapitate them, since that would be an unnecessary use of energy (and required more strength than most newer warriors thought, in her experience). She pulled her sword free by taking one step back and drawing her blade back in toward herself. The motion made the blade slice deeper into her opponent's neck, and the removal of her sword officially meant the end of its life. She could see the light leaving the creature's eyes. Only when she was sure it was dead, did she turn to evaluate the position Zev and Kamion were now in.

Pele Alarion
Squad Two

Her bow still at the ready, Pele surveyed the battle field; most of the orcs had been dealt with, and the ones that were still standing were engaged in close combat. At the Lieutenant's command, she lowered her bow; more likely than not it would not be of any use at the moment. Yet, as she looked on for a while longer, she saw that some of the Rangers were not faring overly well. Rushing in to help them was not much of the option though, and Pele was sure that those closest who had dealt with their own opponents would be more able to help. Her part might come once the fight is over, and if there is a need to take care of any injuries.

Hearing the Commander's order, Pele glanced at the Lieutenant to see whether he would divide them up in any way for completion of the new task; or perhaps she should remain behind to see to the injured. At any rate, in preparation, she slid down from the saddle and secured the bow on her back. The sword and dagger would be her go to weapons from now on, she supposed.

Ilisys Azrubêl, at the Village.
Second Squad – facing the initial approach of Sârghést (and his two flanking Orcs)
(Part 1 of 2) – Warning. There is some descriptive ick in this post. Ye have been warned.


Despite the Commander’s frank address, their advance into the village waded through the guarded cloys of much conjecture. Ilisys had dismounted in respect of the Commander’s decision to do so, though it irked her privately to have lost the advantage of such height. It would also have shown bad form to retain any seat higher than the officer, perhaps especially this officer. Then at last the truth itself engulfed them, with the same sort of abrupt cataclysm as a storm conquers the sky. Trap sprung ! Orcs ! Just as they had expected, yet in the last place they might have ever inspected ! All due explanations would have to wait for after; if they survived quite long enough to meet the after. Already the dark clutch of the enemy began to seize up all the space, it seemed in seconds; beating a percussion of emancipated rage from every quarter, pummelling the ground beneath their merciless stampede; clear in their fevered intention for harm.

For all that she favoured space, which was restricted, Ilisys recognised that should she pursue some ground, some ways apart from where the rangers were holding their wall to safeguard horses, then ease might take her to isolation, as a lone rock in a sea that would most surely drown her in it’s swarm. So instead, readying to meet potentially multiple enemies at rather more close quarters that she was comfortable, she raised the spear before her, grasped with two hands spread about the centre, meaning to sink it in steep swipes, left and right alternately. The mastered paddle of a kayak, rather than the steerage of a mighty oar. Her fingers played out an impatient pulse against the wood already warming in their grasp. Her feet sowed strength into the ground. And as though the flag had just been raised, she counted down to the collision owed.

It did not take long before a race presented to engage her, an unholy trinity closing in upon the woman like the most pressing of would-be ballroom partners. But a lady shall choose her attendants, always, and so she appraised her options. The Orc on her left had already begun to fall behind, as his more rambunctious comrades jockeyed for the chance to reach her first. The one on her right sure recognised the greater competition between he and the more central placed brute (Sârghést).

So that flanking saboteur stalled it’s own charge and, instead rooted both iron-shod feet, to launch a crude axe, in order to take her life fast. To take her life first ! The brute tool rent the air between them, as a strange, squat streak of lightning and, the woman knew that, should she make move to avoid it, the far greater target of her horse behind her would suffer as consequence. So she raised objection to counter the missile with the tool at her disposal. Left hand descending toward the blunted tail, the spear’s gleaming nose veered up by proxy, under the direction of the Ranger’s other hand. A veritable tiller in her grasp. The blade which crowned her weapon met the Orc’s soaring axe with a shrill, surgical precision wrought of years spent in tilting; and the Orc’s hopes plummeted like a punctured anchor to score up the earth below.

Having endangered her steed, this ambitious/unlucky Orc had won the Ranger’s most unimpressed attention, and too, the extensive reach of her glaive. The gleam of the perilous pinnacle breached straight, further than a sidelong slash would have managed, and the ungainly encroaching Orc gambolled full break into the point on impetus. The spear’s single tooth spliced through the battered leather of his barely hampered flank, skewering deep into the bare recesses of flesh which had afforded it such speed moments ago.

Still Ilisys allowed for the sick gasp of pulp before wresting the polearm back out of the entry point, a distasteful expression marring her face even at the Orc’s foul fluids despoiling her property. Flaps of hide fell errant at the scene of crime, as the spar tore free, and the Orc’s muscles sagged from where they had been sawn and left dishevelled, to shroud the sure devastated network of blood vessels. The telltale black gussies spewed forth in retching tides of oozing oil from the punctured wound. First blood. Foul blood.

In the uneasy vacuum directly afterward, the Orc staggered, stumbled; realizing too late he was come now to the Ranger’s reach without the means to slay or even stay upon his feet. A savage howl clawed free of his lipless chasm, but that served him none, and found no mercy in the hard glass of the Ranger’s eyes. To ensure he should not draw out now some wasteful drag at her attention, she delivered a swift, shaving sideways sweep that seared through the wall of his throat. That foul, pustuled chimney thus garnished with a retching beard of greasy black froth. With one slick, scaled hand, the Orc followed it’s stagnant flow with marbling eyes, down, down to stain the earth. His resulting tar puddle swiftly flourished there, his dwindling lifeforce sourcing it, face down in the dirt.

Ilisys had no time to stand smug. For the other foes she had assumed might stall now to note how their fellow fell, did not so. She might have envied Sârghést that focus and disassociation. Humanity dictated though her fate, to assume of the Orcs what she might assume of mankind; and she would pay for such presumptions, she would pay with pain. A lot of pain. For in that decision to pause, the greater foe would catch her off her guard ..

Ilisys Azrubêl
Second Squad – facing Sârghést only now.
Part 2 of 2 – Little bit of ick. Not as bad though by half.


Ilisys had not meant to squander so much time or energy upon the first Orc that pressed her. She had meant to use the cumbersome corpse as some partition, to somehow slip then behind the second Orc (Sârghést) and command where he should meet her. Her decision, her say so. The third Orc, flanking out upon the far side should then, she supposed, have to rein in his own charge and lose great impetus in the abrupt change of direction and … . and it turned out that all plans went awry. At some point she might concede that the threat to her horse had decimated the best intentions of logic from the get go. She would never regret it.

Despite the fact that, when she turned, that tenacious Second Orc was already barrelling toward her, at a speed she could not parry capably with her polearm. She was unreadied. Unsteadied in fact. Still the bulk of an apparent mountainside careered toward her, eclipsed all else existing; robbing the Ranger of her breath, and height, and dignity and all at once. There was barely, no. NO! No time to brace, not to avoid blunt trauma, but perhaps to retract, to recoil just enough that it might strike instead at her sternum, rather than to pummel some more slender ribs to splinters and impale her delicate lungs, her heart ...

So the Orc’s titanic jabbing shoulder met and dented her breast bone, and Ilisys cried out with no sound as her back punched an impact into the ground beneath them both. The power of the slam rippled a slow, resounding rhythm of silence that she felt carry the length of her entire. Such a force that she already felt the birth of what black bruise should undoubtedly burgeon there soon; some internal disease of fell darkness, courtesy of his albeit brief contact. Tentative fingers were unwilling to check for breakage. Certainly the brute did not loiter to survey his handiwork, but pushed off the wreck of her to roll away, regain himself, and she came to the painful understanding. She would have to also scramble, somehow, to her feet.

Thankfully the daughter of Lond Col knew well by now how to take a hit, and rise still upon the other side of some bitter blows. So not quite unruffled, she remained though still a swan; and that meant proud, albeit not at this moment too elegant. And what did Swans do ? Rise. Out of their roost. Yet she choked on the irony of her luck as the third Orc leered, brandishing a fearsome mace. It’s toy was grotesquely stamped through with all mishappen screws and barbs, that festooned one, celebratory leathered hand. It’s violent embrace would further shatter what remained of her delicate carriage .. had not a thudding bolt of death drilled through it’s foul chest, armour and all, in the very same moment that it looked to throw a bitter punch. Peril thus extinguished even as she anticipated it, and without the unhappy (slowest) Orc ever properly registering it. And so it, not she, fell next; the quarrel taking the collapsing concertina of it’s frame down to deflate beyond all harm. Ilisys had not even heard the yawn of the bow drawn. Crossbow, she corrected herself.*


There remained no apparent shortage of volunteers to try and take her to ground, permanently. The last now remaining Orc had done more damage alone than both of his former comrades had accomplished between them, and it seemed this one, Sârghést, was honing in for his prize. The killing blow. Ilisys might have imagined that he sought recompense for his fellows, save that those eerie eyes might glitter just as wickedly for no cause but devastation itself.

The glaive had been at rest, caught loose in her left hand when they two had impacted. And gingerly she recovered it now in that same, slightly trembling palm, to serve as an aide to ascend. The dark ribbon of subtly perfumed hair which had unravelled from braid, hung as a wilting flower about one ear, and yet stood she was. It was about time this Orc learned, ornamental glass might shatter, but there should be still the jagged shards then to contend with. Broken or no, she was not, nor ever had been soft. Though her internal organs might now protest that theory.

Impatient, her Enemy returned, a hound it seemed, not wearied of hurling a rag doll. And it brought tears close to the Ranger’s eyes to lower unto the stance she knew to adopt. So much so that she did not quite make it to a place of strength before he was engaging for a second time. This time, trusting in the curved fang of the steel in his grasp to deliver up wrath. There was nowhere to retreat, nor would she seek to. Sowing her left foot as sentry, the woman of Belfalas took full account of the brutish wand which curled up, from the root of the Orc’s nefarious scheme, toward the integral join under her right arm.


A swan, a spear-maiden, could ill afford any blow to the axillary juncture, and instinct itself saw the targeted limb swerve high, as though it might indeed come apart at the shoulder. Ilisys found at least the step of the first slaughtered Orc underfoot, would prove tantamount to elevation, daring to climb that small measure of height further from the threat of impact. Every inch counted. The Orc was already combating gravity, the weight of his own utensil dragging at it’s progress, though his muscled biceps surely would find less resistance in their unified urge upward, married as they were in vile motive.

Was there yet means to avoid him ? Perchance, or to direct the worst of his blow where it should do the least damage ? The raise of the polearm in her left hand alone nurtured a heat that batted around her rib cage, and the exertion such as it was to raise her arm, required a sharp catch of breath. But the outcome allowed for the shimmering descent of her glaive to fall as a guillotine before her chest. The bright blade of steel carving through the resolute scream which rammed down like a hammer upon the rising scimitar. A belated effort to avoid even the hardy wooden haft from ricocheting straight back up on impact, Ilisys hugged her right hand urgently around where the spear met shaft. Her armpit now more than ever exposed, still clamour broke out some distance below, as the two hale weapons batted like a clap of hands against one another. The fury of the meet throbbed from where one will smote against the other. Even as the woman’s fingers crunched in an awkward righthanded effort to throw more strength to support her blow.

An undeniable crunch. Either she had just subjected at least two phalanges to potential fracture, or the rigid husk of the dead orc she was yet stood upon had just splintered underfoot. She staggered regardless, offside to her left, returning the glaive high from it’s descent, and indeed from reach of the Orc’s sword. Come to where she might present as far less obtainable target, and as a committed parting shot, Ilisys pitched her spear free briefly of even her loosened hold. She retrieved it swift, and not too far removed in height from it’s launch up, but now in an altered lefthand grasp. From this more aggressive claim upon the mid-shaft, the Ranger dove a stab low, one handed, toward the righthand flank of her foe’s boiled armour. The Orc looked to be dressed in a hard-backed shell like some land-locked crustacean. But whether or no it was more robust than the first foe’s armoured hide, she campaigned this strike one-handed. She would yet register her objection to his assault, to his existence, to his reputed persecution of innocent citizens. Broken pretty, ornamental glass. Still biting back. To the last. As it might, in fact, well prove.

Kaurzog

Kaurzog shifted impatiently in his crouched stance as the young man (Zev) made his choices. He was cornered, bleeding from his leg, looking up into the orc's face. Kaurzog knew he had the advantage here - position, size, strength. But he saw both sword and dagger gleaming in the tark's hands - dual-fisted desperation. The orc tightened his grip on his axe, the sweat of his palms slick against the haft.

All this in the instant before the man moved in a flash of steel and white hair. Kaurzog raised his axe, blocking the man's sword strike with the belly of the handle, snarling as the impact shook his arms and shoulders. But the man had used just one arm to deal a blow with his sword; almost too late, the orc saw another glint as the tark's dagger shot out toward his groin. Still bracing his axe against the man's sword, Kaurzog pivoted, hard, on the balls of his feet, bending his knees low. It wouldn't stop the blow, but this at least might throw off his aim. The dagger must have been keen; it sliced neatly through a layer of leather on his leg and lay open a long gash on the orc's left quadricep. His pivot had preserved his life but elongated the wound to his thigh. A curse escaped his lips, and in his rage and pain, he put all his weight into thrusting his axe forward against the man's sword, throwing his foe bodily into the wall behind him.

His leg nearly gave out with the effort, but he masked the injury by crouching low again. It would not do to betray himself. He trusted that his slight opponent would be stunned for the moment and took the chance to survey the scene around him, gnashing his teeth as pain shot through his leg and blood flowed from the wound. The scent of blood was a given, but he now took in the reality that it was orcish blood and orcish bodies that littered the streets. Where they had once outnumbered the tarks, their seething mass poised to overwhelm, there were but a few of his fellows still standing, still fighting, still howling. They would be finished before long.

Kaurzog was not a wholly unintelligent being, nor was he unfamiliar with self-preservation. The focused, foreign energy that coursed through him amplified this instinct and compelled him to flee. Grunting with every other step, he loped from the village as quickly as possible. The young man had traded blows to the leg with him today. Kaurzog vowed that he'd pay for it with his life later.

Unalmis Raxëlilta
Second Squad – called to the archers/Lieutenant
Outskirts >>>>> Village


Bewilderment did not forsake Unalmis, even as the Commander raised a decision out of the First Squad’s debate. For he was amongst those named to hang back .. with the archers ? It was the crossbow that did it, had to be, and the young man might have rolled his eyes at the way the fates continued to deny him action. Still an amused smile found him as the Commander barked “Come,” to the greater group, almost as though they stood his dogs ! The officer walked his horse and his obliging company into the village, and the young man tried to hold onto the memory of Pele’s comment. They’d just have to keep an eye out for each other then, wouldn’t they ? The kind, former sergeant was the only other assigned from his squad to wait with the Lieutenant after all.

The two longbow bearers came off their own horses without ever needing to be told. Readying for sure, for nobody knew what, but Pele retained her saddle, recurve bow in hand and all. Her squad fellow had been abandoned to a nest of hawk-eyed veterans it seemed ! Well, best hope he might at the very least not embarrass himself. In such exalted company ! Though he could unload his weapon from his horse, it was far more of an issue to try to re-load then after, from the saddle. So he had better have a single target, or not bother. This in mind, Nal too dropped to his feet. From there came true distraction, to set a foot at the stirrup, to execute a suitable draw and to secure a bolt from his belt quiver unto the bowstave. It was a little uncomfortable, bending into the protruding weapon’s butt, and he was quite thankful to have skipped a hearty breakfast ! And no sooner had he glanced up, satisfied, then the call came for Orcs observed. In the village !

As the Enemy spilt forth into the courtyard, it was all that the Ranger could do to keep from snorting at their folly. The folly of the Orcs, that was. The Ranger contingent had been surrounded and one effective volley of arrows from all sides would have laid waste to their party. There arose a moment when he caught himself in the image of such a slaughter, and almost blushed to have thought on it at all. But by that time, those skilled archers at hand, those close beside him, were already at their art. Belatedly he followed suit; triggering a blow to bruise the sky, then returning to span his weapon once more; this time by placing the wooden butt horizontally against his abdomen; leaning into, rather than over, it. The ignored stirrup mocked his experiment, but at least he could master his power from a more centred stance. It still took, of course, a substantial amount of time.

As the others all released their fletched projectiles, Unalmis continued to reload his own personal argument with fresh ammunition. Swallowing frustration at the time it took to ready even a second shot. The rest of the group had pierced the sky with several times his number of their arrows already, each, and there was no means by which he could hope to keep up. It had seemed such a good idea at the outset, to make worth the ancient weapon that he had been gifted by an aged civilian. More than that though, he had departed in such a hurry, there had been no time to locate his bow, and quiver, and contents .. which were like as not spread all about his room. The young man had swung a sword to show off several times to Iole, since the war had ended, but archery was less of an extravagant exhibition and so it had been .. too long … The crossbow with it’s advantage of accuracy, he’d hoped would compensate some until he’d had more time to practice.

There was little way to know for sure if this was the case, for his targets often seemed also the intent of his fellows, and they always got there first ! But fingers jerked the leverage to hurl the latest quarrel in fierce line to chine the sky, before the Lieutenant urged them now closer to the fight. The fact they were able to attempt this should have proved how improved, or else desperate, the situation had become, and Unalmis elected to believe the former. Having reclaimed his ride, the young man observed Karis veer left, and Thullir thenafter vault from his steed courageously into the battle. There seemed precedent then to taking small liberties here. At the least he was inspired by their more experienced example.

Far enough from the baying Orcpack, that none should - hopefully - take much notice of him, the Ranger left his horse alongside Pele. It could probably protect her about as well as he could attempt to, after all. Nimbly he absconded down a street that branched right. His father was forever advising that the young man ought use his surroundings, and a lifetime of sneaking out of the house, of getting into scrapes dependent on stealth, had all leant weight to his latest plan. Scaling one of the house walls, a foot made fair purchase upon a wooden trellis that creaked doubtfully beneath him. Hands explored the merest, nearest, crannies and the Ranger exploited a pair of window ledges to good effect. Throughout, he was thankful for the leniency of the soundless leather armour, and then finally bruised fingers grasped about the skin of one of the house’s rooftop. Nal heaved himself up onto the elevated platform, and rolled flat across the canopy, bracing for that panicked moment when he assumed possibility that it might give way under him.

It might have been more sage to have loaded his weapon before he’d climbed up, but he also might very well have shot himself during the ascent, if he fell. Now, in position, he afforded the necessary extension to compel his draw, though it involved the dangerous act of sitting up, both feet nocked against the lath itself, to haul an ambitious pressure. Laid low as soon as ever he could thereafter, the Ranger was able to prop and guide the crossbow upon it’s still supported ledge. With all the apparent time in the world, aim, and loose off his winged threat, with some devasting accuracy. Or so he supposed. In efforts to remain as unobtrusive an element as he might, Unalmis flattened down in the immediacy after each shot. His feet affording tight pressure at their booted toes against the rooftop, to suppose it might hold him at such an incline.

Securing a new bolt only when enough time had tested resolve, he dared hope that any Orc below to glance up for the source of this unfair assault, should see him not. The urgency, after all, of even the last dregs of the savage tumult on the ground should capably hold their focus. Might be that none of the foul ilk would even register the fall of his heavy spikes, smiting through the writhing mass of an unlucky few; unless it were them struck. And then they likely thought no more of it, of anything. After each quarrel was delivered, there was time to be forgotten, until he could once again, surprise them. Most of his efforts from this vantage point had been Orcs already injured but who seemed like to get up. If there had been doubt whether they might still accomplish this, he aimed to kill it. Until he had spent all ammunition.

Happily this coincided with the orders for their archers to stand down, and to instead make safe the afflicted village, So locking the crossbow to it’s latchings on his back, Nal eased back to his ledge, then hung, then dropped back to meet the street with both hands flat to slap the ground. After brushing the grazed palms together, he drew his short sword, right handed, kicked with his left leg at the nearest house door in the most momentous way he ever had imagined he might, and saw that wooden barrier fall wide …. then ricochet right back again to slam rudely in his face. With a blink and a sigh, he decided to withdraw with glowing cheeks, and glance through the nearest window instead. It was a shame he no longer had the means to unload a laden crossbow into any peril he might find. But the fracas yet within the courtyard was not quite so eased that he should dare go scavenging for bolts.

His companions had fallen. Of the three the first forth from the dirty little hovel, he had been the only one to truly engage in battle. The first had been taken down far too easily by the woman, serving only as a distraction for Sarghêst himself. The pathetic snaga died before he even knew he was in combat. Sarghêst cursed the decision to bring him. He had never been of any use. The worms would feed on his wretched corpse once the Men had burned his body. He would become the great invective upon these sun touched lands, a final insult to the dignity and grace upon which their dreams are founded. He would feed the wretched earth and poison the soil. No amount of burning can undo the vileness that would seep into this patch of green. Sarghêst spared a smile.

That was all he had time for though. She was fast, faster than he’d expected for such a delicate thing, enrobed (or entombed) in plate armor and wounded. The armor was caved in at the point of his impact, an ugly reminder of the raw, frenetic energy of an orc. The second of his companions went down, with such a blow that even Sarghêst winced to hear. And like that, his companions, fodder, were eaten up and all that remained in this dance was him and the woman.

That wad good. He wanted it that way. The only way to test oneself was to find an equal and destroy them. So that is what he would do. She wad good, this swan like creature, she moved with a fluid grace, an understanding of her surroundings. He was a mountain though, an inexhaustible inevitability. He charged again, his blood singing with frenzied exaltation.

He thought he had more time. He had miss timed his assault, come too late, spent too much time reveling in her demise. It was only a one handed strike, the full power of the glaive would not be on full display, but it was enough. Time, ever a fickle mistress, slowed down again. Sarghêst was moving through a syrupy bog once more, this time there was no enjoyment in his actions, no savoring the prospect of blood and gore. He watched, enraged and helpless as the glaive’s point shot toward him, a glint from the hated sun caught the tip and blinded him. In that single moment, that insignificant heartbeat, the blade surged forward and jammed into his leg. He felt the pain, like holy fire coursing through his veins. All he could do was absorb the blow, take a step back, to reduce the effectiveness. Rage filled him then. Not the rage of battle that had so monstrously fueled him, no. This was rage of a different sort. The rage that would keep him alive. Before, everything not within his immediate vicinity had no corporeal meaning, outside of this dance was only darkness and shadow.

Now, the world came back into sharp focus. Colors and shapes and light reintroduced themselves to Sarghêst with heady alacrity. The scene before him was… not one of his liking. The assault had failed. Despite the wonderful plans they had made, the deception, surprise. It had all gone awry. He was not afraid. He had never been afraid. What he felt was different. He had no idea what it was that took control of his mind at that particular moment. The air smelled of orc and human blood, a tangy, metallic scent that set his nerves aflame, all around him were the dead and the dying. His brethren, companions, ravagers-in-arms. A few had escaped the torrent, but far too few. He swung his gaze back around to the woman. Taking a step back from her had saved his leg. The wound was not deep. If he had a mind, if a contingency plan had not been in place, he would have fought on, fought to the death . But there were other things afoot now.

He sidestepped, pulling himself free of the glaive. He howled with rage, gaining a modicum of strength from the sheer ferocity of the sound. He nudged the glaive aside, pushing it with his right elbow to give him room to move. With his left, Sarghêst used his remaining strength to jab at the woman’s shoulder, aiming again for that same spot as his previous attack. However, the strike went amiss. She turned at the last moment, shifted ever so slightly to maintain her grasp on the polearm. The change of position altered his strike, but he was already too committed. The strike clanged off the scent he had made I her breastplate not moments before bounced off harmlessly. Again, he howled with atavistic intent, but the power was no longer present. He was spent. It was time for him to run as well, lest he be overwhelmed and cut down.

He turned and ran, heedless of any arrow or bolt that may have soared his way. His leg pulsed like a hot iron with every step. He only hoped he had wounded his opponent enough that she would not follow him or launch her glaive at him. Once he was sure he was out of range from her attacks he stopped and turned back.

“Hear the words of your new lord, ye Rangers of Gondor! Give an ear to the rage of our master, ye Free Peoples of Belfalas! Lo, we shall shine forth in war! We shall shine forth in peace! We are a ray void of the sun! I go, I go swifter than the arrows of Drautran's bow! I go! Bagurzlaam shall eat out your hearts!”

Again, he turned. And ran.

OOC: Speech adapted from Isaiah 1:10, “O Father, O Satan, O Sun” by Behemoth, and A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 3, Scene 2. Drautran, BS for “moonlight"