[piosenniel]

Firefoot's post

The Orc army was illumined in the late-morning sun - but not him. He was crouched in the dense underbrush of the forest, hidden in the shadows and invisible to all save the other Mirkwood scouts nearby. Careful not to make a sound, he crept forward and slightly to the right to get a better view of the Orcs he was watching. Cold hatred gleamed in his gray eyes. He reached up and fingered the feathered end of an arrow in his quiver. It was of no use at the moment, but later... then the Orcs would die, pierced with arrows.

Thorvel refocused himself on what he was supposed to be doing: observing the Orcs. The army stretched away in both directions, and from his vantage point he could not see either end. He had never seen so many in one place before. Smaller bands of Orcs, those could be dealt with relatively easily. But this? They had no facts as to what the army was planning on. Thorvel didn’t, anyway. So what are we going to do about it? he wondered. Fight them off, of course. Defeat them. All of his senses revolted at the sounds of thousands of Orcs all arguing in their uncouth languages and the clank of metal on metal.

As he turned his head away to the right, the large group of men garbed in golden armor caught his eye. Southrons! They were only slightly better than the Orcs, in Thorvel’s opinion. If at all. They were better fighters, too, not like the Orcs who delighted in and knew little more than killing. Suddenly the significance of this hit him. They must have some kind of great cause to be gathered together in such a way, and he wondered at that. They obviously had no intention of failing in what ever it was.

He supposed then that their first goal would be figuring out what the army was going to attempt. Were they going to attack his home in Northern Mirkwood? Or would they go after nearby Lorien? Either way, he was determined to fight them to the death.

It wasn’t long before Thorvel perceived his Captain moving in the stillness of the forest. He looked back around to Calenvása on his left and saw the other scouts doing the same. Calenvása lifted his hand and motioned for the scouts to retreat deeper into the forest to their meeting place. He saw some of the other scouts moving slowly away into the forest, disappearing even from his keen Elvish sight. He turned and followed them stealthily away, curving out to his left in order to maintain his distance from the others.

Thorvel came upon the other Elves and stood against a tree. His muscles were tense and he was at attention, aware of everything that was going on. His face was hard and his chin was set firmly, and his eyes, though flecked with uneasiness, held a smoldering fire. He took note of the other Elves waiting around. All of them were on edge, ready for anything. The final stragglers wandered in, and last of all came Calenvása. Thorvel considered him a bit queer, but he trusted that Calenvása could come up with a solid plan against the Orcs. The silence was complete but for the sounds of the forest around them. He almost spoke, but thought better of it. He could express his opinions later, after the Captain had said his piece.