Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Firefoot]

The special force of triumphant Orcs and Men had left, prisoners in tow. Thorvel went to join the other Elves. Targil and Calenvása seemed to have finished some kind of conversation, and there was an air of determination about the Captain. Lómarandil surveyed the other Elves coldly, for once saying nothing.

“We will rescue the captives,” said Calenvása. Thorvel was relieved that he would not have to argue this point, for he was like-minded. The Captain went on, “They will not likely keep the prisoners with them during the attack; rather they will send them back to Dol Guldur with a small guard. It is then that we will save the captives.” It seemed to Thorvel that Targil disagreed with this action, and yet he said nothing. That was strange to Thorvel, for Targil had never been one to keep his arguments himself. Lómarandil did speak up, however.

“So we will save three Elves, and leave the rest of Lorien to the army?” Thorvel had to give him some credit - it was a valid question, but one that he was pretty sure he knew the answer to.

“Seven Elves will move faster than an army of Orcs,” said Thorvel, not unkindly. “My guess is that we should still be able to reach Lorien before the Orcs, if the rescue goes quickly. And these Lorien elves will have been in close proximity of the Orcs: perhaps they have heard some things of the army’s plan that we have not.” Thorvel couldn’t tell if Lómarandil was satisfied or not with this answer. Thorvel looked to the Captain to make sure that he had not spoken wrongly of their plans. Calenvása was nodding. He said, “Yes, that is what we will do. For now, we will head back to the Orc camp and try to get some idea of their lay out and plans. When they begin to move the Elves, we will meet again to follow them.” The Elves got up and made their way back to the army, moving quickly and lightly. They spread out a bit to see what the Orcs were doing.

It did not take Thorvel long to spot the Lorien Elves, tied up as they were outside of a tent. They did not appear to be seriously injured, though one appeared to have passed out. Any Orc that happened to pass them sneered or glared, yet the two that were awake held their heads high, outwardly refusing to acknowledge their captors. Thorvel hoped they were listening closely, whatever their appearance; any information they could pick up would be helpful. Some of the Orcs and Men moved about the army with purpose. Those would be the Captains, undoubtedly making plans for their prisoners. Some of them moved in and out of the tent near which the Elves were stationed.

Thorvel waited for the Orcs to show signs of moving the Elves, expressionless and still as a stone. His gray eyes had not lost their inner fire. The arrows in his quiver were waiting to be used. It would not be long now. And so he waited.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

In the first Years of the Sun, when Ambarturion was but a youth and the world was green and vital in the first strength of its awakening, the Elf had delighted to walk in the woods of Doriath in the spring and hear about him the calls of birds, and to feel upon his cheeks the gentle caress of last autumn’s leaves. In those days it had seemed that such days would last forever, and no darkness would sully the memories of the songs and deeds of that age. But then the Noldor had returned from the West, bringing with them their War of Pride, and the land had been laid to waste with their endless conflict with the powers of darkness. Their war had become Ambarturion’s, and he had learned through bitter experience that there was to be no victory, only a drawn out defeat. He had known this hard truth for millennia, but now that the time had come for him to taste of that defeat himself, the flavour was more ashen and cursed than he had imagined.

He lay upon the ground in the midst of the orc camp and sought to follow Megilaes into unconsciousness, but was unable to find that relief. The hatred of the orcs burned upon his mind like hot irons, and the sound of their gibbering was as the raucous cry of the carrion birds that were no doubt devouring Caranbaith at this very moment. His hatred for the monsters was boundless, and for a long time all he could see or think of was the delight that he would take in crushing the life from them all. He had expected that this hatred would sustain him through the torture, but the orcs had been prevented from their wicked pleasures by the Men. Ambarturion had not been afraid of the vulgar methods of sport employed by the orcs, for they could never touch or break his will. But he knew that eventually he would be taken before the seat of Sauron, and there no amount of rage could sustain him from the Eye. In mere moments he would be stripped of flesh and bone and become as a naked mind, withering in the blast of the Enemy’s malice – and in that gaze he would speak of the unspeakable; he would reveal the secret that his Lord and Lady had revealed only to their most intimate counsellors: that the One Ring had been found, and that it was being taken by halflings into the very heart of Mordor in a fruitless quest. Sauron would have this of him, and Middle-Earth would finally fall into the slavery and corruption that was its destiny. He felt neither sadness nor regret at this, for he had known that such a day would come, but he could not bear the shame that he would be the instrument of the Enemy’s final victory.

It was Coromswyth who brought him from the dark terrors of his mind, calling him back to a no less pleasant reality. He opened his eyes and looked at the orcs and Men who stood about them, still keeping at a respectable distance. The Sun was beginning to set and the army had set its watch fires about the perimeter. It was impossible to know their numbers from where they lay, but it was undoubtedly a great host – certainly the equal, at least, of the two armies that had already been thrown against the borders of Lorien. He took some comfort in the knowledge of their imminent defeat. Caranbaith’s murder would be avenged, even if not by him.

“Ambarturion,” Coromswyth said again, more urgently. “Do you hear me? Come back to the world Ambarturion, do not live amongst the shadows.”

“I am here,” he replied softly, “but not for long. Soon, I fear, we will both be in the shadows and there will be nothing there for us but cold and terror.”

“Do not speak of such things,” she replied soothingly. “Where there is life, there is hope.” Her words brought him no comfort. Seeing this, Coromswyth sought to distract his attention from his despair. “There is something strange about this army,” she said. “It is made up of more than orcs from Dol Guldur and their allies the wicked Men. There are captains here of both races who are doughty and resourceful. It was they who captured us…” She trailed off and Ambarturion knew that she was remembering her own capture. He did not offer her any comfort, for what could he say, who had no comfort to give himself? “I have been watching them,” she said. “There appears to be two armies. Or, rather, there is one army and a smaller band of much mightier troops. They keep together more or less, out just beyond the main force. It would seem that most of those who attacked us came from that group.”

Ambarturion nearly groaned. What use of talking of this? he thought. Lorien is protected by the power of the Lady; the Enemy cannot prevail for as long as Nenya remains in her possession. But even as he thought this there came to his mind, as clearly as though it were taking place before his waking eyes once more, the tactic that the orcs had used in capturing them: the main force had attacked in a frontal assault, while the more crafty and able fighters had come upon their flank and taken Coromswyth unawares…

His heart froze as his eyes met Coromswyth’s, and so great was the terror of his soul that even though they had known one another but a short time, he was able to speak with her mind. They plan to attack Lorien on two fronts! The army will be destroyed, but it will keep the attention of the Wood’s defenders while this other, smaller group will attack a different target. But what will that target be?

They remained like that, locked in one another’s gaze for what seemed like hours, but in truth it was but a moment. When Coromswyth replied, it was with such violent horror, that Ambarturion gasped aloud. Caras Galadhon! she wailed, The Lady Galadriel! They mean to attack the Lady directly, and to deprive the Woods of her protection!

[Arry]

It was several hours later when the Orc reported back to Gromwakh. Their new Uruk commander, it seemed, had very little they could use to get round him. ‘Keeps a tight rein on, that one does. Wants to impress the higher ups with his single-minded loyalty.’ Gromwakh’s brows rose in question as the messenger chuckled. ‘Kreblug says Gâshronk’s got his nose so far up old One-eye’s . . .’

The slap-slap of the Uruk’s calloused feet coming near brought silence to the small band of Orcs. Gâshronk, taking his new promotion quite seriously, had come to inspect whether all needed supplies had been gathered and his troops suitably geared up for their mission. ‘We’re leaving soon. Have you slugs got it all together?’ Muffled murmurs of affirmation eddied half-heartedly around the little group.

Gromwakh stepped forward, his companions’ eyes fixed on him wondering what he was up to. ‘Begging your pardon, Cap’n,’ he began. Gâshronk stopped before the groveling Orc and poked him with the braided leather stock of his whip. ‘Speak up, cave rat!’

‘Well, I was thinking we should get one of the supply wagons and keep the prisoners in it, bound hand and foot. Be faster, I think, than trying to drag them along.’ And safer, too . . ., Grom added silently to himself. ‘We can easily move it at a good speed, the lot of us taking turns, I think.’

Gâshronk shoved him hard in the shoulder, causing the Orc to stumble back. ‘I’ll do what thinking there needs to be done around here, you carrion!’ Letting his gaze flow over the assembled Orcs he barked out his orders.

‘Get the wagon from the Supply Master. Tell him it’s needed for a special mission. Load the supplies we’ll need at one end and leave room to throw the Elves in. What won’t fit can go in the long-box underneath.’ The Orcs stood dumbly looking from one to another. ‘Well! Get your worthless hairy backsides in gear and get going!’

Gromwakh and his twelve companions took off at a run to comply. ‘There must be something old Kreblug told you,’ he panted, running beside his information gatherer. ‘Only that he’s overly fond of stewed squirrel with bitterroot . . . can eat a whole potful if he sets his mind to it,’ wheezed the Orc as they neared where the supply wagons were kept. Grom nodded his head thoughtfully as they came to a chuffing halt.

The wagon was commandeered, not without much argument by those in charge of them. A supply of provisions was laid in, including a small barrel of dried squirrel meat and a packet of bitterroot. Grom borrowed one of the medicinal kits from the rear of one of the other wagons and stored it along with some leathery dried ground tubers beneath the wagon, and two large bladders of fresh water.

And hour later, and they were back where Gâshronk had assembled his group. ‘All ready, Cap’n,’ mumbled Gromwakh in a well practiced tone of servility. ‘Shall we load on the Elves and their effects now?’

He ducked back, out of reach of the Uruk’s whip handle, hoping his suggestion had not sounded too forward.

[Durelin]

It was always an adventure attempting to bring his scout troop together. Calenvása thought of all the different twists and turns in the relations of these four elves. They were brothers, of the same race, fighting for the same home, the same cause, and against the same Evil. But it was impossible for them to find peace among themselves. And they sought to find peace for this world…for that was the bigger picture, or at least to the Captain, it was.

These moments of separation and silence were needed for the elves to find serenity, and hopefully cool off from any confrontations. Calenvása also hoped that it gave them time to contemplate things said and unsaid. He had felt strangely restless for days now, but the feeling was strongest as he watched the prisoners be loaded like things rather than beings. Restlessness, and a hatred that he had long kept under control, and out of his life, were not a part of the air he breathed. And though he knew that both these feelings were useless, even dangerous to harbor, they escaped from any tightly locked cages he tried to force them into.

The waiting that he had been forced to do had made his restlessness worse. He had been spending a lot of time waiting in these past days, waiting, in silence, with time to think. The Captain did not like letting his mind have too much time to think. It would inevitably take his heart’s worries and amplify them. Stopping his mind from doing so was hard to do, as the time passed, but now he focused on what his eyes saw, as was necessary, and his mind was soon under his control.

For the love of Eru, we must move!

It was an urgent cry from the mind of Targil, passed to his Captain’s mind. It shocked Calenvása, to know that Targil had spoken to him in such a way. First the elf had called him by name, and now he had been able to connect to the mind of his Captain. The urgency filled Calenvása’s mind more than the words, and he immediately drew himself away from his precarious hiding place. He stirred the leaves of the large bush he had found haven in as he practically sprang out of it.

Cursing himself mentally, he took a quick look at the camp from around the bush, and almost gasped aloud. He was close enough that his eyes could see another set staring near him, and a feeling ran down his spine as they moved to stare back at his. But these eyes were not yellow, nor were they filled with hatred, and no yells rang across the camp, spreading an alert. Feeling that this was a blessing, he sighed, relieved, and crept speedily to where Targil was hidden, taking a long loop so as not to be near the camp while on open ground. It took him longer than he would have wished, because of his caution, but he knew it was necessary.

As he approached, the elf turned his head, obviously hearing the quiet footsteps of his Captain on the soft earth. “We must gather the others, quickly. The wagon, it will slow them. We can move faster.”

Calenvása nodded, knowing that there were obvious strategic advantages to being ahead of their enemy. Now was not the time to discuss or argue, clarify or consider, but the time to move, once more. Targil and his Captain carefully gathered Lómarandil and Thorvel to them. On the move, the scout troop now making their way back to Dol Guldur, Calenvása found himself laughing quietly. “What amuses you?”

The Captain had forgotten Targil was strangely at his side. He simply shook his head in answer to the elf’s question. “Why did you wait for so long a time?” Targil asked, quickly dropping any concern for what Calenvása found amusing.

He was not prepared to answer a question such as that, and so his silence reigned over the conversation for a few moments. Then Thorvel came from behind them. Lómarandil was farther behind. “Why did we wait for so long?” Thorvel asked, as well. After speaking, he grew very grim. Calenvása knew it was from agreeing with Targil, and from sounding so cold when he spoke to his Captain.

Knowing that he could not answer with any words that might defend himself, he answered with the truth. “I do not know.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Dragged upright by an orc, Coromswyth felt her arms wrenched painfully back behind her, but barely responded, remaining stiff and difficult to move. The orc behind her cursed and shook her like a rag doll, but Coromswyth refused to make it any easier. The creature cursed again then pressed his mouth close to her ear, his filthy, leathery skin rubbing against her smooth cheek, but her eyes remained facing forwards, impassive and unresponsive.

"I heard once that orcs and elves were similar in some ways, elf," the orc's voice was a harsh, salacious whisper. "Maybe...whatsay we try some out, hmm?"

Coromswyth closed her eyes and swallowed down the sickness that was welling inside her stomach, quelling the fear inside her though she refused to reply or respond in any way. As she had been taught, she would say nothing. Nothing.

Behind her, she felt the orc move, holding both her hands in one huge paw now, but effortlessly, his one hand completely engulfing her wrists, as he shifted enigmatically behind her. Her eyes flicked up and around the tent, searching for some way out - but Ambarturion and Megilaes had already been taken away, and the tent flap was closed, crates lying in front of it. She would never make it in time. Maybe if she managed to get to the crates, she would be able to take cover behind one...still the daggers felt cool against her wrists. The young Southron had not found them - or at least, he had not removed them. Maybe if...

Spangling shivers shot suddenly through her nerves as she felt her stomach pull slightly tighter from behind, and realised with a sickened jerk that the orc had begun to pull her dress free, unlacing the ties up the back with great, rough drags as he began to laugh, a harsh, grunting, animal sound, still holding her effortlessly. Suddenly, more than any time before, Coromswyth felt afraid.

She began to struggle now, attempting to jerk away from the orc, to throw her whole self away from his grasp, to...she barely knew what she was trying to do, simply that she had to get away, had to get out of his grasp, away from those pawing, leathery hands. The orc laughed more loudly this time, and Coromswyth cried out aloud, in some desperate attempt to alert someone. But no one would come. Not now.

The orc pulled off her cloak and began, with a sort of relishing ritardando, to fiddle with the complex clasps on the back of her underdress. Coromswyth cried out again, loudly, trying now concentratedly to move one of her dagger pommels into her hand. If only she had put them in with the blades pointing towards her palms...in her desperation, she felt the blade snick her arm, the blood slickening her forearm and dress, but she didn't pay it any heed - behind her, the orc had given up with the delicate, minute clasps and had produced a knife. Coromswyth yelled more loudly this time, screaming wordlessly for some help before it was too late, eyes closed tightly as she struggled viciously, opening her eyes briefly...

...and behind her flashed another blade, different from the orc's, a swift, darting movement that soared so close beside her face that she felt it cut a long, deep gash along her cheekbone. She gasped and fell to the floor as she felt the orc behind her slump with a strange, indescribable, gurgling sound. Writhing away on the floor, Coromswyth pulled out one of her daggers with her newly freed hands and launched herself towards the prone orc, who now sported a dagger in his arm. With a fierce cry, she stabbed downwards at the creature's throat, once, twice, three times, until he lay still, and other hands caught her.

For a moment, Coromswyth thought she was in the hands of another elf, so gently firm was the grasp, but it was not for that reason that she stopped struggling - a sense of sort of hopelessness settled over her, an exhausted relief but knowledge that it couldn't get better. Behind her, fingers deftly and quickly tied her hands again and this time she was as unresisting as a rag doll, tears in her eyes which she barely fought to stop. There was a pause, then she felt something take hold of her dress once more, and she stiffened - but only for a second, freezing up with her eyes closed. A moment later, the being wordlessly stepped away, and she realised he had simply retied her dress.

"Come, Ehan - we need to get back to Herding, I said I would report to him before they were taken away."

Coromswyth felt a shock of recognition at the young, quietly confident voice, a voice wise beyond it's years. Looking up and around, she saw that it was indeed a man - and not just any man, but the young Southron who had captured her. She met his eyes and they stayed locked for a moment or two, and fleetingly Coromswyth felt herself wish that the mind of a man and an elf could merge as the minds of two elves could - for what would she find in this man's mind, what could he find in hers? His wisdom was that of the ageless elves, young of face but behind the veil of skin he could be an ancient, with as much knowledge of the world as any one of the Silvan...

"What about he- I mean, what about it?" It was the young man who spoke now. Coromswyth heard the hesitation and the shade of awe in his voice, and the macho veil he threw over it, and turned her grey gaze to him. Unlike his captain, the younger man, Ehan, avoided her gaze, looking away fixedly at his captain. The older man glanced back at the elf and sighed, looking away out of the tent, presumably across the camp. "You're right, we..." he paused and sighed, then turned back to Ehan again. "You're right. Look...go to Herding. I shall take the elf - seems the rest cannot be trusted simply to follow orders." He cast a cursory look at the dead orc on the floor here.

Ehan paused, evidently wishing to speak, then nodded. "Right. I...right. Of course, Captain Koran."

Koran? A first or second name? Coromswyth's mind seemed detached now, and found a resting place in her omnipresent curiosity. She had started out with an interest in the easterlings and southrons, the Haradrim - after all, it was they who had been the very cause of the grief that had started her studies...

As the younger man - a fellow soldier? Undersoldier? Servant? Squire? - left the tent, Koran strode over to Coromswyth and lifted her, once more with that almost effortless movement by her elbows. He tightened the rope around her hands and as he did so, Coromswyth felt compelled to speak, despite all that she had been taught.

"Why did you not stop me, Southron?" she murmured softly, so that none would hear beyond the tent, her words enclosed to a few feet of air around her and Koran. "Why, Koran, did you let me kill the orc?"

He paused, and she could see the edge of his face behind her, infuriatingly just beyond her sightline. He didn't answer for a long moment, then reached forward slowly and drew back the hair from out of her eyes where it stuck to the tear stains that ran down her cheeks, his skin dark, a dusky, tanned caramel against hers, a fine shade of alabastor. It was an action that reminded her - maybe reminded them both - that he was a Man - not as fair as the elves, but not an orc.

He leaned forward and she felt his hair brush her cheek as he whispered in reply, "Because it is possible that I hate the orcs quite as much as you do, elf."

"That is not my name."

"I know not your name, elf, and know you will not tell it to me." Koran pushed her slightly from behind and Coromswyth began to move. "I cannot expect you to - after all, what do the mighty elves, fairest of all, owe to a mere Man?"

The bitterness in his voice stung and Coromswyth's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "What? You have stolen my life, man."

"You steal ours to keep yourselves alive for eternity," he countered sharply.

"Then neither is in eithers debt." She hesitated, then said the single word that went against everything she had ever been taught. "Coromswyth."

A yelled outburst of the black speech stopped Koran from replying - if he had been meaning to. Orc hands grabbed the elf and she was handed through what seemed like a chain of grasps until she was finally thrown onto a hard wagon floor. Twisting as far as she could to look around as the wagon began to move, she looked around for the Southron captain's for no real reason - but instead met a different pair.

Startled grey eyes stared back at her, like those of a deer about to run, before they steadied themselves. A sort of resolution came about in them, and a head of ash blonde nodded briefly, and an unspoken understanding passed between Coromswyth and her anonymous watcher before he was gone, as quickly as he had come. The female elf lay back once more, absorbing what she had seen, and after a few minutes, she sent out her voice to Ambarturion.

"Ambarturion? Ambarturion, we have hope yet. The elves of the forest watch us..."

[piosenniel]

Kransha's post

It was a more complicated task then Thrákmazh had thought it would be to locate the elves. Before he’d given the order, they’d already been loaded, bound and hapless, onto a vehicle meant to bear them to the hill on which sat Dol Guldur. Thrákmazh, though, was not done with them. In truth, he had hoped for another night to ‘spend’ with them, but that was surely not to be. He had hoped too that Herding, the foolish Southron, would side with him and let him keep the elf a prisoner for the sake of troop morale, but that was not to be either. He could only hope that old Herding would consider his other offer with more thought-out care over the course of the day. Now, he dashed headlong through the winding paths created in the camp, trying to locate the road that the wagon and prisoner escort had departed on. At last he found it, seeing the wagon bumping along, jostled by the rough, unruly terrain, down towards the deeper forest, past grove and plain, headed for Dol Guldur. Mindlessly, not thinking or knowing why, he barreled after it swiftly, raising his voice to catch them as they continued on.

“Wait! Hold!” He roared, flagging down the vehicle, those who dragged it through deep dirt, and those surrounding it, who looked glumly back at their commander but managed to feebly snap to attention…or most of them, at least. The wagon swiveled and lolled from side to side as if its wheels could barely hold it. The harnessed orcs who bore it turned, dragging the wagon to one side as Gâshronk, the lead orc, bounded to the back of the escort, with a miniature escort of his own, and gave a mixture of a bow and a salute to his captain, Thrákmazh, who waved him off dutifully and turned, catching his breath as it was removed from him, and strode toward the wagon back, where the elf-containing cages sat. He easily singled out the one who’d threatened him who was conveniently awakened now, as the others were not. He had not, before, had great opportunity to overview the captive elf and now, as he and his kindred were taken from the army’s camp, he saw the elf truly for the first time. As he headed around to the cages, the elf took notice of his presence, but barely so. His face was that of rock and stone, immobile, it did not shift in fear, surprise, or rage. Thrakmazh, though, ignored this.

“I wished to thank you, elf,” he said, a grim smile of evil satisfaction on his twisted, one-eyed face, “for your sword.” As if to illustrate some unsaid fact, he swung the blade rather majestically through the air, ignoring the ironic beam of light the reflected off it from the hanging sun above and found its way to his squinting eye. He looked back, twirling the weapon in a mocking fashion, and feigned a look of philosophical thought. “I wonder now, how many orcs have been slain by it?” The elf did not fully return his grinning gaze, but replied calmly all the same. “More than you could count, orc, and it shall yet slay one more.”

Again, an unheard of anger arose in Thrákmazh, a madness he did not understand. How was it that the threats, useless and worthless, of this one elf, had so incensed him, angered him so. Roaring furiously, he smashed the hilt and blade of the tapered, gleaming weapon of ivory white against the cold gray bars of the elf’s cage, rattling it, but, too much like the other elf slain recently, he did not flinch. Thrákmazh, passionate and enraged in his cause, continued. “Many threats have been made to me by your kind, but all cut down before they are fulfilled. You may be the only wretched elf ever to make such a promise and escape my blade. Yes, you will die in more horrible a way than ever I could conceive, but I still would rather see you slain now. Thank whatever you hold dear that it was not I who was given the task of ending your too-long life.”

As before, the elf said nothing, but remained, courting death, unable to defend himself in any way. Thrákmazh was beyond outrage, but calmed himself as best he could and, taking a deep, exaggerated breath, took a step back from the wagon. He looked back, his one eye hidden by a dense shadow permeating the air above his head like a following cloud, crouched at his heels and waiting for summons. He glared, but soon relaxed his gaze and gait, beginning to pace before the elf’s prison. “Who was the lad,” he said after a great pause, “the one I killed; your son, brother, student, cousin? I would not have expected such oaths from an elf who had no good reason for wanting my death. Many things, elf and man and orc, want my death. But Thrákmazh the Mighty still lives, and stands before you.” He turned now, stopping his movement, looking to the silent, emotionless being, swinging the elf’s blade again with an overly elegant flourish. “No creature who wished for life has ever sworn to slay me, for it is only a wish for death, foolishness and idiocy. I have killed more living things that any man would bother to count, but I remember every face, so nothing has ever eluded the arc of my sword. Every single face still lies in me, retained by the duties of memory, and now the face of that young elf dwells there too. Think of it, elf; whether or not you are dead before the night is out, you will still have escaped me, and that is a great task.”

The elf gave no visible reaction, but spoke quietly. “You have not yet escaped me, spawn of darkness.”

“What, no gratitude?” Thrákmazh’s voice was that of anger, but he gracelessly mixed that with cruel sarcasm, “No grace and polite conversation? I suppose that what I’ve heard of elves is all a lie. You just seem more civil, more advanced in the ways of war and life, but you are not if you could not save yourselves or do better than petty oaths and insults.” No movement, no sound from the elf, none at all, to Thrákmazh’s further displeasure. How he wished to ram his own sword through those obstructing bars and skewer the fool where he lay, but duty would not let him. Grumbling, he turned away. “But, alas, I cannot continue this conversation. I have many things to do here, many things, and none, thankfully, involve you. So, go your merry way, or not-so-merry, as it is, and enjoy the hospitality of Dol Guldur. Again, I thank you for your sword. Surely many have fallen beneath it, but it will serve me just as aptly as it has served you.” He waved off Gâshronk, signaling that he should continue. Painfully slowly, the wagon began to bounce along the stony earth as Thrákmazh stood, brooding quietly, upon the road.

Soon enough, the wagon had been ferried almost out of sight, about to disappear into the distance. His back turned to it, Thrákmazh’s one eye sought solace in the pure white of the Elvish blade, but it stung him, and his hand burnt as he held it, but he could not let it go. Some lurking feeling, latched onto him, clung to the majestic blade, but in the niches of his small brain, a voice screamed at him to release it, plunge it into the earth and leave it, but he could not. He breathed harder, looking down on it and tracing its subtle edge. The elf who’d lived to swear revenge was somewhere in the blade he held…Thrákmazh was, as never he had been before, unsettled. This elf would not die at Dol Guldur, no indeed. It didn’t make sense to the orc, but, as the symbols blazoned into his rusty blade, the knowledge was imprinted upon his mind. Trying to salvage his own bewilderment, he spun, looking after the wagon, and held up the blade, yelling towards it gruffly.

“Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.”

This brought him no satisfaction as the wagon disappeared from view. Disturbed deeply, pained, and with a palm burning with searing pain, Thrakmazh turned and hurried back towards the camp, trying to leave the prisoners, the elves, and his nameless foe behind, praying never to see any of them as long as he lived…which was something that the uruk captain, Thrákmazh the Mighty, One-Eye, Captain of Dol Guldur and the orcs of Mirkwood, had never even considered thinking.

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Firefoot's post

Thorvel blinked in surprise at Calenvása’s answer. He didn’t know? Thorvel tried to puzzle that out. Surely there had to have been some reason, though the words sounded honest enough. The Elves had been cruelly thrown into the wagon. The Orcs had been preparing to move. And yet they had still waited for the Captain to give the command, but he hadn’t. The question was why. Targil looked equally confused. Thorvel didn’t say anything; the important thing was that they were moving now, and further argument was one thing they did not need. Unfortunately, they had been unable to get a head start on the Orcs, which meant that they would have to move through the forest for a longer time, impeding on their swiftness and silence.

Thorvel paid careful attention to the ground beneath his feet, in order not to snap a twig or crackle a leaf. Either mistake could be fatal so close to the small band of Orcs, even though he doubted they would hear such a small sound. They had not gone far when a shout from a harsh Orkish voice was clearly heard over all the other sounds: “Farewell, O elf without a name, and may your death be slow and painful.” Thorvel smiled grimly. It seemed that one of the Elves at least had put up some kind of fight to elicit such a comment.

Slowly the Elves gained ground, until they had moved almost beyond sight of the Orcs. Thorvel walked moved more freely then, and ventured to speak, though softly. For once, they were all close enough for each of the Elves to hear him.

“How far do we go then, before we stop to lay plans and prepare to attack the Orcs? I daresay they shan’t get very much farther before they must stop for the night.”

Calenvása matched his quiet tone, glancing back at the Orcs to judge their speed and location. “They aren’t moving very quickly. I suppose we will need to start looking for likely locations when we get to that point, based on how far the Orcs have moved by sunset.”

Thorvel pressed further, not satisfied with the vague answer. “Then do you have any plans for an ambush? Or do we have yet to work those out?” The Captain looked over at him. “We will have to see how the Orc camp is laid out first, and decide exactly what to do then.” Thorvel grunted. It seemed he wasn’t going to get much information out of Calenvása right now. The Captain seemed to be thinking, and Thorvel figured that Calenvása would talk when he was ready, and not before. Remembering the Captain’s early admittance that he hadn’t known why they didn’t move, Thorvel supposed that it was possible that Calenvása didn’t have any clear plans yet. As long as you come up with something before tonight...

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

By order of Captain Gâshronk, the Elves had been kept bound hand and foot and thrown into the wagon like so much cordwood. Rough hands hauled the prostrate Elves up to the level of the wagon bed and rough hands pulled them feet first onto it. They were left face up, the two males on either side of the female, their feet firmly against the board that cordoned off the small area for food supplies.

Gâshronk took the lead, avoiding the dust stirred up as the wheels of the wagon rolled along at a steady pace. He had ten Orcs marching in a semi-precision square behind him, and he turned often to keep his one eye on them. Further behind, came the slower moving wagon pulled by six Orcs, their chests banded with makeshift harnesses, as four others pushed at the back, their leg muscles working hard to keep the momentum going.

‘I suppose he hasn’t considered the possibility that there is no one guarding our rear, here,’ sneered Snikdul as he gripped the back of the wagon bed in his large hairy hands and heaved it forward with each step. The Orc to his left snickered. ‘He only cares if his rear is guarded from what I can see.’

Gromwakh said nothing as the others grumbled along. He had already considered the fact that those Elves that had been lurking about the camp earlier might well have noticed that some of their own had been captured. And may even now be planning some sort of rescue. He twitched the skin between his shoulder blades, already imagining the searing slice of one of their arrowheads as it penetrated his hide and sought to cleave through muscle and bone. This little scene that played out in his thoughts, though, might not be one to happen, he realized; it might only be the product of a frightened mind run amok.

The very bad thing that was going to happen, he had reasoned out, was that should they survive this little mission - drop the prisoners at Dol Guldur, they then would be sent straight back to the coming battle, and be in the front ranks of those destined to make the first assault on the Elves of the Golden Wood. And against their Lady. A witch, she was, or so he’d heard. With a power to match what had been thrown against her up to now. Gromwakh felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he thought about her. A spell-using witch as well as an Elf! The notion of facing her made him weak in the knees, and he stumbled. Snikdul reached out with one arm to steady his companion, a puzzled look on his face.

‘What’s wrong! You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Snikdul said, hauling Gromwakh back up to his place at the back of the wagon.

‘Ghosts it was,’ snorted Gromwakh grimly. ‘Ours!’ He shook his head at what seemed an impossible dilemma. ‘We’ve got to stack the odds in our favor a bit,’ he muttered, considering what few if any options were available to him and his little band.

One of the Elves stirred as the wagon hit a particularly stony patch and jostled them thoroughly. Unthinking, Snikdul shoved a wadded up piece of old blanket under the roused Elf’s head to cushion it. His action was met with a look of surprise from the prisoner, as the Elf turned his head to get a look at his unlikely benefactor. Snikdul looked over at Gromwakh and shrugged his shoulders.

With an eye to opportunity, Gromwakh tapped the dark-haired Elf on his shoulder. The grey-eyed gaze of the prisoner came slowly round to take him in. Grom looked about, then leaned forward and spoke in a voice unlikely to be heard above the creak of the wheels on the stony road.

‘You help us?’ he asked with his limited command of common speech, one finger tapping on his chest. ‘We help you,’ he went on, his finger now pointing at the Elf’s face . . .

Gromwakh’s face lit up in an Orcish smile as he remembered one of the recent finds from the Elves’ capture. He pulled the silvered Elf draught flask from the deep pocket in his breeches, holding it up where the Elf could just see it.

‘Dusty, dusty . . . yes? Want drink?’

[Firefoot]

Thorvel crept silently towards the Orc camp. He had been waiting since dawn to move, and he felt that the time was right. During that time he had had plenty of time to think, and much of it had been about Lómarandil. At seeing the young wounded Elf be dragged away, he had felt worried, but now much of that worry had been replaced by exasperation and annoyance. What had driven him to go after the Orcs? Foolish, foolish, foolish young Elf, to go chasing after the Orcs alone like that. And arrogant too. What had he been trying to do? There would have been plenty of time for killing Orcs today, but now he was captured and there was yet one more Elf to rescue. He sighed softly. He still had no idea how he was going to greet the young Elf, but he determined that he would not yell. He would let Calenvása take care of that, or Targil, or whoever was in charge now.

When Thorvel reached the fringe of the Orcs’ camp, he realized that they were already starting to fan out into the forest, leaving a single Orc behind, who he recognized as the leader of the small party by his single eye. He let out a long, low whistle, made in imitation of a bird, to let the other two Elves still in the forest know the Orcs were coming. The single remaining Orc went to check on the captives, and then sat himself down on a rock in the sun. He shook his head at the Orcs’ arrogance and stupidity. This rescue was going to go even easier than planned! Unless there were other Orcs hidden nearby... Thorvel scanned the campsite and strained his Elvish ears for any sign of other Orcs. He thought he heard a few that were very close. That could be trouble, but it also might not mean anything at all. It was a risk he had to take. He loosened his knife in its sheath and pulled out his bow. He notched an arrow to the string and took cold, careful aim, smiling grimly. He loosed the arrow, but the Orc took that moment to shift positions, and instead of going straight through the heart it only lodged in his shoulder. Thorvel could not tell whether the Orc was dead or only unconscious. He waited a few moments for any sign of more Orcs before stepping out into the clearing, still on guard, and only then did he turn his attentions to the wagon.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

From where he lay in the cart, Ambarturion watched as the orc fell with an arrow jutting from his shoulder. The Elf scowled darkly to himself: whatever plans his distant kinsman had hoped to lay, they had been badly disturbed by the sudden capture of one of their number. Ambarturion strained to see if any were coming to his and his companions’ succour, but he had only a limited view of the lands about and could not tell fully what was happening. There was no more time for debate and doubt, he had to act. With one last mighty shrug he broke the bonds that held his hands and reached for those binding his ankles. Coromswyth whispered to him urgently, “My knives, quickly!” She rolled onto her stomach and held out her arms, and Ambarturion knew instantly what she was suggesting. Reaching into her long sleeves he withdrew the hidden weapons and slashed at the cords at his ankles.

He turned then to Megilaes, but a sudden cry of warning from Coromswyth drew his attention. Ambarturion barely had time to parry the orc’s blow. Three of the creatures had come scampering back to the cart at the sight of their captain’s fall and were now clearly intent on slaying the prisoners. They were enraged and in full furor, while Ambarturion was flat on his back, armed only with short knives and stiff from having been bound for nearly a full day. But he was in his wrath and as he rose up, his eyes blazed with the light of his age and those who looked upon him quailed.

Leaping upon the orcs, the Elf slashed the throat out of the first. The other two came at him, but he swirled below their attacks and spinning about on the ground like a striking adder he sliced through the leg of one, before coming up and burying a knife in the gorge of the third. He then coolly stooped and dispatched with his bare hands the orc he had hamstrung. He looked about for more enemies, but for the moment at least the only living orc was the wounded captain. In mere moments, Ambarturion had freed the other Elves. As he cut the bonds of the wounded stranger, there appeared at the side of the wagon an Elf dressed in the garb of a Mirkwood scout. “Come,” he was saying hurriedly, “come with me! We must be away before they discover your escape.”

Ambarturion drew himself up to his full height and looked upon the Elf with thinly veiled contempt. Ambarturion was unused to taking orders, and did not like the peremptory tone of this person. “Your companion cannot flee in his condition, nor will I run away from orcs. Coromswyth, you remain here with the wounded and see what you can do for him. If it is safe to move him, find shelter in the trees. Megilaes and you…”

“Thorvel,” the newcomer replied, stunned by the manner of this tall Elf with eyes like blazing stars.

“Thorvel, you will accompany my student and I in pursuit of the orcs.”

“Ambarturion!” Coromswyth’s tone spoke in equal measure of caution and resentment – resentment at being ordered once more to avoid battle, and caution for Ambarturion not to presume to lead where he was in debt to a rescuer. Ambarturion noted her meaning, but there was no time for such matters.

“No,” he said coolly. “You must stay here and see to his wounds. If the orcs return they will slay him.” Coromswyth merely nodded in mute acquiescence, but he could tell that she was unhappy with his manner.

Thorvel, having recovered from his initial shock, was the next to protest. “We should not pursue the orcs, they are too many. Let us seek shelter and come upon them in secrecy.”

Ambarturion paid little attention to the other Elf, not even deigning to look at him as he replied. “The orcs are many, your companions are but two. Would you allow them to be overcome by these monsters while we seek shelter for ourselves? Come, we are enough to lend your kin aid – if not, we are enough to die with them.” Not waiting for a reply he returned the knives to Coromswyth before stooping for an orc’s sword, and racing off in pursuit of the enemy.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

The jolt of the cart woke Lomarandil. Opening one eye slowly he saw Gashronk staggering, blood pouring from a wound in his chest. Reaching down slowly for his knife that lay on the cart bottom he muttered to himself, such careless fools orcs are...taking hold of the hilt he twirled it around in his bound hands and sliced upwards, cutting his bonds. Luckily for him the orcs had broken the arrow shaft...and by the looks of it had tried to stop him dying...ransomed, was the first thought that came into his mind. Smiling he stood up slowly. Gashronk was staggering to the cart with his sword, probably to try and kill him. With a huge cry Lomarandil threw the knife with his remaining strength, it embedded itself in Gashronk's neck, the orc gurgled for a second, then collapsed.

Lomarandil stepped onto the ground hesitantly, then walked up to Gashronk, turning the huge body over he saw the orc was still alive, but would die in seconds. "Elf!" the orc tried to say, but all that came out of his ruined windpipe was a gurgle. Lomarandil took hold of the knife's hilt, and wrenched the razor sharp balde right round Gashronk's neck, cutting through the spine. Lomarandil held the head up, before throwing it into the bushes near Snikdul...

Looking at the corpse, he saw a flash of gold and reached for it, the pendant of his dead wife came out in his hands and he put it back around his neck, giving the body a final kick, which jolted something out of a pocket. Looking closely Lomarandil saw that is was his cloak pin. Smiling he retrieved his cloak from the cart and repinned it. Walking over to Thorvel he whispered in his ear. "Thank you." before turning away.

[Durelin]

Targil stared with a look of disgust that bordered on hatred at the scene. He had moved slightly closer to the orc camp upon the disappearance of Lómarandil, and he now saw what his heart had been dreading since Thorvel had said the young elf was missing. Now that it had happened, it seemed that the capture of Lómarandil had been inevitable from the beginning of this mission. With the rest of the scouts having to look after the young elf, while still carrying on with their duty, the focus on this task was lessened, while its importance would never diminish. And its importance would never be forgotten. Not by Targil, at least. He glanced at Calenvása. Thorvel was still trying to believe make the elf his Captain, when he did not want to be. Targil supposed he was the only one who saw it, and this saddened him greatly. Calenvása would not lead, as he had lost all confidence in himself and his actions. Targil had watched for so long, disapproving of the leadership he followed, and now, when all leadership was gone, he smoothly took control.

Feeling a sudden dread come over him, he quickly rose from where he crouched and looked around him, ready to move, even though there was no reasoning behind this feeling. He had learned long ago not to ignore such signs. Today, it was of the utmost importance that he did not, for there was now no sign of Thorvel. Targil turned to look at Calenvása, who sat on the ground, staring at nothing. It was a rather pitiful sight, and so made the elf’s disgust grow. For a fleeting moment, he felt his eyes burn with anger and hatred, one that went beyond the surface, beyond simply annoyance. But this was a quickly passing moment, and one that left him feeling guilt. He did not look at the elf that he should be calling Captain as he spoke.

“Thorvel was with you a moment ago, Calenvása, was he not?” Targil no longer tried to remember to call him ‘Captain’. He now tried not to. The elf had lost the respect that went with such a title when he had gone beyond the greatest extent that Targil would put up with and given up. A Man given up with life and hope was a sad thing, barely worthy of being called living. But an Immortal who had given up was a disgrace to Elvenkind, and a disgrace beyond the reaches of human disgrace fell upon that elf. The fact that an immortal being without any hope or grace walked the earth marred the beauty of the Children of Illúvatar, who were one with Eä, their souls tied down by it and to it.

“He was…a moment ago.”

From several yards away, a small noise rang in his ears. Calenvása practically jumped at the sound, automatically brought out of his thoughts by a foreign sound, the habits gained as a scout not lost, even in his sad state of mind. He rose from where he sat to join Targil as the elf immediately made his way toward the sound. Perhaps it was not the wisest move, but they had few choices, and he knew how to silently come upon a single person or a group of people; enemies, he quickly assumed, in this case. Coming upon the sight he had expected, he did not waiting to see if Calenvasa had followed him before flying out upon several orcs snooping around in the trees, his two hunting knives drawn for the first time on this seemingly fated mission. Finally the elf had something to direct his anger towards, and he battled only to slaughter.

As his third orc went down missing an eye and with its throat cleanly slit, Targil frantically searched the area around him for another enemy, his heavy breathing caused by more than the simple exertion of the fighting. But he was surprised, and his breathing lost its furied heat, his heart slowed and his mind cleared, as he watched Calenvasa stab a quivering orc body on the ground through the middle. Head tilted slightly in a plainly curious look, Targil eyed his Captain. The elf's expression did not change as he pulled his knife out, took his eyes away from the dead orc, and looked his companion in the eye. Targil kept himself from shuddering, as a strange light that glowed behind the despair in the Captain's eyes sent a shiver up his spine and a warning to his heart.

Taking his eyes away from what should not frighten him, Targil scanned his surroundings, even though it was obvious that the rest of the orcs - he had briefly counted 6 - had fled. He knew the creatures, and after watching four of their comrades die, they would not stand to see any more. Another small sound among the trees and Targil tensed up, his eyes darting to where the sound had come from. Looking at Calenvasa out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the elf had not moved, had not tensed. The scout Captain looked disinterested. Luckily the face that emerged from the leaves was immortal.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel stared after Ambarturion and Megilaes as they disappeared into the trees. “The plan...” he started to say, but the words started soft and faded from his lips. The plan had gone to pieces starting with Lómarandil’s capture. Now it was time to improvise. He was too wrapped in his own thoughts to pay close attention as Lómarandil regained consciousness and made his way over to where the Orc lay. The young Elf clearly wasn’t fit yet to do any serious fighting, and the wound in his shoulder didn’t look pretty, to say the least. Somehow there had to be some way to get all the Elves back together. They were spread out now, as surely as birds were scattered when their perch was disturbed. They could do nothing effective as spaced out as they were Why did Ambarturion see that? Thorvel did not think that the other Elf was thinking very clearly at the moment. They needed to escape from the Orcs and regroup, not go plunging wildly in every which direction. Thorvel remembered a small stand of trees not too far from where they were right now; he thought he could see it. He noticed that Lómarandil had regained that which was his from the Orc camp, and turned to the female Elf who was now standing nearby. He thought he had heard her called Coromswyth. Despite her appearance, he suspected that she was very capable of defending herself if need be. Ambarturion had told her to stay there, but Thorvel saw no sense in that and said so.

“I think it would be better if we all gathered together away from here,” Thorvel said. “Do you see those trees over there?” She nodded. “Make your way to those, and take Lómarandil with you. He is in no condition to fight, so make sure he does not try to come after us. I think that he may be foolish enough to think he is a fair match for the Orcs that are around. I will try to find the others and meet you there. Does this sound all right to you?”

“I suppose so,” she replied, sounding resigned. Thorvel nodded, and started to walk towards Lómarandil when he noticed Lómarandil was already coming to him.

"Thank you," Lómarandil whispered. Thorvel was rather startled and somewhat confused; he had not expected it and was not sure what the thanks was for. He did not let it put him off for long though, and he knelt to retrieve his arrow from the dead Orc and replacing it to his quiver before speaking.

“You and Coromswyth,” - this was said with a movement of his head toward the female Elf - “are going to make your way to that stand of trees in the distance. Do not think you are fit to fight the Orcs; your shoulder needs tending to.” The last bit was added when he noted the younger Elf open his mouth as if to speak in argument. Now he scowled: it was a look Thorvel was becoming used to. He decided to take that as agreement. “Good.” With that, Thorvel turned and began running swiftly and softly towards the trees, and the sound of crashing metal.

Even as he went, he removed the knife from its sheath, wanting to be ready should he come on any Orcs. He found one, and slew it from behind before it was aware he was there. He wiped his knife on the fallen Orc, and continued where he found Ambarturion and his younger companion finishing off a pair of Orcs.

“Listen to me, Ambarturion,” said Thorvel, determined not to let the other Elf’s manner overcome him this time. “This is madness. Eventually we will come upon more Orcs than just a few stragglers, and it will be three against many, if we do not find the other two first. I do not care whether you do not want to run from the Orcs or not. If we are slain, it will do nobody any good at all, and Lothlórien will have little or no warning at all of the coming attack. We must regroup elsewhere! I have sent Coromswyth and Lómarandil on to a small stand of trees where the Orcs will not find them, and I said we would join them, and we will. It is in that direction,” he said with a gesture of his arm. “You say my companions need aid? What they need is to know that the rescue is complete so that they can escape!” His tone was soft so as not to alert the Orcs of their presence, but forceful. Ambarturion’s frown had grown deeper with each sentence. Thorvel could tell he did not like taking orders one bit, and suspected that an argument would come if he allowed it to. “Meet us there. I will get the others.” He turned to where he thought he heard sound of battle without waiting to hear the other Elf’s reply. He dearly hoped that Ambarturion would listen.

Sure enough, within a few minutes he found Calenvása and Targil hidden by the trees. There were some dead Orcs lying on the ground, and by the sound of it, more were coming.

“Hurry!” he said urgently. “The prisoners are free, and I have arranged for us all to meet in a group of trees not too far from here. Follow me!” Thorvel hoped they would all meet together. It all depended on whether the Lórien Elves and Lómarandil had decided to listen. He plunged into the trees, Calenvása and Targil close behind. Oh, I hope everything works out...