Wilderness, Weathertop, & Wild Things RPG

[rutslegolas]

Aidwain had released about a dozen arrows on the troll to no immediate effect ,but he could see that the arrows were infuriating the troll,at the same time Veryadan had cut him from several sides ,Osric was battling the four orcs alone .

But now he could see that one of the orcs had steadily made his way behind Veryadan,even before Aidwain could draw his bow to kill the creature it had slashed at Veryadan's arm,but the next instant it fell from Aidwain's arrow,but now one of the trolls gave a huge blow to Veryadan with his club who flew backwards uncounsicious.

The two trolls leaving their attempts to kill the ranger turned on Aidwain ,rushing towards him with Hammer and club,he released another arrow to the trolls neck but to no effect ,Aidwain thougth this was the last sight he would see the two trolls rushing towards him,but suddenly out of nowhere a whistling arrow hit the troll and the club fell from his hand , Aidwain sprang backwards dodging the falling hammer of the other troll and now he could see that at last his companions had come Lunien standing on the hill's edge was shooting arrow after arrow at the trolls and Thoromir and Menecar were rushing towards them with swords drawn ,in the meanwhile Osric too had come to his aid.

Without waiting another second he drew his arrow and aimed at one of the trolls eye,the arrow flew and hit it's mark,the troll howled in pain ,seeing that the troll's were injured he rushed to see whether Veryadan was alive ......

[Kransha]

“They’re all dead!” cried Búbkûr, “all of ‘em.”

His eyesight was not particularly good, but the blackened hue and shadowy, bulky appearance of the orcs on Weathertop was easily distinguishable, in contrast to the Elves, men, and monstrous trolls. Squinting and blinking, Búbkûr peered up at the ruins that marked the summit of the earthen lump of rock as it jutted from the plains below. He could see that the initial force of six uruks had been easily slain, though they had done some damage. Búbkûr, as usual, was suffering from a belligerent mood, and wished to be involved, personally in the battle. He was hungry for blood, an unsavory lust that came upon him often, and was practically salivating at the possibility of staining his jagged hook hand with Elvish blood. In Gundabad, it had become increasingly harder to find such an admirable living quarry as Elves, since those seldom ventured deep into the Misty Mountains. Of late, Búbkûr had only had access to wretched Bree men like the fool Fen Sheperdspurse, and roaming hobbits far from their accustomed element. Eager, with a thin line of saliva seeping from his crooked lips, Búbkûr glanced at his commander, who stood nearby, gazing at the battle.

“Doesn’t matter.” Said Bâzzog astutely, “We’ll send more.” He said this with a great deal of nonchalance, which was not particularly common for him. It surprised Búbkûr, and Gráthgrob as well, who sat not far off, contemplating battle stratagems with the assistance of a knobby stick and a patch of grassless dirt, that Bâzzog, the ruthless chieftain of uruks, had not already sent in his whole, massive force to overwhelm the few meager remnants of resistance against him. Instead, he was being incredibly coy and reserved with his tactics. But, he was not utterly altered. Slightly irate because of this conservatism, Búbkûr ventured a frustrated query to his commander. “How many this time?” he said, “The whole bunch?”

“Eight.” Bâzzog replied, turning on his heel, “Eight more.” He indicated a number of orcs, who leapt up merrily, with sadistic grins slapped onto their grotesque faces. Bâzzog then gestured to Búbkûr and Kransha, who had been carefully examining the hill above and scoping out the situation warily. “Búbkûr,” the uruk chief said then, pointing a thick stump of a finger and the tapered claw at its end toward Amon Sûl, “you lead this group. Kransha,” he shot a dank look at his gangly lieutenant, who turned dutifully to face him and nodded before he had even been issued a command, though Bâzzog proclaimed the order anyway. “Go with ‘em,” he growled, and then paused, smiling like a hungry wolf; “…Make sure you leave some for me, yes?”

Kransha nodded again, more promptly than before, and slid a red-tipped bolt nimbly from the quiver dangling at his side. He pushed it against the hard wood of his bow and nocked the arrow, holding it up as if he were about to fire. But, instead of taking careful aim and loosing the shaft, he broke into a dead sprint towards Weathertop. Búbkûr, after a grimacing glare from Bâzzog that incited him, rushed after Kransha, lumbering slowly in comparison to the swiftness and speed of the other orc. Behind him, the other six orcs, an assortment of large brutes, surly and muscular in appearance, began to run, until the group had arrived at the bottom of Weathertop’s slope.

It did not take long for the orcs to scale the hill and engage their foes in battle

[Saurreg]

The short climb up the hill was proving to be more exerting than Loudewater had initially anticipated. The hill was steeper than it looked and the wet grass and moss caused the clumsy farmer to trip. Cursing and panting, the farmer slowly labored his way onwards where the furious din of fighting got louder with every heavily planted step. Loudewater was about to give up and head back down when he reached a high elevation and saw what was transpiring on the opposite side of the hill between the woods and the hill clearing.

It was a skirmish among armed combatants, but not just a struggle of ferocious men. Loudewater saw the huge colossal trolls first, each as black as soot and clad in skins of dead animals. One of the monstrosities was bellowing in anger and pain, and cupping his left eye with an immense paw while thrashing his scaly arms wildly about, not caring what he smashed. The other was lumbering in a feral gait towards his target – a small lithe figure whilst brandishing an impossibly huge cruel club.

There were other combatants about also, some man-sized and many others a little more squat. Regardless of stature, all were busy crashing into one another and striking out to kill. Some of the stocky ones seemed to have detected Loudewater’s presence by smell from the way they abruptly stopped and looked his way.

The sight of two of the two huge fell creatures gave rose to primal fear that grasped farmer’s heart and crushed it. The din of battle and furry of motion was all too much to bear. Loudewater lost all sense of control and did what every self-respecting Loudewater men since eons have done when confronted by their worst fears.

He screamed.

It wasn’t a curt manly scream of frustration or agony, but rather an impossibly high-pitched scream that would make a world-class falsetto blush had it not being ear-piercingly shrill and deafening.

The emotional response took the breath right out of loudewater and he had to stoop to catch it. The sudden stop in noise caught his attention and he looked forward only to see that every combatant had stopped fighting and were staring at him dumb folded. Loudewater could have sworn that some of the stocky ones were rolling about on the ground, cupping their ears and withering in silent agony.

Realizing the peril he was in, the farmer did what he could only do in such circumstances.

He screamed again.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

“SSSHHHHH!” Arrald hissed at Dim through clenched teeth. “We’re supposed to be sneaking up on them Elvses,” he said grimly. “Like that leader orcky told us, wait till the pointy-ears are too busy to notice, and then…” he smacked his club into his open palm and chuckled evilly.

Dim’s eyes lit with an unhealthy glow and his head ducked up and down. In a strangled whisper he said what he had been saying all the way up the Hill, “Oh, my brother, this is going to be such fun. I can’t wait to have at that She-Elf!” Dim had a particular tooth for Elves, particularly of the female variety. He swore that they tasted sweeter.

The two brothers moved with uncommon stealth; but still, had it not been for the battle, which was now raging at a fever pitch, their approach would have been noticed, for they could not help but kick stones and crack twigs as they went. That, and their bestial breathing and unwholesome sniggering, meant they were less than ghostly. Still, whether by stealth or by good luck they were almost upon the She-Elf before she noticed them. She was loosing arrow after arrow upon Broga and Grimm, and while Arrald quite enjoyed the sight of their misery, he knew that there wouldn’t be any booty if these interlopers were allowed to get the better of the trolls. The orcs were milling about now, doing about as much good as orcs ever did – as usual, it was going to be up to the trolls to turn the tide.

Arrald raised his club above his head, preparing to bash the she-Elf, but by some sound or feeling she sensed his presence and whirled about. Her eyes went wide with shock and horror, but still she was quick to bring her bow to bear. Dim lunged at her with his claws forcing her to dance away, losing her aim. Arrald roared with triumph as he brought his club down upon her, hard.

[Saurreg]

Loudewater was spent after screaming his lungs off for the second time and the appearance of two more bellowing and thrashing trolls did not help at all. The farmer's knees went soft and he fell onto the ground like an unstrung marionette.

"This isn't happening! This isn't happening!" Muttered the shut-eyed farmer to himself as he crawled aimlessly (and rather comically) on all fours in a small concentric circle where he fell.

I'm not here! I'm not here at all! This is all just my imagination. When I open my eyes I'll be at home sitting on my overstuffed couch infront of the fireplace. Nothing but me, couch and fire. Maybe Helga...

Helga nagging...

Oh my God! Oh my God! This isn't happening! This isn't happening!

A high-pitched dying shriek jolted Loudewater out of his stunned confusion and back into a grim reality. The battle raged on like an undeniable flood and the harsh sounds of death and suffering seemed to get louder with the tick of each second.

Andas Loudewater dropped onto his elbows, buried his face in the ground and covered his head with his hands and cried,

"God... PLEASE! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!"

He was totally oblivious to the fact that an orc that had seen him earlier was now scampering towards him in great speed, marking him out as an easy prey amidst the lot of skilled elven and human fighters...

[Alaksoron]

Osric loosed arrow after arrow at the trolls, but all it seemed to do was agitate them. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Luinien springing up the hill with her bow and taking aim at one of the trolls. Thoronmir and Menecar came roaring up behind her, swords in hand. Silently, Osric gave thanks to heaven for their timely appearance.

With surprise, and no small amount of satisfaction, he noticed that Luinien seemed to have wounded one of the hideous creatures. It was howling and clutching it's face across the left eye. Smiling, he slung his bow over his shoulder and drew his sword. He'd had little confidence in his sword when it had been just he and Aidwain, but he was inspired by the valor of Menecar and Thoronmir. His bow didn't seem to be doing much good, anyway. Perhaps three blades could give a troll pause.

He rushed one of the trolls alongside Thoronmir, though a bit slower for he was still limping. He hacked at the trolls thigh, and froze when he heard a shrill, inhuman scream from behind him. His head swiveled in the direction it seemed to be coming from, at first thinking perhaps Luinien had been wounded......

Osric's eyes went wide when he saw a squat man crouching on the edge of Weathertop, panting heavily. Osric was still more amazed when the man raised his head and screamed again. But there was no time to think. The trolls dismissed the pathetic figure and continued their attack. A large Orc charged the small man.

The orc fell as one of Osric's knives struck home in the center of his back. Falkur had honed the knives to a razor edge, and they penetrated leather armor like butter.

[Nuranar]

As Luinien evaded the second Troll’s vicious claws, she flung aside her bow, useless in close quarters. Even as her hand opened the first one brought down his club with a deafening roar. Her sudden movement had thrown off its timing, so instead of crushing her head, the blow grazed her shoulder and flung her to the ground. She cried out as her arm collapsed under her.

Quickly her other hand found the hilt of her dirk. As the Troll advanced, raising its club once more, she half rose and lunged across the ground. Diving between its tree-like legs, she stabbed viciously through the scales to the tendon above its heel.

Wrenching the blade free, Luinien staggered to her feet as the second Troll turned towards its howling companion. Trembling, she stood waiting for their attack to renew, left arm hanging numb. She was hemmed in against the hill’s edge, a slender dirk blade her only protection.

Suddenly a harsh clamor arose to her right. Her skin crawled as saw a squad of Orcs charging over the slope; focused on the main body of the battle, none glanced her way. Luinien made no move until the last crested the hill. Then all at once she dropped the dirk and drew her knife.

The Orc gave one bubbling shriek as the knife struck his throat, then fell headlong. Swiftly Luinien wrenched the sword from its grasp.

The first Troll was charging her, the second limping and bellowing behind. A hard light burned in her eyes as she faced them. With a fierce cry she flourished the black Orc-blade and advanced to meet them.

[Meneltarmacil]

Thoronmir and the others had ridden as fast as they could to Weathertop, but they were already too late. Veryadan was seriously wounded, and two trolls and several orcs were converging on Aidwain and Osric. Thoronmir slew several orcs with his sword, giving Osric some relief.

"Thank heaven you showed up. We were almost dead!" Osric shouted.

"We figured you could use some help," Thoronmir said.

"AAIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!"

Thoronmir and Osric turned. A man was standing at the edge of the battle, completely unprotected.

"Hang on!" the ranger shouted. "I'm coming!" Thoronmir charged up toward the man and the orcs that were coming for him as Osric hit one of them with a throwing knife. Thoronmir tackled one from behind and sliced a second orc's head off with his sword. He got up and addressed the newcomer.

"Go back! Now! I'll cover you!" He blocked another orc's attack with his long knife and beat it off with his sword. "Get out of there!"

The orc continued to battle, and Thoronmir knew this was no ordinary orc soldier. He was very sturdily built and his hand had been chopped off and replaced with a hook. The orc swung at Thoronmir with his hook. Thoronmir barely managed to dodge as the orc's hook tore off part of his cloak. The ranger raised his sword and dealt the orc another blow.

[Alaksoron]

Osric heard Luinien yelp and turned his head just in time to see eight Orcs crest the hill and charge into the fray. Luinien, her left arm hanging limp, slashed the last Orc's throat with her knife and wrenched the nasty orc-sword from his grip as he fell. Brandishing the heavy, curved blade she turned to face two trolls.

Falkur charged the oncoming Orcs, sword in his right hand and a knife in his left. With a wild battle yell he collided with the first Orc in line, slamming his shoulder hard into the creature's midriff and simultaneously driving his knife into it's stomach. Osric flung the creature from him, abandoning his knife. The massive Orc toppled and died.

Falkur slashed with his sword as soon as he had room to swing. He buried the blade deep in an Orc's head right across the temples, and drove his left elbow straight into the face of another. It didn't seem to faze him much. He brought his knee up and slammed it into the Orc's stomach, also to no avail. Abruptly there was another knife in Osric's hand. He drove it hard into the creature's throat. It gasped and brought up blood, then finally was dead.

Whirling, he realized there were no more orcs to fight. The rest had charged the small man at the corner, and were now being engaged by Thoronmir. Osric rushed, or as much as he could rush limping, to Luinien's aid. She was having trouble wielding that clumsy orc-sword, and with one arm useless, she was easy prey for a pair of trolls.

Lunging, Osric hacked at a massive, soot-black arm with his sword and opened up a shallow gash, but no more.