Fall of the North RPG

[Saurreg]

Belegorn placed the feathery quill down and picked up the parchment. His grey eyes darted left to right swiftly as he proof-read what he had written. It wasn’t elegant prose for the writer was not a man of letters, but it contained the necessary information and instructions. Satisfied with his work, Belegorn held the parchment close to his face, blew gently to dry the ink, rolled it up and bonded it with a brown linen strip. He then turned towards the waiting messenger and handed the scroll over to the youngster with a stern instruction,

“This parchment contains the necessary information and instructions that the counselor Mitharan would need. In the absence of the captain and I, he would undoubting be in command of the column. Hand it over to him immediately and make sure that he reads and understands its contents.”

The youth nodded quickly and left the tent. Belegorn watched as the young man weaved and zigzagged before disappearing among the cluster of canvas tents. It would have been more appropriate if Hírvegil had approached Mitharan personally, but the commander was in no position to do so, not in his current state. He had appeared red-eyed with exhaustion before his deputy, lifelessly dote and speech slurred. More shocking than his tardy appearance and unbefitting bearing were his orders – absurd and totally incomprehensible.

Belegorn meant to protest immediately but Hírvegil left as sudden as he crashed, trashing about as he made his way hurriedly and clumsily towards his warm cot. For a moment Belegorn’s eyes widened and an unexplainable rage arose. His gloved hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his bejeweled sword and he felt an irresistible urge to pursue his outrageous commander and smite him with all his might and fury. But the terrible torrent subsided as soon as Hírvegil disappeared from view and Belegorn was left horrified by the dangerous hatred he felt. It took a while for Belegorn to regain his faculties. The time taken to draft the memorandum to Mitharan helped.

Belegorn adjusted his sword belt and affixed his dagger into its sheath on the left side of his body at the belt and retrieved his helmet and cloak from the wicker basket by his cot. He stepped out reluctantly out into the open and issued an order to a militia orderly to pack up his belongings. He had no idea how long he’ll be away and when the column would move again.

Tucking the wide rimmed helmet beneath his arm, Belegorn strode towards the marshalling ground where his charger and men awaited him.

**************

The grey winter sky offered no warmth and the sun was no where to be seen, being blotted out of the sky by dark clouds and fog. Just as well, for it mirrored the feelings of the first lieutenant and his rode across the assembled front of the riders and inspected each youthful face carefully. The mounted men stared on ahead passively like mannequins while the horses reared their great muscular necks in agitation. The aura and mood emitted by them were all too apparent to Belegorn; fear and insecurity were the orders of the day.

When the assembled riders were ready, Belegorn sent a messenger for Hírvegil. He looked towards the green pennon of the Rearguard in anticipation but the flag hung limply in its folds, inanimate on the pole. A forebode of the darkness to come.

[CaptainofDespair]

Even the strongest of the orcs need a rest at one point or another. Nagbak had figured this, and since the icy chill of a winter stream will sap the strength out of any creature, even the mighty trolls of the East, he had decided to make haste, and find a camp site quickly. His scouts had located one particular meadow, nestled in a thicket. Due to the lack of supplies, he would seek this place, but not before making one final arrangement with his subordinates.

Sloshing up out of the chilling waters of the brook, and onto a frozen embankment, the orc contingent hurried, with Elven cargo, to their pre-determined location. An hour or so later, they finally arrived at their location, a small patch of snow-covered grass, just large enough to lay out proper defenses. The chieftain’s subordinates ordered that the hostages be dumped in a cluster, and be given a small watch. The rest of the orcs, excluding those on perimeter sentry duty, would be allowed to rest their feet, and treat any wounds they may have sustained along the march. Nagbak, meanwhile, busied himself with attending to the scouts, of whom the last were arriving.

As Nagbak seated himself on a rigid, rather uncomfortable stump, a small snaga, only about half the height of his master, came waddling forward, in the usual bow-legged walk of the orc. “Massster...the rear guard you left behind has not returned...dead they are...” The chieftain, with his face in his large, cold palms, muttered a few words to his slave-scout. “I assumed this much. Now, do you have any other news?” The little orc, looking almost as if he had exhausted the last of the resources in his near-desolate mind, thought for a few moments. After scratching his head a bit, his eyes lit up, and he enthusiastically gave his reply to the query. “Oh! Indeeeeed, chieftain! Razhbad has arrived!” The old orc, at the mentioning of this, perked up, and lumbered forward, almost tearing the stump out of the ground as he lurched up from his perch. “Excellent! I take it he is downwind of the camp?” The snaga nodded delightedly, bouncing as he walked beside his powerful and noble chief. “Very good. Have him ready to rush to our aid at a moment’s notice. If my instinct serves me correctly, the humans and Elves will be upon us soon enough.

[Kransha]

When the messenger came to Hírvegil’s tent, he had to be yanked forcefully from his slumber. When he finally awoke to find himself being violently shaken by the confused young man, he had to be told carefully what was going on. The knowledge registered with him after a few minutes and, since he was already suited up, though very disheveled, he was able to traipse over to the marshalling field outside the camp to meet Belegorn. He did not speak to his lieutenant, or even acknowledge his presence, and his only words were to the youthful messenger as he helped the captain onto his mount, saying that he needed no aid.

Less than a few seconds later, he fell off the horse.

He didn’t retreat into thought, for he couldn’t comprehend that he wasn’t himself. With a minor bruise from the fall, he remounted and wordlessly signaled the troops to move out. He was totally incommunicative, his face sweaty and wrinkled, the youth of his position gone. Perhaps he was just sick. A plague had taken his mother from him years ago, and the disease might be lying dormant in him, in a happy slumber until his system was weak enough to let down its guard. He showed many signs of generic ailment – tiredness, confusion, feverish activity, dysfunctional behavior – it seemed perfectly obvious. But Hírvegil didn’t get sick. He could not remember a time when he had felt bad, besides his chronic headaches. Had the fall of Fornost triggered some downward spiral?

The Captain of the Rearguard did not for a moment realize what he’d become in a day. Yesterday he’d been a healthy, fit, normal fellow. Over the course of the journey from the Downs to the Hills of Evendim he’d been depressed and detached from cold reality, but not so distant and changed. Now he was different, his elegant devices stripped from him and his powerful mind dulled like an age-old blade, similar to the one that hung feebly at his side. That sword, at his waist and in his soul, no longer burned with the mental or physical fury it had once. His sickness, though, that which caused that sword to loose its deadly edge, was untraceable, in a fashion. Personally, Hírvegil was unaware of how much he’d been altered, so he was unable to trace the cause, and his comrades knew too little about the circumstances.

Hírvegil, still without words, in the limbo of life proceeded onward. His quiet ushering bid the riders move. The steeds all hesitated on the grounds, braying noiselessly to themselves and glancing with eyes full of foreboding at the sky, which was caught between night and day, a mixture of shade and light. Hírvegil was at first oblivious to the hesitation of the troops, even of Belegorn, mounted close at hand to him. His horse teetered as he did atop it, but he managed to swivel the beast precariously about, and his face formed a look of dim displeasure, his sweat-soaked brow furrowing.

“Move.” He coughed in a barely commanding manner at the large clump of reluctant horsemen. Half of them didn’t hear him. Bewildered by angered, he continued to prod the horse into spinning about, watching its unwieldy form sway beneath him. “You heard me,” he yelled, his voice again rasping, “move!”

This time, most heard him. Many snapped to sharp attention and started cantering slightly forward, or meandering about. The rows began to diffuse over the field, but most remained stationary. As Hírvegil glanced around at the indecisive cavalry, Belegorn expertly wheeled his own steed about and sidled up next to the commander, startling him. After a quick intake of breath from Hírvegil, he settled and inclined his drooping head to look at his lieutenant. Quietly, but with an air of command himself, Belegorn spoke. “Captain,” he posed, “are you sure you want to-”

Hírvegil, even in his state, could guess what Belegorn was saying. Swinging himself foolishly to on side on his horse, he said “Yes, I am sure.” His face was only tempered with anger, for the look of sickness and hurt dominated it. After a brief silence between the two officers in the midst of the Rearguard, Hírvegil nervously posed his own question. “Are you questioning me, Belegorn?”

Belegorn did not answer directly. “Perhaps you are not well, sir.” He ventured.

The Captain was used to being commanding, but he could not be now. He tried to brandish a scolding finger at the Lieutenant, but succeeded only in batting at the air and sliding over on his saddle. “Don’t you think I know whether I am well or not?” he snapped, spitting accidentally, “I’m perfectly fine.” He spun himself again, driving sharp heels and glimmering spurs into his mount’s flanks that sent it rearing up and forward. His voice rose, catching the attention of all the nervous soldiers of the Rearguard. “Now, all of you; move! We must catch up with the Elves and our riders within mere hours. We must push ourselves to the greatest swiftness we can muster, is that clear?” His possessed roar faded like a dying gasp in his throat.

There was no answer. The chatter of gossip among the soldiers disappeared and was replaced by silence, accompanied by a mélange of accompanying emotions. The Rearguard’s confidence in their leader had not broken, but his behavior was cracking it slowly but surely. Like good soldiers, the riders placed themselves back in their respective lines without hesitation, organizing into four neat columns. They looked to their captain for guidance, for leadership, for the words of the man they knew – but they got none of that.

“Good.” groaned the man who’d been their captain. “Now, ride!”

So they rode.

[alaklondewen]

Nilpaurion Felagund's post

While her body laid motionless on the frigid ground, Bethiril’s mind was in a place of violent turmoil.

Barely a month ago, the decision would have been easy. Erenor and Angóre meant nothing to her, and she would have betrayed them, despite their kinship, to fulfil what she had hoped to do. But now, despite the feebleness of the bond between them, the act of treachery needed she needed to do could not now be done without a great struggle.

She did not want any of them to be freed by force. She wanted this crisis resolved peacefully. Surely, the Orc chief’s plan made sense—with a land to call their own, the Glamhoth would, perhaps, no longer need to take up arms. Then the Firimar, seeing that the Orcs are no longer a threat, would follow suit. A lasting peace—all she had to do was make sure that none of them escaped. All she had to do was bring to their captors knowledge of Erenor’s concealed weapon. All she had to do was warn the Orcs of a plan to assault their camp.

But her heart, which she had kept under control for so long, now rebelled against her mind. Bethiril had begun to love her fellow emissary, the love of an older, wiser sister for a younger sibling with wisdom of her own, but who too often moved impetuously. She had sometimes thought of trying to win Erenor over to her cause, yet realised that in stifling the free spirit within, she would destroy her.

And in betraying your friend, you would destroy yourself.

She was roused from her thoughts by Ereglin, who wanted to know whether she was fine or not. There must be other ways of fulfilling my mission, she said to herself, as she set all thoughts of treachery aside.

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alaklondewen's post

The flickering of a nearby fire seared Ereglin’s opening eyes, worsening his already excruciatingly aching head. A groan slipped from his dry, rasping throat as his hands instinctively pressed his temples, trying to relieve the throbbing pain that clouded his mind. After a moment, the elf attempted to open his eyes again, but he only managed to squint at his surroundings. He took in a deep breath of the chill wind that swirled around him and lifted his hair from his shoulders. As he let the breath go, an overwhelming nausea surged through his body and he retched into the grass beside him. Once his body purged whatever was left of the poison the foul creatures had fed him, his mind became clearer and he was able to take in the components of his environment.

Berethil lay crumpled nearby in a fitful unconsciousness. Behind the Counselor a handful of orcs bickered in their abrasive tones. The elf assumed that these were their guards as none were closer, and the other orcs, beyond their fire, were paying no attention to the captives. Ereglin slowly turned his eyes around to the other emissary, Erenor. The lady did not appear to suffer the illness he felt, but with her eyes closed, she displayed peace and control.

Ereglin laid his head back against the cold ground again as tried to contact his young guard. Rôsgollo… The lord let his thought carry in the wind hoping he crossed the mind of one of his guards. He called again after several moments of silence and was greeted this time by the hopeful voice of his guard’s thought. Lord Ereglin! How do you fare?

I am well enough…weak from poison, but I will survive. Ereglin opened his eyes and studied the stars overhead. It seems I am several miles west and north since I was last awake.

Yes, my lord. We have tracked the orcs’ progress and are just outside the camp now. Rôsgollo answered quickly.

That is good, my friend. Ereglin paused as the throbbing in his head returned and he grimaced with pain. After several breaths, the aching began to lessen again, and the Counselor spoke again with his guard. How many soldiers strong are you?

Several moments passed before the young guard answered the question. We are four strong, my lord…my brother and I along with the Elven guard, Angóre, and a Dúnedan youth have come for you.

And what of the Dúnedain army?

[Arry]

The Dunedain . . . Rôsgollo’s thoughts were hesitant at Lord Ereglin’s question. He sought a way to frame his answer in a better light.

Come, Rôsgollo. I am no child to need your words couched in softer phrasings. Speak plainly. They did not come for us. Ereglin’s piercing statement unleashed a flood of words . . . the hesitancy of the Captain from the first . . . his excuses . . .

But we have come, my lord. Along with Angóre and a young Dunedan soldier who offered his aid. We three must serve, and it must be enough with your aid and what information Lady Erenor has given us. Rôsgollo regretted his lapse as soon as he had thought it. Lord Ereglin picked up on the number three, saying he thought there were mention of four.

And so there are . . . said another voice, breaking in on the conversation. Gaeredhel came softly up on foot behind his brother. I stayed behind for a moment to see that no Orc followed after us as we approached their camp. There were none. Nor did I see any sign of Dunedain troops approaching. Gaeredhel smiled grimly at his brother. Though, I left signs of our way that they might read should they come.

Rôsgollo’s eyes played over his brother’s advancing form. He seemed fit enough, though he noted he held his right arm close to his chest, and led his horse with his left. He would not be able to use his bow and his blade work would be weaker with his left arm. But then, he thought, he need only whack roughly at the Orcs; they were not known for their skillful moves, only their brute strength.

A hurried conference was held between the three Elves, and Lady Erenor contacted. She was, it seemed, less drowsy from the Orc’s potion. It was her that had first shown the outlay of the camp, bringing the would be rescuers near to where the prisoners were held. And she was the only one with a weapon still available to her. What of Bethiril? And the woman and child? Rôsgollo asked.

Bethiril had feigned drowsiness as had the other two Elven prisoners. She was as awake as either of them. The woman and child had not been drugged at all. There had been no need. The Orcs had made it plain they would kill the child should the woman give any trouble. To her they had given the task of ministering to any needs the Elves had. The child was kept close by her.

Let us speak with Angóre and Faerim; they are the ones closest to you at the moment. We will devise some diversion and then let you know of it. Can you ready yourselves? Near the back of your tent, I think. Wait for our instruction. Rôsgollo motioned for Gaeredhel to come hold the horses, saying he should be ready to ride quickly with them in tow when he was called. He was going forward to find their other two companions and give them word of what he had learned. Once a plan was in place he would let everyone know of it . . .

--------------

In the end, the three decided a simple diversion would be the best. Angóre was left to keep watch on the prisoners’ tent. Faerim and Rôsgollo circled around to the opposite side of the camp, staying low and out of sight as they gave the near perimeter a wide berth. Dried, fallen limbs were hastily gathered into a pile about a tall evergreen tree with low growing branches; while among the gathered limbs were stashed a great number of pitchy cones. Retreating a distance away, Rôsgollo let Angóre know what they had done and told the Elves within the tent to gather now at the back of it and await his signal. Fixing a large pitchy cone to an arrow with strips from his tunic, he lit it, and sent it flying toward the mass of gathered limbs. The piling caught fire, the flames flashing quickly from one pitchy cone to another, until the mass was ablaze.

Faerim and Rôsgollo sped quickly away from the blaze which now whooshed up behind them, catching onto the cones growing in clusters among the living branches. The flames licked hungrily upward seeking to consume the tree. The Orcs caught sight of the blaze and scrambled in disarray to stop the spread of the flames from the tree over the dried grasses toward their camp.

Now! called Rôsgollo. And Erenor cut the rough cloth of the tent, as Bethiril and Ereglin handed out the woman and the child. Gaeredhel had mounted his horse and now moved forward with the others in tow. Ereglin exited from the tent next, followed by Bethiril. Erenor stood guard, her knife in her hand. And well she did as one of the Orc guards was sent in to check in on the prisoners during the melee. She dispatched him before he could raise the alarm, then left the tent herself.

Rôsgollo and Faerim made it to where the others were gathered, now mounted on horse. It would not be long before the Orcs would suspect that this suspect blaze had something to do with their hostages. And in fact, they had barely mounted when from a short distance away, an Orc voice rang out, calling his fellows to give chase . . . the prisoners had escaped!

The Elves and Faerim rode hard away from the Orcs . . . their only thought now to reach the safety of the Dunedain encampment . . .

[Kransha]

The sight of a veiled blaze on the horizon and the singing scent of fire’s smoke was barely recognizable to Hírvegil as he wobbled uneasily on his horse, sweaty fingers clasped around an ice-like metal hilt that swung at his left flank, rapping fitfully against the battered haunches of his steed. He barely heard the ceremonious gasps and sounds of recognition that rippled through the Rearguard, but few could have. The Rearguard’s entire mass was surging, at almost break-neck speed, across snowy plains ands through icy ponds and puddles, kicking up a gargantuan cloud of white dust in its wake.

Some men who rode behind their captain wondered if they even knew where they were going. Those at the front who could see the many skewed tracks left by galumphing orc feet, subtle Elven treads, and heavy Dúnedain horseshoes steered the line chaotically in one direction and the next, trying to keep them all together. The horses rushed madly at times, with no steady orders to abide by. Soon enough, though, they were forced to slow a rein themselves in when they encountered sight of the first group of Dúnedain to be dispatched, which was slowly riding towards the distant blaze as well. When they collided, no words were exchanged, or given by Hírvegil, who continued to lead on like a drunken hero. As the confused trackers were absorbed into the quick-moving cavalry host, it was left to their comrades to explain to them what was going on. Though all was anarchy and disorganization, the columns surged on like a wave of spearing flame.

They were borne over ridges, through iced over marshlands, and every which way, no longer following tracks but simply heading onward to the fire. Belegorn was now generally in the lead, and was doing his best to keep Hírvegil himself from charging off in a more divergent direction and leading the troops astray. He wheeled about Hírvegil’s steed every few moments, pulling the mount forward and riding his swiftest so that he and his captain would not be overwhelmed by the unbridled force behind, which was having its own troubles. Hírvegil sat, quietly oblivious but caught up in the grandiose cacophony and the fueling noise of riders and the dun of battle to come. His eyes were glazed over and he looked to some oaf with armor slapped on him who’d been feebly superimposed on a horse, but his mind was working with great speed, reliving its glory days. The dreams were becoming reality, even though he had no control over his thoughts or movements in the chaos. He smiled to himself, then grimaced, then wretched, then smiled again, and laughed, and guffawed, and reeled, and did many things which had nothing to do with the thing that came before. His hands, weakly gripping the reins of his mount, swung madly from side to side. Belegorn kept shooting his hand in expertly to try and manage the horse if it became to unsteady, but Hírvegil ignored him, or didn’t notice. He was too caught up in the glory of the charge – which was quickly spiraling more and more out of control.

Hírvegil’s eyes only saw dim, multicolored blurs galloping towards him over the nearest hill as yells of “Elves!” and “Riders!” echoed behind him. “What’re those?” mumbled Hírvegil, leaning over towards Belegorn as he bounced up and down, “Orcs?” He had obviously not heard the cries, or horribly misinterpreted them. Belegorn managed to hear his faint mutterings because of the short distance between him and the captain, so he could respond. “No, Captain,” he yelled over the din into Hírvegil’s ear, jogging his senses a little, “It is the Elves! They seem to have succeeded!”

“Good,” grumbled the Captain, “kill ‘em.” He didn’t see the look of bewildered horror on his lieutenant’s whitened face. “No, sir,” cried Belegorn, “Elves.” As the riders thundered behind them, Hírvegil considered, his head bobbing like a fisherman’s baubles. “Oh, right. Well, don’t kill them.” Belegorn’s loud groan could be heard at Hírvegil’s side, but it was cut off with another sharp breath and gasp of recognition as Belegorn peered forward. “Captain,” he said very urgently after a moment, “I think the orcs are behind them!”

“Ah,” murmured the dreary Captain of the Rearguard, “Kill them then.”

Belegorn nodded curtly and maneuvered to the side, turning his head as much as possibly. As the Rearguard closed the distance between it and the Elven riders, who had seen them long before, it was more and more becoming evident that the cavalry had reached a momentum in could not brake in an instant. It was going so fast, so hard, that it could not be stopped except by some great obstacle. In order not to hit the Elves, they could only turn and amass together. At the top of his ragged lungs, Belegorn cried out. “TO THE LEFT!” his voice thundered terrifically, “RIDE LEFT!”

Slowly, the huge troop began easing left frantically. The Elven riders also pulled their horses right. Since the Elves were in a more convenient position to do so, they maneuvered their horses hard right, but still they could barely turn fast enough. The Rearguard rode on, thundering, booming onward; trying to steer, to turn, or do anything. As the distance between the horde and the few Elven steeds became mere meters, there was still a chance the Elves would be trampled by the uncontrolled cavalry. The distance closed, further and further until at last it disappeared.

The two forces missed each other by less than an arm’s length. The cavalry of the Rearguard, like a colossus, swept past the four horses, who were met with a sonic blast from the moving wave of sound and a plate of dust that fell atop them. As they at last passed the Rearguard, another force appeared – the orcs.

This time, no attempt was made to steer out of the way, even though it would’ve been much safer to stop and then attack. The grand host of a hundred, magnified by some divine imagination to look like a thousand, continued towards the orcs. Some tried to stop, and were pushed on by those behind them or sucked backward and spit out of the guard’s rear. Others spun off to one side or the other and swiveled to gain balance. The core group, though, with Hírvegil and Belegorn at its head, quickly lanced over the next lump of a hill, veering madly, towards the goblins sprinting towards them. When the orcs realized what was happening, they made every attempt to turn or get out of the way, but to no avail.

With no recourse, the two forces collided, the Rearguard overwhelming the small band of orcs who’d caused them so much trouble.

Of course, Hírvegil saw none of this, since he blacked out a moment before the collision and was hurled from his horse when it was bodily thrust against a routed orc.

[Garen LiLorian]

The rescue had gone smoothly, though Angóre still held fears about the pursuing Orcs. Though they were not mounted, and the Elves' train could easily outpace them, Orcs were notoriously unshakeable and the Dúnedain encampment lay less than a days ride away. He had no wish to bring a hundred orcs down on the civilians in that camp.

And now they were fleeing those very Orcs. Angóre held tight the mane of Carthor's stallion, feeling the very unusual weight of another person with him. His horse had been lost in the ambush and there had been no time to recover it, which had left the party one short. The ancient war-horse was the strongest of the beasts brought by Faerim and so Angóre had in front of him lady Bethiril, seemingly much the worse for wear from her captivity. Her eyes were strangely unfocused and it was all Angóre could do to keep her from sliding off to the side as the big war-horse galloped on, flying before the orcish host. In truth, the orcs were still grouping, scurrying about by the light of their burning camp like an anthill exposed to the sun. But Angóre knew better than to trust that sight. He could sense, away and to the left, a group of small fast goblins very nearly keeping pace with the horses of the Elven train and horses tire before the soldiers of the Enemy. Before him, Bethiril shifted again, and slouched heavily against Angóre's arm, causing Carthor's horse to veer left before he could respond.

It was Faerim, in this group of keen-eyed Elves, who first spotted the Dúnedain host, and he cried aloud. The darkness hid the sloppyness of the rearguard's movements, and to the eyes of the rescuers they looked proud and mighty. "We are safe! Hírvigil! Hírvigil and the Dúnedain!" The lad cried, standing in his stirrups and raising his sword, and a seemingly echoing roar came from the host of Men as the plunged forward, spears lowered.

Angóre's joy turned to shock. "They cannot see us!" He cried. "They will ride us down! Ride left, and may the Valar turn them aside!" He did not wait for a response before wheeling his horse. But the sudden movement caused Bethiril to shift again, and she would have fallen had not Angóre's arm been there. His arm buckled with the unexpected weight, pulling on the horse's mane, and Carthor's well trained stallion turned obediently back to his right as Angóre fought with the weight in his arms. It took him long seconds; seconds he could ill afford to lose, but he got the emissary upright again, groaning softly, and turned his attention back to the horse.

Carthor's stallion was a veteran and had stood his ground in many combats. He trusted implicitly the warrior he carried, and this is perhaps why he stood his ground in the face of the Dúnedain charge while around him the horses of the others fled madly to the left. It very nearly cost him all he had to give. Angóre's eyes were wide as he urged the warhorse to a dead run. The Dúnedain charge was nearly upon them, and it seemed impossible that he should make the edge of the charge before it overwhelmed him.

The last spear actually passed over his head as he cleared the line, the spearman wide-eyed and sawing frantically at the reins of his enraged beast to try to avoid this lone Elf. The stallion's tail flickered briefly in the breeze of the passing host, and then he was past; the host thundered past him towards the Orcish camp.