On the Moors(#5576RXnto)
You are on a vast plateau slanting up towards the Misty Mountains in the east. Long grasses, heather, and short shrubs grow all around in the thin soil, and the wind coming down off the mountains whistles through them. The cold wind chills you, no matter how heavy your clothing. As you travel you find that frequent rock outcroppings or small undulations in the ground can hide sudden bogs or even ravines. You often have to detour a few miles in one direction or another to go around an obstacle.
The cast:
Ghashlagz
Warlog
Several NPC orcs
Maenedhel (played by Sidhel)
Sillinnor (played by Gwartad)
Dinadir
Several NPC elves
The scene:
Nightfall on the moors. The autumn air crisp with the cooling season, the sparse trees around the rocky outcropping groaning in protest at the new rush of air. There appears a set of eyes from a tiny hole in the blocked off back-entrance. An orc spies out, one who has done this before. He looks at the handful of others gathered there in the widened opening just behind the boulder. His rasping voice speaks in a mutter, "This is it, runts. We get yer backs into it and push this 'ere boulder out. Then we make a run for it. I expect yer ta stay close or yer on yer own. Back to the tree and the safety of the shaws. The leaf lickers is gonna be right after us when theys see us."
Outside there appears to be a discussion between two elves, strangely enough though it is held in Westron. "Now, where did you put the honey?" One asks and another replies: "There, it is in the crates - where else!" A strange, rumbling sound and elven laments: "Now you broke it, looks it's all spilling out!"
A soft chuckle rises from one of the group. A well healed Warlog flexes his burly arms and eye the boulder disdainfully, "Skai!" he whispers, "Me and you could move it alone I bet." He pushes his way to the front of the group and cracks his neck, "You say when and we'll do it. Though I wouldn't mind getting a crack at some tree hugger skull....another time though." He eyes his still torn armor where his last encounter with the dastardly elves.
Dinadir having left the sheep herding village another moves along the moors deciding to scout them out to see what he may find. He moves as quietly as possible his traveling cloak around him hiding his shape as best it can. The tall Mithlondhrim can hear voices in the distance and makes towards them as they dont sound the harsh tones of orcs or booming voice of trolls. He nears there position and sees quickly that the two are elves but still remains hidden not wishing more company for the moment.
And indeed, from outside a light brown liquid is flowing into the crack where the orcs are preparing their escape. Drop by drop, a steady stream of honey drips into the cave.
A nod comes from Ghashlagz as he points to the boulder, "On three, lads!" and then he steps back as the orcs get in position. Then he mutters, "One. Two. THREE!" the last as a roar which echos off the cramped confines of the small passageway. Even as the liquid starts dripping in, the orcs give a heave against the boulder, tilting it with ease. As before a single orc could push it slightly, now with three it goes quickly over, tumbling open to reveal the blackness of the passageway behind it. The hole that the elves were dripping into now is much, MUCH, larger.
The other elven voice laments, "Ayie! look at all that! Now all this just is wasted, and it keeps flowing... and we can't stop it." The larger hole accommodates more honey, and the trickle turns into a stream.
On the call of THREE, Warlog heaves with the others, grunting as the boulder is pushed away. His eyes squint as a sunray beams through the crack to delve deep into his cornea. He fingers the handle of his chipped axe as the elven voices filter through to his ears. The sticky liquid oozes down as he speaks low, "Blasted flower sniffers ain't keepin' us caged! Let's get outta here!
The elven lament is followed by another rumble and a small crate drops into the hole. "Brilliant, you fool," calls the first voice. "Now that is gone is well! The Herdir will not be pleased with that." The crate is now covered with honey and it... sings? At least a strange humming sound comes from the wooden box. What appears to be a brassen closure for a lid shines faintly in the moonlight.
The hidden form looks at the two elves he doesnt speak but only watches wondering what they are doing. The hole in the ground in front of him catches his attention he has seen orcs use things like that to spring surprises before. The soldier reaches around to his back finding his longbow he brings it around to his front silently, he brings it to both hands but waits yet to set an arrow to the string. Dinadir readies himself moving only slightly to a better vantage point ready to fire his weapon should it be needed.
Dinadir wields Dinech.
The other voice answers, "Nay, it was broken as well! Not much use for it, I say, let it rot where it is. All that honey is wasted!" A sigh, but a very loud one. "Too bad, for I was hungry - and there was so much in that crate I would like to sample right now."
Ghashlagz pushes through with the other orcs, getting drenched with honey. He looks up at the elves standing there and lifts his mace, "This ain't gonna slow us down, yer twits! Ready to..." and then his voice trails off as he looks at the other crate, eyes narrowing.
Warlog scowls and produces an axe, taking a half swing at some buzzing insect that seems to have taken an interest in his honey ladden upper half. He follows Ghashlagz's gaze and the scowl deepens. His voice remains low, "I think we should go...."
"Aiya," screams the first elf and jumps back. "Do not harm us, look there's that crate. Full of honey... and a troll purse! Yes, a singing troll purse is in it as well! Take it and leave us alone," he begs while moving back from the hole. Behind them stand a three large earthen pots with corks upon them.
Still staying quiet and not giving away his position he listens in as close as he can. The scream of the elf catches his attention he brings his hand back behind him finding a fine made arrow and finally puts it to the string. He holds it there waiting for a target to present itself. Dinadir looks on though he whispers to himself "Why are you still standing there?" though this is barely audible against the wind and the low volume. The Mithlondhrim still holds steady waiting.
The unofficial leader of the orcs makes a dash toward the south, eyes going wide as he cries aloud, "Follow! Run for it!" he cries to his fellows, his own legs pumping as he stomps through the moors. Fleeing from the threat of that "purse."
The Magor Sillinor is the second elf, and he was standing closer, but no longer - he jumps back even further, showing an uncommon fear for one of the Tirith. "Please, take it," he stammers, moving towards from the fleeing orc, "I'm not ready to fight over food - not even such good food as that!" He crouches, as if to lay down his sword.
"We'll just... leave."
At that, he drops down for real and dives for the orc's legs.
"<Sindarin> Throw!" The first elf kneels down too with amazing speed and tosses one of the vessel into the hole. And out of the jar comes a swarm of angry insects! Not flies, nor fleas. No butterflies either, but wasps, severely annoyed wasps. Soon the honey-covered orcs are surrounded by them.
Warlog's legs pump in a similar fashion to Ghashlagz's as he follows the big orc across the bright Moors. The thump thump of his footfalls are interrupted suddenly by a howl, "Skai! Blasted bugs!" He is stung numerous times in mere seconds. His axe flails wildly in the light as he dances a grotesque dance, batting at the insects.
An oof comes from Ghashlagz as he is caught by an elf. Now the wasps catch up to him, but all the orcs have very thick skins and so, for the time being, can ignore such pests. The orc rolls as he falls and kicks his legs at the elf who tackled him. Though he does not cry out a battle cry, keeping his mouth firmly shut. His hands swatting at the insects as they go for his face.
Long distance to Sillinnor and Dinadir: Maenedhel thought it were Lagz' legs, too.
Maenedhel leaps up and produces a dagger. Seeing the two - orc and elf - struggle on the ground he calls out: "<Sindarin> Let him go, mellon. There are others who will take care of this one." In his other hand he holds a second pot.
A foot connects with a jaw, just before hands grasp an ankle. With diverted face, the elf struggles with a boot that won't stay still. Wasps buzz around, and he, too, gets attacked - but not as much as the honey-covered beast, for now. He hears a command, and lets go. He falls to the ground in a crumpled heap, before trying to crawl away.
The wasps meanwhile are only enforced to sting the one that flails his axe at them. More and more insects attack Warlog in despair.
Warlog can see what is going on and he ignores the insects for a moment as he races towards Ghashlagz and his opponent. A wasp stings him under his eye, promising healthy swelling sooner than later. His mad dash ends with his on boot being pointed at the nose of an elf that seems to have given up in his struggle. The orc lets loose a primal yell followed by strained words, "Blasted bug loving girls! We gotta go!"
Sillinor's crawl is short, for another boot connects, this time with his nose. The sound that escapes him does not bode well. The force of the kick sends him sprawling backwards.
Ghashlagz scrambles to his feet and nods to Warlog, ducking his head as he waves his arms around his head, "Keep moving!" he shouts, and makes his way away from the elves and their blasted casks. He swings his arm and slaps against Warlog's neck, smashing three wasps that way.
Maenedhel sticks his dagger forward, aimed at Warlog's groin. "<Sindarin> Retreat, Sillinor!" He calls out. Threatening, he holds the jar aloft, ready to smash it on Ghashlagz' head. In the bushes behind ensues movement, as several elven bows are aimed at the band of orcs.
Dinadir only watches the scene gathering anger again fills him, he can only think to himself have all the elves lost there minds? The hidden figure comes back to the present time though watching as one of the elves gets knocked back after reaching after one of the orcs. He knows that the orcs could rush out of the whole but as easily dash away for help. He shakes his head simply
Warlog snickers softly as his boot connects with force. With trouble he holds back his itchy axe arm from trying to finish the job. THWACK! Ghashlagz smacks the back of his neck....hard. He looks at the other orc and mutters, "Thanks."
As his attention is diverted, Maenedhel takes the opportune moment to deliver a stab at the precious family jewels. The blade sinks in, penetrating armor and forcing the black blood to seep through. Viciously he spins to his left and hack ith his axe at whatever just bit him. The blade swipes and he attempts to jump back and begin to flee again.
Sillinnor is down, and scrambles backwards on his elbows and heels, away from the tragedy in front of his eyes. Those still work.
Ghashlagz bellows at the other elf as he looks at the cask and without even reaching for his mace he swings his massive arm out, his hand clenching to a fist as he tries to backfist the dagger-wielding elf. The chaos of the melee only intensifying as the wasps swarm louder. The honey, actually, providing a little bit of protection from the bite of the insects, at least when combined with the foul skins of the orcs.
Maenedhel ducks to avoid Warlog's deadly axe, but the orcish instrument strikes his helmet! With a soft moan, Maenedhel falls on his knees and looks quite bedazzled. It must be a reflex as he smashes the jar into Ghashlagz' face.
Ghashlagz's companion swings his axe back the opposite direction, not even bothering to turn the blade towards the elf. His feet are already turning as he swings. Turning to carry him away from all this commotion and these stings. He grabs at Ghashlagz and yells, "Come on!
Ghashlagz grunts as his fist collides with the elven arm and his blow goes awry. The jar falls atop him and he thrusts it away just as it breaks open, another swarm of wasps beginning to buzz now more violently around the orcs, and less so around the elves. He stumbles backward, swatting around him as he lets out a bellow with so much force a few wasps can be seen blown away from his mouth. "GO!" he shouts again.
Sillinnor works his way up to a crouch as he tries to make sense of the chaos that's before him. He looks around for his sword, but it's too far away. He settles for a few insults in Westron, and he no longer sounds afraid. He probably never was. His jibes particularly stress the fact that the Great Warriors are fleeing from such small foes; maybe he is trying to trick them into staying just a bit longer - in reach of the wasps.
As the battle rages the elves seem to be getting the upper hand for the moment. Dinadir hopes to drive the orcs away with fear of reinforcements. He finally pulls his longbow into position pulling the string back hard he aims clearly at one of the orcs attempting to flee. He takes a slow breath as he releases his arrow into the air.
Dinadir launches an arrow...
Dinadir's arrow flies wide, doing no harm.
Now the situation is clearly turning into true chaos. Ghashlagz looks at the few orcs around him and even as they run he makes out a bolt flying past him. "Archers!" he cries out, charging forward now toward the south and west. Most of the other orcs falling in line behind him, their hands all waving at the air. From afar, where the wasps would not be visible, it would clearly appear that the orcs were doing a strange ritualistic dance. Up close, however, the dance is a painful one, and all the orcs have swells and bumps rising upon every part of their skin. It might be considered an improvement.
Maenedhel shakes his head and glances at the orc before him. Then his mind becomes clearer. With a sudden jolt he crawls backward. But soon laughter erupts from his mouth as he watches the orcs being set upon by a few hundred angry wasps. An arrow whistles past them, a sign that this is a fight after all. And from behind Sillinnor and Maenedhel, Dinadir's idea is taken up. Imladhrim archers raise from their hidden positions and launch a volley of arrows on the escaping orcs.
It can be certain that Warlog considers no part of this mess to be an improvment. His scowl is perhaps deeper than he has ever scowled before. As the arrows begin to pound down on the running beasts, he hollers a curse. His flailing arms catch an arrow that glances off to his right. Not one odf the uruks stop in their desperate run, putting distance from the elves, but still being plauged by the ferocious wasps.
His first shot a miss being blown off by the winds. Dinadir reaches back for another arrow though and quickly places it into the string taking aim again, but he can see that the orcs have made there flee from the archers he places the arrow back into his quiver on his back and readies to make his way out into the open his longbow put back in its place. His face though is still firm and grim looking at the two elves. He walks slowly towards them now revealing his position to them. He waits to speak till he is closer.
The Magor stands up, and brushes dirt off his clothes; his face is a bloody mess, but he acts like he just finished planting seedlings.
He looks up and waits for the archer to comment on the situation.
Maenedhel is still laughing, pointing at the orcs. Even as Dinadir approaches them, he does barely stop. "Look,... look at them," he cries while rubbing his head. "That's a sight to behold!" And from afar the Imladhrim archers join the laughter.
The laughing elves doesnt help the mood of the soldier as reaches them his face still calm and straight. "You two are lucky, much worse could have happened, had more showed up or trolls or worse.." though his voice is level his anger shows within his eyes. Dinadir turns quickly from all the elves and doesnt linger long simply moving on from his path though it does look like he is headed in the way of the valley, he mutters to himself as he walks but is quiet again as he doesnt want to attract more attention to himself than need be.
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