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Attack on the High Moors

The Misty Moors

Upon this damp and slightly mist obscured round hill a decent view of the surrounding area can be seen. These moors tumble away from the base of the sheer peaks of the Misty mountains to the east, and into a pleasant patchwork of forest and meadow in the west. A little ways north glimmers the northern tributary of the Bruinen flood, and several miles south is the other, both tumbling out of the mountains to gain speed as they rush to meet in the lands of Rhudaur. The travelling seems easy in all directions except east, where the crags of the Misty mountains build a natural wall to keep out the enemies of the West.

The sibilant dark mouth of the crevice is silent but for the inquiry of the wind. It is barely the height of one tall man, though three might enter together. And what would they discover inside? A darkness absolute. Here is a place that has lain blind to day for many an Age until bidden by the landslide to blink open once more. Lanterns will only reveal a receding dark, receding along an ever-opeNing network of caverns.

The moors leap upwards to meet the pine tree fringed flanks of the Misty Mountains . Any who travel amongst those sharp inclines amidst the close forests would discover that the trees part suddenly to reveal the chewed remnants of a recent landslide. Freed of encroaching boughs, the expansive view of a cloud wreathed sky is startling. Shattered stone is coated in the richer scent of newly uncovered soil, filtered with the fibrous remains of shredded trees. The sliding wreckage from above has ripped a long swathe down the craggy flank of the mountain, and more, it is has uncovered a black crevice in the slope that yawns with a subdued menace.

<OOC> Gollum nods. "Here's a synopsis of what's gone on, folks. Several IC days ago the Imladris elves happened upon a lode of what they believe to be Mithril. That's some pretty precious stuff. They've started excavating from the caves here, prospecting for samples to test for purity and what-not. Only ... they may have lingered too long. Word has gotten out regarding the elves' activity and a mixed band of Yfel trolls and Goblin Town orcs have resolved to kick them off the plot. And that leads us up to the current RP :)

Shifting moonlight flows down the channel carved from the mountainside by a recent landslide. Deep shadows moved in the depths of that flow from the gathering clouds trailing the mountain-hung sky. Yet one shadow is still. It is the dark mouth of the caverns broken open by the landslide. Utterly black, yet stung with light now. Small sparks falling away from the cave from lanterns borne by quicksilver figures, tall and lithe.

Those figures emerge from the caves bearing packs of tools, led by one who murmurs something in a faintly musical language. The lamps begin to extinguish. Metal clanks against rock as the group rest by the gaping lips of the cavemouth. Then two other shadows detach from the near pines to offer a greeting. (Gilathan)

Gondramind, the gonnhir, unshoulders his pack with a satisfied grunt, and it rattles to the ground with a rumble of stone against stone. He laughs with the other artisans, pleased with the night's work. His manner easy, clear gray eyes relaxed and happy for the first time in many years. And his mind, now turns to dinner. "Mellyn, after such work I could drink and eat the night away. Where is Duinlas? He should sing of today's work."

Yet not all around the caves enter them. Other forms stand about, spaced sparsely about the excavation, their silhouettes highlighted by arms: longbows, swords, and shields. They face outward, eyes straiNing to peer into the dark, watching for any stir. One, the Hirvaethor Linnuial, moves amongst them, receiving reports and directing the relieving of shifts. He seems little concerned with the efforts in the cavern--his attention is focused on the blackness without.

Two shadows they may seem to any eye not trained to darkness, but not silent ones. "I thought you would stay until dawn breaks." Feandril smiles as she approaches Gilathan, her hands empty, and nods to Cefelleth who is by her side. "The artisans weary soon these days, it seems." Despite the light jest, there is a strange undertone in her voice, almost like tension.

"Not soon enough for this Seinobennasdis to keep up, it seems," mutters Cefelleth in afterthought, and one can see that the Sinda maid is hastily attempting to scratch down notes in her small record book, flashing Gondramind a look as she does her best to write under the less than favourable circumstances.

In his open palm is the dull stare of a dark stone. Gilathan's blue eyes rest upon it for a moment. He turns his hand. Moonlight glitters suddenly upon a rivulet of bright silver. His near companions appear converse more urgently, excited by some discovery perhaps. The Hirdan laughs softly to Gondramind, 'You will give yourself indigestion to feast on all this night.' Then he spies Feandril, stepping lightly down to meet her and Cefelleth. 'We have found something, something of promise.' A strange greeting.

"You write /as/ you run.?" Gondramind jests toward his gwathel Cefelleth. "A dedicated Seinobennasdis you are indeed." He nods greeting the Saeleth Feandril. "Hirdan, I care not to feast on these," he indicates the stone in Gilathan's hand with a nod of his head. "Not my stomach in any case." And his gaze shifts back toward Cefelleth, twinkling with promise.

Though the darkness of the cave may conceal bright and beautiful stones and metal, that of the rest of the surroundings only helps to cloak much fouler things—creatures coming down from the mountains in the darkest part of night, the ideal time for those whose sight pierces the shadows. But for now, all is silent.

Toward the east, then, there is a sound—rocks tumbling downward, natural, perhaps, for a landslide. But following close behind is a lound grunt.

One slight figure follows from the shadows, having dogged the heels of the Artisans in their work. The healer, Ailiell, brushes a lingering cobweb from her hair before trotting curiously along after Gondramind. "Is that...?" she begins softly. "...what is that?"

For a moment, Feandril is silent, her eyes fixed on Gilathan rather than the stone he holds. But then, she nods, drawing a breath. "I hope it is the promise of something good, though I should think the..." she interrupts herself, casting a quick glance about, then turns back to her husband. "I do not like this place at all." It is barely more than a quiet murmur. Yet, there are guards around the camp. Or are there?

Gondramind smiles broadly, and winks at the healer. But he looks to the Hirdan. The pronouncement should come from his mouth alone. Something at the edge of imagined sight, or sound, however, catches his attention. His smile slowly fades.

Duinlas wrinkles his nose and narrows his eyes, "I never thought I'd be so eager to be home. But I feel the need for wine," he grumbles and pats his pack, wishing it had a bottle in it.

Darkness in the Moors. A fell breeze wafts from the cold, damp lowlands below, bringing with it the far-off scents of more pleasant lands. Sliding and creeping down the rocks to the east, a company of shadows, low and sleek, dark and unnatural in sound and odor, approaches. There is the occasional sound of a strange tittering here, what might be a cackle there. Surely this bodes ill for fair workers in the night...and then coming, like crabs scuttling across the dark soil...the enemy. (Muzzah)

Linnuial's bow is out, an arrow already nocked to string. He waves quickly about to the few guards there are, and they also draw their weapons. This should be sign enough to the other elves that something is amiss, and that they should be cautious. The Hirvaethor looks in the general direction of the sound, though he cannot pinpoint its source.

Following the sound of falling rocks and the grunt is the noise of more sliding stones. Or is it? The clatter is like laughter, rock scraping against rock and echoing, winding throughout the stony crags. A stiff breeze sweeps down from the misty peaks above to the east, and brings the sound of creaking wood. Are there trees about?

The Parvasson's mouth forms a small 'Ooh' of surprise and interest at the sight of the rock in the Hirdan's hand, but rather than pause to inspect it for an extensive amount of time, she resumes her hasty writing, casting Gondramind a look of mock balefulness as she does so. Such is the attention of Cefelleth upon her work that she does not notice the fell sounds in the night, nor Linnuial's detection of them. The maiden's dedication to her work is keen, and she does not heed the words of Feandril, foolishly it seems.

As the rumour of approach clatters gently upon the rocks to the east, the moving tide of dark shapes contains a chitter, a faint sound caught within the wind as it joins the cackle. Among the throng, one shadow creeps forwards, and the light echo of pebbles disturbed marks its advance from the group towards the elves.

The smell... Does he really smell that? Gondramind remembers that smell. He sees Linnuial's tension and stands slowly, his eyes now firmly fixed to the dark beyond their camp, trying to pierce it with whatever night vision he has. Pebbles skitter. A hissing of rock on sand.

'Talamir believes it may be mithril,' Gilathan says simply. His voice is pitched quietly for the weft of wind upon clefted stones but the word mithril seems to drop away loudly into the night. Ere he might say more there are other noises, and one who has lived as long as he has learned to heed the slightest suggestion of danger. He turns gesturing to Linnuial. To the elleth he quickly says, 'The trees.'

Duinlas steps closer to Dairwenraiel, his hand gripping his spear tighter as he sees Linnuial raise his bow and he glances about the darkness, looking for something..... and hearing something...

The shadow that steals forwards at the fore of the group in the night pauses, its form lost in the darkness as it lays motionless. Somewhere in the depths of this concealment, the moonlight catches on cruel eyes, and they glint for but a breif instant with evil scrutiny at the elves.

The gonnhir walks toward Cefelleth and whispers, "Close your book, gwathel. Listen to the night."

Having heard the sound as well, Dairwenraiel grab Duinlas and tugs him down beside her where she crouches low by some shrubs as spring green eyes skim across the rolling terrain. The elleth's brow furrows. Too many places for those with ill intent to hide. The tracker looks to Linnuial and the guards spreading out, awaiting any command.

Rollypolly comes charging in from the west leading a large group of goblins. He trips and rolls head over heels a few times before landing on his feet again and runNing on.

The Gutted Pig -- Goblin Town 's finest eatery and watering hole. A wonderfully dark place filled with growls, grunts, groans and curses. A place a troll can enjoy the finest cuisine -- Dwarf Beard Soup, Elf Loaf, Deep Fried Man Ankle... and the libations -- grog, ale, booldwine, the sheer joy of imbibing a few casks with dear friends who would cut your throat for a shiny bead. How could any self respecting ogre not over indulge?

"OOOOW!" says Simon in a gruff complaiNing tone to his fellow she-troll. "Me head's burstin' 'n bustin' 'n me belly's rotten through 'n through.. What say I take me a little nap 'n catch yer up in a bit?" His tone is really pathetic now as he follows behind Bertha with slumped shoulders and dragging feet.

Without thinking, Gondramind reaches behind his back for his carving knives and chisles, each blade able to whittle through stone like soft pine. He places himself between Cefelleth and the oncoming orcs.

"...How he dare talk ta me like that, err..." Among the row of orcs, one that could be easily taken for a mountain walks, holding a battle axe. Also, looking very strange considering his figure, he appears to be chatting with a fellow orc, his tone sometimes rising quite a bit beyong the whispers heard everywhere. A fellow orc signaling him to keep quiet in a very rude way, Rokbelid turns to him with his deep red eyes open wide and angry, yet at that time his fellow orc says something, and he returns to him.

Even in the discomfort of her mind, Gilathan's words draw reaction from Feandril. Surprise is an emotion rarely seen on her face, but now it flickers into her expression, in that instant before she turns towards the unfamiliar (and certainly unelvish) sounds. Reflexes die hard. Her hand falls to the hilt of her sword, as she casts a quick glance towards the Parvasson close behind her, then to Gilathan, then into the oncoming darkness.

Linnuial's brows bend downward sharply as the hint of threat is now confirmed. Though for the briefest of moments, he looks at a loss, for his men are not with him, and he has more than but one elleth to protect. "Call back everyone from the caves!" he hisses in a whisper, rushing toward the cavern entrance. Looking over his shoulder, he calls to the other guards, "Sentries, form a column for us to retreat westward! I do not think we will have time to stow the tents!"

A scrawny goblin, by the name of Ghashriz to those who know him, creeps along through the underbrush, his snout like nose snuffling at the air as he moves--each step being almost made on hands as well as feet. Despite the odd gait he moves swiftly enough, snapping sticks and twigs despite his best attempts not to.

Cefelleth's eyes glimmer with sudden realisation, and the small book closes softly but hesitantly as she looks from Gondramind to Feandril, brow furrowing in surprise and fear. She nods hastily at the Hirdan's words, and then stiffens at the bestial noises that echo through the darkness, following Feandril into the shadows.

Off in the dark, still in the dark, steeped in it and covered with a red shroud the color of dried blood, the Lord of the Goblins allows himself a menacing laugh as the towering beast in front of him mutters about Deep Fried Man ankle.

"You left out my favorite - Pickled Halfling Tongue."

No doubt, the Goblin Town forces are nearing ever closer their destination. That is evident by the tingly feeling of the place. The Goblin King's hackles stand on end. 'We will claim what is ours - with much shed blood!' He laughs again at his words earlier this eveNing. Just then, clear voices ring out up ahead. The ranks slow. Murmers break out. Words spoken in several orcish dialects.

Two words, and the Hirdan need say no more. Ailiell's dark head whips around searching for the source of the slipping, slithering sounds --another landslide?-- before she turns towards the trees. Two steps, and she freezes, clumsy voices making themselves heard; no landslide, this. The healer breathes slowly, slipping into the deepest shadow on hand.

Gilathan's cloak flicks out past his long legs as he leaps up towards the crevice, his sword flashing out into the darkness, calling to his fellow Artisans, 'Those with weapons draw. Those without fallback to the trees!' He turns then, looking back to his wife, his eyes bright. He is still for but a moment before he again urging those in his charge down.

At the fore of the goblins' advance, the gleaming eyes stir once more, and continue to creep along. Faik'datz, his steps light but measured as they scamper forwards suddenly pause once more to glance back to the trolls and the King. Another peer into the night towards the elves, and the goblin scurries then back through the inky darkness to rejoin the horde.

"Come on!" shouts Gondramind to the aristans at the cave mouth. "Go. Now. To the camp. "Ailiell" he says to the healer "Linnuial has called us back. Come on " He fingers his chisels as he heads with the other artisans toward the tents. His mind now curses the oath, but his hand.

Dairwenraiel tenses at the grunts and smells wafting to her. A well hewn bow is ready in her hands, the arrow placed with it's point towards the ground beside her. At the call to ready, the bow is whipped forward and drawn, awaiting only a target.

Ranknor is in the middle of another, smaller group of goblins, which for the moment is creeping slowly, crouched, down the side of the hill. He looks around him, ever devious, ever paranoid. He is clutching his sword in its rough sheath with his right hand, and his left hand he uses to feel the floor.

That small creaking sound that came with the wind creaks once again--the noise of a tree branch straiNing against the breeze, or something more dangerous? But suddenly, as the loud voice of the troll crashes into the suspensfully hovering silence, a sharp curse in a foul tongue pierces the air in response. The blatant words of the Goblin Lord follow, and then cackling of the same voice comes, now unmistakable for laughter rather than crashing stones. And at last, a final creak comes, but within another split-second reveals itself for what it is with the *TWANG* of a bow string. A black-feathered arrow whizzes in from the east!

Duinlas looks outward from his crouch next to Dai and grunts at the smell, and sound, shaking his head, he whispers quietly, "This is not good."

Rollypolly charges on waving his mace above his head. Again he stumbles and rolls over several times before landing on his feet. It may seem this is just another way for the fat little goblin to get around.

Behind the runNing front of raging, twisted forms, a host of goblin archers hoist their crude bows from their backs. RunNing from behind, a torch-bearing goblin emerges, scurrying along to this secondary line, where the archers await. Lifting strips of tar-drenched skin from pouches at their sides, each deftly wraps the length about a long arrow-bolt, then holding them out for the torch-bearer to light. Now they are ready! Bright spots against the hillside, arrows drawn at the ready, release and firery death awaiting only a command. Among these archers is Muzzah, thick-legged, torn-mouthed sergeant-of-arms. He stands with his teeth bared, gritted. His large ears are attuned to the voice of his overlord, awaiting the bark of his command. (MUZZAH)

Cackling and creeping, waiting and watching...these are for mere goblins in the night. For a grand creature such as Bertha, a better entrance is needed...

Needed, but not allowed. Before she can slide further down the steep slope, the she-troll halts to answer the question of her companion. "Don't be a lousy fool, Simon. Save yer naps for when th' sun's huntin'. I'm hungry, and ye don't hear me complain, do ye?" A second step is misplaced, this one worse than that first one. As the goblins leap out from their hiding-places and charge, Bertha is left only to tumble head over heels the short distance toward the camp. She recovers control just in time to land with a thud on her heels, swaying slightly. "Let's go get munchies, Simon!" she cries in that loud, definitely uncouth voice.

One of the sentries, already in the midst of forming the ordered column, is struck in the leg by the arrow. He falters, but does not fall.

"...And I am sure he do this ta me too..." The half-mountain raises a huge left thumb with many cuts in it to the face of his orc friend, the two still focused on their conversation as the Goblin Lord begins to speak. Bumping into the creature standing before him, Rokbelid's eyes seem angry again, and yet he looks around at the entire group for a while, and looks as if he finnally grasped some very important information. Hissing softly, as much as a mountain can hiss, Rokbelid looks at the Goblin Lord and the creatures in the front ranks near him, he himself being in the middle.

Though many of the artisan's flee to the tents, still some remain, ready to fight. Celebren pulls his staff which has been fastened across his back and hold it ready, awaiting the attack.

Ghashriz lopes along, fingers clawing at the dirt as much as his bare the odd toenails that protrude from a hole in his boots. One green eye and one red focus on a movement amongst the Goblin masses--Faik'datz. Hurridly the scarwny one lopes to catch up to his fellow goblin.

"Ah!! A great night for a fight!" the Goblin Lord rumbles as he picks up his pace to a trot, then a sturdy run. His cloak billows out behind him as he brandishes a serrated scimitar, watching the towering beasts before him lumber towards where he expects the elves to be camped.

"Let them have it," he says to the captain leading the archers. "There's no bloody forrest to hide in this time!" A laugh that sounds like an earthquake. "It's about time our boys smell burNing elf-flesh again!"

The twang and hiss of arrows makes the gonnhir's hand itch his mind blaze, but he is weaponless and helpless. Gondramind's hand closes more tightly now around a cluster of chisels and knives in his hand. He looks into the dark. Cefelleth? Where is Cefelleth?

All to eager to follow the guidance of her superior, Cefelleth quickly replaces her writing equipment in her back, fasting the bag down and thus enabling her to run as swiftly and unhinered as she can. Cerulean pools of sight glimmer with fear as they watch the night, keen Elven ears catching many of the strange and fell calls echoing from the approaching Orcs, but she nods - and steels herself for the approaching dash to apparent safety.

As an arrow is loosed, there is no longer question of what the future holds. Dairwenraiel remains poised in her perch, the elves below readying for retreat between her and the oncoming horde. She awaits only the command to give cover.

Linnuial staggers as the great trolls make themselves known, and his gestures for retreat grow increasily desperate. "Retreat between the sentries' lines! Do not linger even at the camp!" Moving toward Gilathan and Feandril, he calls, "We must give the others time to distance themselves, especially from the trolls." An arrow flies over his head, well above him--but he still ducks.

Though perhaps not as organized as the goblin horde, a troll may be just as dangerous, of not more so. "Can't let 'em goblins catch all th' tasties, Simon," growls the angry troll. Then she begins to run forward, ground trembling slightly under her large weight. At this point, her only move seems to be to continue to push forward, toward the sound and smell of the elves.

Rollypolly charges forward straight toward Celebren. He trips gain and still closes the distance between them at a quick roll before he regains his feet.

Faik'datz slinks along within the murderous horde, and his lips peel back to reveal sharp fangs, sneaking out from his mouth in an eager gnashing. His hand drops to his scimitar, drawing it free with a hiss of relish. As Ghashriz approaches, he glares to her in greeting, and cackles quietly. "Haha!," says he, "Here to join the party Ghashriz? I had thought for a minute that you were hiding. C'mere, and steal a peek at the filth."

At the Goblin-Lord's command, shrieking arrows of fire cross the night sky, two dozen volleys boding doom for the silver ones. Muzzah hollers to his archers, "You 'erd the King. Lett'em 'ave another, an' another!" With a gleeful, horrid smile dripping streams of drool, he lights another arrow from a torch that he has taken. His minions do the same, and soon another shower of fire will rain down upon the rearguard of the elves.

A field of blossoming fire has sprung upon the craggy flank of the mountain. Arrows slither into the night like swimmers into a deep lake. Gilathan ducks near late as one catches upon his cloak. His lips twist, he slaps one last Artisan who is struggling with his pack on the shoulder. The pack thuds to the ground and both of them begin to fall back from the caves. One nod is all the Hirdan can spare for Linnuial.

Duinlas growls and pushes up from his crouch and moves away from Dai toward those unarmed, to protect them obviously, coming shoulder to shoulder with Gondramind, his spear at the ready, "You need help, Mellon?"

Ranknor is in the middle of another, smaller group of goblins, which for the moment is creeping slowly down the side of the mountain, towards the elves. Flaming arrows fly overhead, but the band remains unchecked, and carries on moving forward. Suddenly, an arrow hits the group's leader, just below the right knee. He stumbles, and begins to roll on the floor trying to put the flame out. Ranknor calmly takes out his flask, and pours its contents over the small flame, which gives a pathetic sizzle, and dies. He picks the leader up, and glares at him. The leader simply turns away from Ranknor, and limps on, regardless of the pain in his leg. Ranknor draws a short sword, and holds it in front of him as he creeps.

Ghashriz looks up and snuffles again, the end of his 'snout' twitching and curling as the smell of elves reaches his nose. "Nearly trampled then.." the skin and bone goblin with the mismatched eyes mutters whiNingly as he leans in closer to Faik'datz and then scrats furiously at the tangled mop of filthy hair on his head. All the comments were made in a low voice though there really is little need.

Linnuial's anger flares as the arrows continue to rain down, and he gives no more orders, instead raising his bow and firing into the squirming dark which now hurls the darts. His bow creaks, pauses, and then groans again as he pulls the wood to its limit. His fingers slip from the arrow and it flies, passing Mugzog's in flight even as it speeds toward Linnuial to stick in his shoulder, eliciting a sharp cry from the edhel.

Feandril narrows her eyes grimly and nods to Linnuial's words, but she does not leave her current position. An arrow whistles past her head. It might, just MIGHT be dangerous to stay. Within a moment, her decision is made. Pushing Cefelleth backwards, she retreats, a few steps, only so much that she can shield the elleth's flight, while her eyes are still locked on the oncoming enemies. "Go!" she whispers, urgently, "Go now!"

Duinlas nods to Gondramind and begins to order about the artisans out, closing any sacks that are lying about and tossing them to those with empty hands, "It's a long run back to the valley!" he calls to the Artisans, "Make speed! Up the path."

Ailiell hurries from the shadows of the treeline and after those fleeing, one quick glance flying towards the sound of the Hirvaethor's cry. Her rapid steps falter.

Gondramind shakes his head. "Leave them. Leave them, we've no time." He tosses packs and sack to the ground. "Get going toward the line. That's it."

Whether it be a command to shelve books or to flee through the night, Cefelleth obeys Feandril and runs wildly in the indicated direction, dissapearing through the shadows like a whisp of red-and-blue. The Parvasson's heart pounds with fear and her eyes search about the darkness for the way, but she does not pause or falter, and continues onwards heedlessly.

Beating his arm against his chest, Faik'datz grins to Ghashriz and replies, "Then be glad that you werent. You dont want to miss the fun!" He looks then over to the King and the other captains, eager eyes awaiting a sign. "If the boss ever gets around to charging that is."

Simon halts to watch the other troll stumble. Goblins pass by on either side, one so brave as to scamper between his legs. "Yer always hungry Berfa, 'n iffin yer had any sense yer'd let 'em goblins smash 'em up first, then we goes and gets 'em when the pickin's easy..." Resuming the march, club dragging behind the hungover olog shakes his head and sighs. "But iffin yer belly's set on it lets get 'er over with quick."

Linnuial's actions are order enough. Dairwenraiel adds her arrows to those the Hirvaethor looses. The succession of shots is quick, whatever the resulting accuracy, as the maiden notches a new arrow before the previous comes to rest. As the column begins it's seemingly too slow retreat, the tracker pops up from her cover and makes a fleet footed run for another position.

Fabric flutters against the wind as Gilathan whirls his burNing cloak away from his slender figure. His figures are gilded in golden shadows for a moment. With a sigh his companion sags to the ground, a beaten doll suddenly, planted with three

Twunk! Burn. Twunk! Yelp. Twunk! Snarlburn. The Goblin King can only laugh as most of his warriors' arrows find the ghastly flesh of their own kin.

"Hah! I'll have to work extra hard in the breeding pits after this one, Muzzah!" he booms, scimitar raised high. A sly look slithering across his face, the toothy grin of a crocodile, the Goblin leader begins to take monstrous steps forward. His ironshod boots carry his heft at an ever increasing pace. Boomcrunch boom! He touts again, full of pride and grandiousity. A fouler rally many have never heard.

"See the weaklings fly like scavengers from a carcass?" he laughs. "They pilfer what is ours! They steal what will make the horde strong! They are like blowflies on a dead dog - in disarray when the butcher comes to do his job!" The King slices at the air with his weapon. "Run away, fools, or be ground into the dust beneath our boots!" Cackles fill the air (mixed with whiNing and yelping, of course. Orcs don't burn quietly).

The arrow from Linnuial's bow flies straight and true--but his target Mugzog leaps from rock to rock in a frenzy of laughter and spit, and there is no target where the arrow seeks one. Still, the arrow finds a profitable task even if it misses the jumpy goblin's body, for it crashes into the gangly archers quiver, missing his head by mere inches. The force of the shot is still enough to bowl the small creature over, spilling his black-fletched arrows across the rocky slope. As he collides with the earth his bow, too, clatters to the ground and is soon swept away into a crevice by the many runNing feet.

His wicked delight and laughter gone, Mugzog stands himself back up and pulls his blade from his belt.

An arrow pierces Bertha in the knee, a jab in her thick troll-skin. Whether it is friendly fire or a sting from the enemy, Bertha cannot tell, but she howls in pain. "I'll teach 'em elves," she cries, and grabs the nearest thing--a boulder, waist-high to an elf, than lies in her path. And without regard to its aim, she lifts it over her head and hurls it toward the camp, letting loose a shout as it flies...

With the orc stumbling towards him, a feirce gaze overcomes Celebren. His verdant eyes are angry, yet cool. Not a hint of fear crosses his face. He moves his staff into position to deflect the orc's attack, and waits for it to commence.

Gondramind turns at the horrific roar, in time to see the troll hoist a tremendous boulder and throw it toward Gilathan and the crevice. His eyes narrow in the dark searching for Cefelleth and the others. "Where is she?"

About fifteen yards short of where Celebren stands, the leader of the stealthy group signals them to hold still. They freeze, and crouch right down, flat on the ground, waiting for further signal. Ranknor crouches with the rest of them, an evil grin coming over his face. He plays with the patterns on the hilt of his sword, and watches carefully, waiting with the others.

Duinlas shakes his head, "We must cover the retreat!" he says, although he is unsure as he sees the masses of enemies upon them, he leaps forward and thrusts his spear forward at the same time, impaling one quickly, but taking a quick step back as more rush upon him.

Red eyes burNing as he sees the heat of battle, the mountain like orc with the battle axe quickly makes his way through the lines till he is in the very front, not caring as he pushes through very annoyed, yet much smaller creatures. Standing a few feet away from the Goblin Lord, Rokbelid grins deeply and stupidly at the battlefield, moving the battleaxe in his hands.

"Yesh..yesh indeed" Ghashriz grins lopsidedly (this really is one mismatched oddity of a goblin) and energetically as he yanks a notched and filthy scimitar from a place at his tattered belt and loped forwards some, skull turNing on his twisted spine to look and see Faik'datz follows.

There is no time. No time to think of oath or honor. They are about them now. Gondramind leaps backward as an orc slashes toward his legs with a crude scimitar. Without thinking he flings a chisel direcetly at the creature, impaling it through the eye.

Rollypolly charges onward toward the elf. He raises his mace to strike but runs into the elf's staff and bounces off rolling backwards. Although he seems unharmed he don't seem tjo be hurting anyone either.

He never saw it. Leaping over the shredded remains of pines ripped from higher above down to where the rearguard holds against the cacophany of hungry things he falls back and to the left as a boulder slams against his shoulder. In a scattering carpet of loose stones he slides and tumbles some feet before finding his feet again. It is a measure of Gilathan's experience that despite pain and fall his sword always remained free in the air.

Linnuial barely manages to leap away himself to avoid the boulder cast at Gilathan. He gasps at the troll, sighting along the shaft of a newly nocked arrow, leveling the point with Bertha's eye. Even as arrows cut the air around him, the Hirvaethor fires with a steady hand, though the troll's hide may still be beyond the strength of Brantoril's yew and string.

Gondramind's chisel sends the orc to the ground. The creature howls and shrieks, gripping the tool in his eye socket. Another bloodthirsty creature, however, trounces upon him .. and their are many more behind! The orc opens his mouth and curses at no one in particular.

"Enough with the arrows, lads! To arms! Getcher stickers and prickers, bashers and smashers. Let's 'ave a grand meal!" Muzzah's screeching voice rakes the ears of his archers, and all fall in quickly, racing to charge ahead of their fast-lumbering king. Muzzah himself brandishes a wicked black spear, and he thrusts it to the air repeatedly, his piercing war-cry urging the next wave of troops onward and onward. Like a wave washing upon the shore, this group of orcs both slithers around and pounds upon those elves stalwart and unfortunate enough to be the first line of defense.

As bigger targets present themselves, Dairwenraiel plants herself once more. Her bow is readied quickly and the source of hurled boulders is sighted. Shafts sail one after another to join Linnuial's, ripping through the air in vicinity of the troll (Bertha).

The stealthy leader has evidently recieved his signal, and he shouts "Chaaaaaarrrrrgggggeeeee!!!" and stands, runNing forward. An elvish arrow hits him in the forehead almost immediately, and he drops down, dead. The rest of the group hesitates for a moment, before Ranknor shouts, "Leave him, come on!" and beckons widely with and arm. He runs at Celebren, sword raised above his head.

Faik'datz' nose rankles in impatience, but he merely cursed to himself at the delay, and scrapes along in Ghashriz' wake. "C'mon, c'mon," he mutter, rude hate burNing in his gruff features as he peers ahead once more to the elves. Cackling with genuine mirth at the boulder thrown by Bertha, he calls out with a wicked cry, "Hows that for a piece of the precious earth!" Sneering anew, he glance to Ghashriz, and says, "After you lad, lets spike some theiving flesh!" And he springs forwards with the front line, seeking a challenge.

Following Ranknor's lead, a green-skinned orc charges over his fallen leader, howling and carrying a spear that is little more than a stick sharpened at one end with some feathers hastily tied at the other.

Duinlas grabs Gondramind by the shoulder and pulls him backward and up the retreating path, scowling at the mass of foes in close pursuit...

An orc upon him now, the gonnhir's mind turns back to old and easy tracks of blood. His hands still grasp several knives and chisels. He grapples with the creature, avoiding claws and teeth... Rolling, pinNing it to the ground with his legs he slashes it throat with a knife, then leaps off him and looks for Duinlas.

A laugh almost escapes Celebren's lips as the orc goes rolling back. Taking a charge towards him, he swings his staff downwards at the creature, swinging his staff down at the creature. Without caring whether it hit or not, He raises his staff again to deflect the oncoming attack.

"Back now! Over the moors!" Feandril's voice is clear, and as rarely as she raises it, it certainly reaches far now. Despite her words, she presses on forward now, forward, towards Gilathan's side, if she could reach him...

Having not the patience to wait for anything, the foolish mountain like orc lifts his two handed battle axe without great difficulty, and begins runNing towards the elf ranks. Rokbelid stumbles on a few rocks as he moves clumsily.

Ailiell runs. The elleth swerves where she may, pausing as arrows fly over and by, but she runs. Spying Gilathan's fall, she falters roughly in that direction. But spying Celebren beset she pauses again, suddenly unsure of her path.

Ghashriz grins, tongue lolling and saliva dripping from it "Elf-flesh tastes so sweet, deshpite the shtink.." He brandishes his filthy blade in a wild and frenzied way..jumping forward a pace to peer at the elf-lines, looking for a suitable target..

"Cefelleth. Where is Cefelleth?" Gondramind shouts as Duinlas pulls him from the frey. "I count them all, but not her!" And he breaks free form Duinlas' grip. But Feandril's sharp command pulls him short and he runs with the others.

From far up above, this scene must look like hundreds of little black ants (armed with helmets and curved blades and bows) scurrying about, over, around, on top of each other, through cracks and crags, and runNing in every which way, and joined by two large, beetles (the kind that throw boulders, of course). Fire ants, perhaps? Some are literally, as they are red with flame. But be they ants or goblins, they move in a swarming mass to the single spot like an entire colony that rushes to claim the sugar granule that fell from the mouth of some child.

From the midst of the ant-like swarm, Mugzog cries in a slightly-larger-than-ant-sized voice, "The trolls, the trolls, you dummies! Get behind the trolls!" His shouts are perhaps inspired by the several goblins that have run themselves right through the foremost blades of the elven line.

The small gaggle of orcs near Duinlas and Gondramind press ever closer. The short and squat forms of Goblins seem to appear out of nowhere, howling and shrieking. Their tatooed faces bear strange symbols that are no doubt a testament to their wicked way of life. One creature, with a bone through the septum of his nose, yanks the chisel from the dead orc's eye and waves it threateNingly at Duinlas and Gondramind.

One more shot flies from Linnuial's bow, though not another arrow is wasted on the troll. This last one is sent toward the shouting leader of the advancing goblins. Still, even should one orc fall, the flood still comes, and Linnuial readies his shield and sword to meet it.

Baraceleb rushes forth from the retreating camp. Wielding his staff as he heads to Gondramind's side. Wielding it so fast it is a blur. It takes a few hits for him to strike down an orc.

Duinlas grabs Gondramind again and obeys the command of Feandril, shaking his head, "She'll be out, come now." His feet thudding over the ground as he moves quickly, his eyes flashing from left to right looking for Dairwenraiel as he runs.

Suddenly more arrows whiz through the air like flies. But only one bites this troll, despite the creature's sheer size; most fly wide. Linnuial's, though aimed for the eye, hits further down: on the left shoulder, leaving only a nick. Still, the sharp pain lasts long enough to inflame the troll again. She bends down to scoop up a second boulder, this one needing some effort to yank from the ground, where it is partially buried. Then a second one goes flying, this one harder, with an even louder cursing shout.

Gondramind sees the orc taunting them with his own chisel and spits in his direction. Shaking free again from Duinlas' grip, he flings another knife toward the taunting orc, and runs with the retreating artisans. Cursing, craving a bow.

Despite the battle that has erupted, Cefelleth flies heedless through the night, mind filled with the sounds and visions of Orcs and death. She blinks back sudden tears of fear, as much for the others as herself, but then suddenly a bright form can be seen ahead, onto which she nearly stumbles. The Parvasson pauses, recognising Ailiell with mute joy, though her gaze hurriedly ranges hither and thither as she searches for the route onwards.

Baraceleb strikes down orc after orc moving from Gondramind further into the frey. His staff moves as fast as it can blocking stabs and thrusts of scimitars.

Seeing the knot of nasties pull tigher about Duinlas and Gondramind, Dairwenraiel refocuses her shots there. Darl forms tumble back from the pair and their charges under the maiden's fire.

"Flee like the vermin you are!" the Goblin King continues to boast. His chest is puffed with pride as he takes in his surroundings with a raised brow and haughty frown. The sound of death surrounds him and he smiles.

"If I had my way I'd .." THUNK!!!! An arrow buries itself in the King's shoulder. He yelps reflexively, then bites his tongue - literally. The salty taste of blood fills his mouth as the Goblin leader wonders if his reputation has been tarnished. Gathering his cloaks, the King frowns and continues to rant to the night sky as if nothing has happened.

Demonstrating a most peculiar and uncanny skill, Muzzah, using his spear like a vault leaps flea-like over the sparse ranks of defenders. His intent is not to stop until he reaches the furthermost retreating elves, if it were somehow possible. "Pretty swine! Here pretty swine! Goblin wants to *talk* with you!!", he howls, madness in his voice. Bounding upwards between bursts of four to six steps, he closes the gap between his own vile figure and that of an elvish maiden.

Ranknor is flung aside by Celebren's staff, but several more goblins fly in after him. From his recently prostrated position, Ranknor shouts to the orcs he has recently taken command of; "The one shooting, attack him!" he points to Linnuial. Six orcs run at him, most armed with crude spears. Ranknor gets up off the ground, and slowly walks toward Celebren, just out of range of his staff.

The axe slowly begiNing to go down as the half-mountain quickly runs towards a random elf, Rokbelid has a very wide grin on his face. "Me be getting good pointee eared to chew on...."

At last he catches sight of her. Through the confusion and dark, Gondramind sees Cefelleth and Ailiell together somewhere between the camp and the front line. He looks to the fleeing artisans, looks to them, and for a hair's breath stands suspended in doubt as to where he should run.

Indeed, Dairwenraiel's shots find their mark! The orc with a bone through his nose goes to the ground, on his knees, and drops the chisel from his left hand. A well-crafted arrow protrudes from his forehead, a cruel reminder of elven marksmanship. "I, I, I .." and then the creature's tongue lolls out and he falls on his face.

Trailing near the end of the retreat, Duinlas spots the orc charging toward them, he lets out a growl and moves to intercept, letting out a cry as he hears the cruel words, "Talk with orcs is cheap at best, come forward and die with the rest!"

Peering about with blood on his mind, Faik'datz slashes the scimitar violently through the air. "Come my slender morsels. Let us carve a roast from your hides!" Catching sight of Feandril's frenzied dash to reach Gilathan, a tongue lolls out in snickering approval. "I see you," he mutters with glee, and looks to Ghashriz. "You coming?" he smirks cruelly, before giving chase, slinking in the elf's wake as he follows.

Celebren peers around madly, jabbing here and swing there. The orcs foul voice reaches his ears as he let's out a command, and the Artisan goes charging towards him. Swinging high, then coming around low, Celebren fights with grace and determination.

"Oy! Great Gobliner!" Simon yells to the blood frenzied Goblin King. "Yer lettin' 'em get away! Der all runNin' off.. "n what's left to be et?" Frustrated Simon picks up the pace. His lumbering gate accelerates into a trot and as he passes Bertha on the way to the heart of the encampment he he shouts to her as well. "Yer fool idear damn yer ugly toes.. 'n yer stands back 'n throws stones!!" Swinging his massive club high in the air a battle cry rings gruffly from his diaphram to the orcs that have gathered around him and use him as a shield. "Common yer stinkers follow me!"

The vaulting orc draws a slight cry from the healer's lips, and Ailiell backpedals, nearly crashing into Cefelleth. "Run," she murmurs, pale as moonlight. And then, more loudly, "Run!" She turns, flying though she knows not where. Just ... away.

Gondramind sees the foul orc's great leap and reaches again behind his back, pulling forth more knives, mor chisels, praying they will last the night, and runs with Duinlas toward creature.

Linnuial again dives to the ground as the troll hurls another boulder, and arrows from his quiver that he had untied spill out around him. Even as he pushes to his feet, the half-dozen spear-orcs rush him. The young edhel's eyes widen, and he backpedals madly, throwing his shield arm forward to parry the spears. One cracks before the sturdy elven shield, others are deflected into the ground; yet, one bites the Hirvaethor's leg, bringing him to his knee.

Two of the sentries rush to Linnuial's aid, engaging some of the spear-orcs and allowing Linnuial to smite the orc who stabbed him, the spear tearing from his flesh as the foe falls backward.

The retreating column moves slowly past Dairwenraiel's position. The maiden becomes aware that the snarls and roars are not as far as before. Ceasing her cover fire, the elf finds herself in a head long retreat as the horde spreads like dark ooze to the higher positions above the camp. The tracker calls out, "Above! They're spreading above! Move more quickly!" as she abandons her high cover for retreat with the camp.

Muzzah's foul words - not to mention breath - rudely caress Cefelleth's senses, and for a moment she scrunches her face up in disgust at her first whiff of Orc. But the flight and words of Ailiell do not seem to reach the Parvasson's mind, such is her startled fear, and with the strength of driving terror, the elleth unslings her only weapon - the bag over her shoulder, heavy with books - and swings it in a wide arch at the approach Uruk.

"Yesh, Ghashriz' comin!" The oddity of a goblin shrieks to his partner-in-crime Faik'datz and then lopes forwards towards the elven woman, Feandril, waving his scimiatar hungrily but then stumbling upon a stone he rolls and is forced to twist so not as to impale himself. Getting up and continuing he grins "We's comin' elf-pretty!"

Wreathed in a cloud of dirt briefly, Gilathan has time to spy the next invitation for his sword. Almost casually he sidesteps the rock, his eyes finding those of the troll who threw it. Still Elves are fleeing. With a rueful smile, sad, Gilathan stumbles forward to hold the line, his left arm somewhat held awkwardly. He does not see the Orc attacking Feandril.

Rollypolly bares his teeth and lets out a blood curdling warcry and charges toward Celebren. He swings his heavy mace toward the head of the elf.

Baraceleb strikes down another orc as he comes to a halt among his commrades in arms. His staff is bloodyed quite enough but still he fight unwilling to retreat untill neccsary.

Having fallen in behind the elf-plow, Simon, Mugzog jogs along quickly now, more or less sheltered from arrows (those from in front, anyhow), and brandishing his jagged blade and yelling, enjoying the effortless glory that comes with having a troll for one's vanguard. Not a few other goblins seem to be enjoying the same benefit, though, and the thick press gradually squeezes Mugzog's smaller body out of the crowd, and like a pea being squeezed out of a pod, the goblin shoots out tumbling along the rocks, where he lands at the feet of the elf Baraceleb.

Dazed and startled, he looks up and jabs hurriedly, trying to scurry back to his feet at the same ime.

Elven ears are sharp. Feandril whips around, her sword held ready as she tries to focus on both orcs charging after her. The troll in her back almost seems forgotten for now.

"There ye go with my toes again, ye lout. I've had enough of them stones. I'll sit on those elves, I will. Ye see if they shoot their arrows then!" Bertha takes great steps forward, crushing one or two bodies in her path as she plows through, heading toward the victim of one of her boulders, Gilathan.

As the orcs in Ranknor's group are largely dispatched, he curses them in an evil deep voice, and shouts, "Come on you maggots! We've got sweetmeat tonight if you actually bother to fight!" With that he marches towards Celebren. However, as soon as he is in range he finds a staff swinging at his head. He successfully ducks it, and stands straight again, only to find the other end of the staff coming at his feet. He jumps, but is hit in the ankles, and ends up sprawled out on the floor, next to Celebren's legs. Ranknor raises his sword above his head, and swings it at Celebren's knee, in time with Rollypolly's attack.

Books, as it were, affect a certain and sometimes deadly toll on the minds of goblins of very little brain. The elven maiden's heavy bag catches the lewaping-goblin Muzzah offguard, glancing as he was hungrily at her long legs. *Crack!* The blow sends him head-over-heels, but does not knock him unconscious. Rubbing his forehead, eyes momentarily crossed, he curses, spear held in right hand, hand upon the ground.

"Aye! The white meat fights back! Tastes all the better when it's *lively!*" Scrambling to his feet, Muzzah begins another charge at Cefelleth, spear thrust forward.

Gondramind sees the huge orc Muzzah looming over Cefelleth. "Duinlas! Come on!" and he runs toward her, and the beast, pulling a spear for the boddy of a fallen orc as he runs. "You! Can you fight only women?"

Faik'datz cannons forwards in his pursuit, and his scimitar dances murderously before his charge. As Feandril draws to halt, he too slows, and begins to circle warily as she turns to face him and Ghashriz. Fully aware of his companion's imminent arrival, the goblin spits upon the floor, and begins to close, though he moves about so that the elf might be caught in between both challenges, should she fall for the ploy that is.

Hoping the Trolls' might will rub of on himself (or at least reflect on himself), the Goblin King lowers his blade and falls in behind the menacing beasts. They shelter their followers like mighty towers, and the King is thankful for their brute strength, though you wouldn't know it from the deep frown in his face.

"You heard the Goblin-friends," he says, "If you want flesh in the kettles tonight, follow these blessed Beasts!"

Given the circumstances, and rather rude words of the Orc (or so she thinks), Cefelleth does the most graceful thing that she can: she stumbles back, screaming at the sight of the onrushing spear, swinging her bag again in a large arch, this time with even more strength, driven as it is by a rush of adrenaline.

Duinlas is seperated from Gondramind as he sees another group of Orcs charging and charges at the center, his attack being met with a grin from the orc as the beast charges at Duinlas wantonly. With a cry, Duinlas stops moments before hitting the orc and drops to a kneel, his spear straight ahead, impaling the orc on the end.

Eye burn brightly into the darkness underneath a dark hood. Spilling forth from under the dark garment are whips of curls as dark as the night. As a star breaking the perfectness of the night's sky, a blade shines forth; grasped tightly in the lady guard's gloved hand. Naurloth's step leading her towards Celebren, her silver eyes following her sword as she raises it towards Celebren's attacker as he swings towards his head.

Spindly bodies fly about against the charge of the inspired troll. Gilathan spares a glance for the field. The clearing bound by the landslide is hit by another, one of bodies, a frenzied mix of flesh and steel. The Elf jumps off a sharp rock, landing closer to the troll, his back to his wife, but closer to her as well.

Baraceleb jumps back two feet as an orc lands in fornt of him out of this air. Not wasting anytime he starts at him with his staff swinging hecticly through the air. His first strike comes down towards the shoulder of Mugzog.

Dairwenraiel drops her bow back over her shoulder and draws a hunter's knife. The blade is far from elegant, but long and sharp. One's left to wonder if orcs disembowel like a felled deer. The elleth arrives at the camp. "Leave it! Just run!" She screams at an elf who is attempting to pack a satchel. Eyes full of the first life of spring look back to the approaching elves in retreat as the maiden lifts the knife in some attempt to ready herself for battle.

The Parvasson is not by her side. This thought seems to reach Ailiell slowly, and she looks behind her, drawing to a halt. "Cefelleth!" she calls as the maiden screams, finally drawing her bow from her back. One ashen arrow is nocked more swiftly than thought, though Gondramind's onrushing momentarily gives her pause. Another heartbeat's time, a clear view, and she lets fly her dart towards Muzzah's spear hand.

Gondramind lets fly with his spear, aiming directly at the back Muzzah's head, realizing as he does so, that he has broken more than an old oath.

Ghashriz's blade is, by flick of wrist, shifted from side to side like the thrashing tail of a happy dog, as he too tries to keep Feandril between him and Faik'datz. The goblin's head tilts to one side "Pretty-she going to try and run away from Ghashriz and Faik'datz..could have soo much fun..yesh.." he hisses and snuffles at the elf.

Snarling at Gondramind, Muzzah brandishes his weapon, spinNing to face him. "Who said anything about fighting? I'm HUNGRY!! This one looks like the nicest morsel among you. Step aside an' lemme eat!" He pokes the air before the one who would interfere with his choice of delicassies. A growl and a scream of frustration rip out of him, as he eyes the maiden ruefully, stomach actually audibly moaNing in anticipation. *Thwack!* A dart penetrates his hand, and he drops his spear, looking about in momentary disbelief. Quickly he picks the spear up in the other hand, licking at his own blood, gnawing at the shaft, still-impaled.

An elf that doesn't flee? A deep growl comes from Bertha's belly as she spies Gilathan standing in front of her. "Aye, tasty, why aren't ye runNing?" she asks, lunging forward and extending two enormous hands in an attempt to snatch the elf right off his feet.

With Naurloth come to help, Celebren flashes a quick glance at her, before moving to Rollypolly to inflict some damage. A glare that could melt lead is aimed at the orc as he comes flying towards him, his staff swinging at his head with precision and grace.

The distraction offered by the approach of Gondramind, as well as the arrow of Ailiell, is all Cefelleth needs. Leaping to her feet, she charges recklessly at Muzzah - fear banished by rash impulse - pushing her pack as hard as she can towards his head in an attempt to beat him into the ground.

The ground trembles under Simon's reckless footfalls. And reckless they are as at least one of his companions is crushed before the battle is joined. Arrows flash by dropping near half of his goblin escort and leave him looking like some oversized ghastly voodoo doll. Cruel are the bolts of elves, and they not only hurt they enrage. The troll's temper is fired as he picks up and throws his first victim high into the air. The body landing like wet sack of rags. "She elfs..." he mutters "That's me super! get yer grubbin' theivin' hands aways yer runts!" It is Linnuial that has caught his eye and fancy.

A quick step back brings Feandril into a position where she can better keep an eye on both of them... but she will not be able to keep this up very long unless she wants to stumble into the troll. "You talk pretty." she calls, "Can you do more than talk?" With that, she suddenly jumps forward (the only thing to do at her current position), and drawing her sword out in a wide and quick arc aims for Faik'datz' side...

As the staff flashes toward Rollypolly it seems to come streight down at the top of his head. Suddenly the fat little butterball gets a little lopsided as black blood starts gushing out his nose.

Duinlas wrenches his spear from the belly of one orc and twists it around, bringing the blunt end against the side of another Orc's head. Continuing his spin he steps forward and thrusts the pointed end into the belly of another orc, felling them.

Linnuial's sword sings as it cuts through the air to sever one of the orc's spears, though it is a needless victory, for Simon's charge parts the Hirvaethor's former assailants like tall grass. Before him now stands a troll, and Linnuial, already injured, does not linger. A small swipe, merely to ward the beast way, does he risk toward Simon's knee, before retreating behind his shield.

Gondramind suddenly remebers the pack strapped to his back, and the precious contents within. Not stones or chisels, but a few, a very few of his stone arrows. He runs toward Ailiell and crouches down next to her. "Here," he says, unslinging his pack and withdrawing a hand full of arrows. "YOu know what these can do. Better than anyone. Use them. Now."

The spear of the elvish warrior comes hot on the heels of the arrow which Muzzah tries vainly to pull from his hand. Perhaps this leaping after the damsels was *not* the greatest of ideas. Out of one eye, the orc sergeant sees the streaking line of the spear, and only his reflexes save his head from being split like a cabbage by the thundering weapon. Into his wounded arm it plunks, dragging him dowh to the ground once more.

The dark figure of Naurloth stumbles as a she escapes the blade of a spear by no more than an inch. SpinNing westward towards the enemy she brings her sword up to meet the goblin's spear. A moment that seems to never end dances between the sword and the spear in the darkness.

If only the troll has left her admiring courtiers behind. Gilathan spins out his blade for balance as he leans in to duck the catching claws of the troll, but they still graze his cheek with rough skin. 'You need to use,' the Shipwright grunts as he brings his sword back around towards the right thigh of the creature, 'Hand cream'.

Baraceleb's hit is reflected as the goblin moves to another elf. For two of his fellows have replaced him. It takes time but both eventually go down after one gets in a light cut on Baraceleb's side. It is unnoticed however and he moves on to the next goblin

The Parvasson blinks as the Orc goes down once more, and blinded by rage and fear, she leaps onto him again, attempting to beat him to a pulp once more with her bag of books, unaware that the line of enemies is steadily encroaching.

Dairwenraiel inhales a soft hiss as the first of the attacking horde strangles into the camp. Most are easily picked off by those at the camp. Some are not. Once such darkling spies Dairwenraiel and licks it's lips. "Sweet meat..." It grumbles in a guttural language the maiden does not understand. But the intent is clear. Dairwenraiel retreats from the figure.

Ailiell eyes the gonnhir's creation silently, the surrounding chaos momentarily out of her mind. "Nay, I will not," she answers tersely. "Cefelleth, stand aside!" she cries, nocking another wooden shaft. "Now!"

The speed of Feandril's strike surprises Faik'datz, as wary as is he. Even so, he twists in an effort to parry the blow, though his own blade flies wide. The sharp metal of the elf's sword cuts a score of dark blood upon his shoulder, and a sticky river begins to ooze from the wound. "Gah!," he growls to her, "Missy elf wants to play rough does she? Well..." he hisses on, "lets learn her a trick or two Ghash!" With that, anger fuels his limbs, and he springs forwards with a vicious swipe of his blade to Feandril's chest.

Mugzog yelps as his just-opeNing eyes spot the staff hurtling down at him. He rolls on the ground and the blow just barely catches his side as he pushes himself up. Stumbling a bit from the smack of the wood, he turns himself around and spots his attacker Baraceleb now focusing on the next target.

"You shouldn't forget a goblin so easily--doesn't an elvish fellow know better?" he laughs and lunges at Baracelebe with his short-bladed sword from the side.

Ghashriz takes advantage of Feandril's quick move towards Faik'datz to make a quick, but slithering move of his own to slip around and behind the elf-woman (closer to the troll) to try and poke her in the back with the chipped and stained point of his own blade. "Wonder..ish elf prettier inshide out" the goblin spits and hisses--flecks of spittle flying everywhere. "Teach mishy a leshon yesh."

The elf's words confuse Bertha for a moment. "Hand cream?" she wonders, yelping as the sword cuts into her leg. A short cut opens up, oozing black blood on the ground. She growls again, swiping one huge fist at the blade's wielder. "I'll hand cream ye," is her only, still confused reply.

It's a close call for Simon as Linnuial's blade nearly removes the troll's kneecap. This only serves to irritate him further and his club comes around in a vicious arc, beheading two goblins that stand between him and his chosen entre. "Why don't yer give 'er 'nother go yer stinkin' elfer." And standing there,tattered shield in hand Simon taunts his prey with bulging eyes and lolling tongue.

Duinlas calls out to Gondramind and Cefelleth, "Go back! Keep going! They're gaiNing on us." And as he turns back, his parries a blow from a cruel scimitar, it's intent to wound diverted slightly, sailing into the ground as Duinlas pins the weapon and smiles a cruel smile at the orc, "Go back to your holes, slime." And he lifts the spear tip quickly from the ground into the Orc's neck.

Gondramind takes one of his own stone arrows in his bare hand, a fell light in his clear eyes as he stands next to Ailiell and eyes the line of advancing orcs. Without a word, he hefts the arrow like a small spear and tosses into the oncome line of orcs. It flies with a sharp, whistling cry and impales a short, squat, foul thing through the neck, where it shatters on impact, nearly taking the orc's head off its shoulders.

Linnuial narrows his eyes at the troll's taunt, though before any other act, he looks behind him, seeing how far the others are. He cannot lead the troll to them. He risks another strike, but this time comes out from behind his shield, swinging mightily at the troll's leg once more. All he can hope for is to hobble it. "You'd do better to feast upon your friends!"

Seeing Feandril suddenly become swarmed with attacks, Celebren makes a break for where she stands, jabbing at a few orcs on the way. Coming up behind Ghashriz he swings his staff down at the orcs skull, attempting to protect the elf-maid.

Gondramind turns toward Ailiell. "My hand have not the accuracy of your bow. Use the arrow! He is upon her!"

Baraceleb hears lightly the same voice that he nocked down just recently. He turns at an angle between both orcs he fights. Just barely cathing the Mugzog's first blow while cracking the other orcs head at the same time with the other end of the staff. He gives a murdoures look to Mugzog before going all out on him "For Ruiwen!" he yells.

Trolls multiply before Gilathan's dazed eyes as he is nearly knocked flat upon the ground, blood streaming from a cut gifting his cheek. Sans quip, he chooses a troll and slashes his sword upwards to the other leg.

The twisted figure lunges at Dairwenraiel again. The elf maiden leaps back and hurls the knife at it. The weapon tumbles end of end before it stops...betwix the creatures eyes. Letting out a hideous scream, the orc claws at the weapon before falling back, mouth agape in the shock of death. Dairwenraiel's mouth also forms an 'o' of surprise as she watches the effect of her throw on the victim. Pausing for a moment to, the maiden then grabs the hilt of the knife and tugs...And tugs again. A third time. Seems the orc is attempting to 'take it with him' as it were. As a result, the maiden positions her foot on the death thing's face and pulls, her arm muscles taunt with the strain.

As Celebren runs away Rollypolly shakes his head sending black blood splattering everywhere and gets back to his feet chasing after the elf.

Feandril's arm comes up fast as she whirls around... but it is impossible to be that fast. While she can parry Faik'datz' swipe, and twist away some from Ghashriz', the latter's blade still cuts deep into her side, and then there's that sword she stumbles over. Her traiNing has been long and is old, however. She does not lose her footing, but pressing her left hand to the cut in her side, struggles a moment for her balance. Therefore her thrust in return to Ghashriz may not be as accurately aimed as it normally would be.

Fury --not to mention the orc's choice of snack-- gives Ailiell all the motivation she needs. Without another word, she drops her ashen arrow and takes up one of Gondramind's creation. For the barest moment she steadies the strange weapon, but then it is nocked and the elleth's keen sight is fixed upon the uruk's chest. As Cefelleth rolls away, she looses the stone shaft with all the power of her small arm.

"Damn yer filthy hide 'n nasty little blade!" Simon looks at the cut just opend on his leg with amazment. "I'll serve yer head to ther Great Gobliner. Oh yer can bet on that, yes yer can." And so the club falls, from on high to down low as if to drive the elf into the ground like a peg.

Ghashriz suddenly finds the point of an elven blade, Feandril's, punching a hole in his left thigh--probably to where it was intended to go, he yelps like a wounded aNinal and jumps back bleeding to suddenly feel a crack on his skull hard enough to send him realing and careeNing towards Celebren. "Curshed elves.." he hisses even as he stumbles.

Bertha now sports a pair of matching cuts, one on each leg. Yet they are not so deep to keep her from attacking, but only add to the troll's rage. Again she crouches forward, this time closer to the ground, and sweeps her forearms across, perhaps to knock Gilathan from his feet.

Duinlas turns to look at how Cefelleth fairs, and lets out a cry of despair as he sees the orc upon her, then eyes widen as he sees the fury of Ailiell. Another orc is felled as it rushes him, but already Duinlas' arms weaken and the orc comes forward, slashing at him despite the spear. The orc's blade slashes wide at Duinlas, cutting through his tunic and into his arm. He cries out an tilts the spear up, forcing the Orc onto his back, and shortly to his death. He wretches the spear from the Orc's hide and stands holding his arm.

Faik'datz' cruel blade dances in the air as he recovers from the elf's parry, a grunt of annoyance at his failure. Crouching low as his cold eyes watch Ghashriz enage the warrior, his tongue lolls anew in anticpation, waiting for an opeNing. As Feandril attacks his comrade, the goblin pounces, plunging his jagged weapon towards the elf maiden's seemingly exposed side.

An elf maiden with both feet on an orc, trying to haul her only weapon free. Perhaps the situation is just too inane to be taken as reality. Whatever the reason, miraculously none attack Dairwenraiel as she least out a strangled scream of effort. A sickeNing sucking noise rewards her efforts and the tracker recovers her balance as the weapon is freed suddenly with a spray of gore. Blinking through icor, Dai turns to greet a new opponent.

Ghashriz shakes his head from side to side ans snorts at Celebren "Come getsh me elf!" He lashes out wildly with the rough scimitar towards his opponents stomach, hoping to have elf-giblets on his hands before the night is out.

Muzzah's claws reach out to grab at the fast-fleeing maiden Cefelleth, but alas, she has escaped! The sergeant keens his dismay, useless right arm being flung about himself wildly, spear and arrow still embedded, all parts and pieces hitting himself, causing further agony, louder caterwauling. His eyes turn to lock on the figure of Ailiell. Too late, he realizes that it is upon him that she has drawn a bead, and that there is an arrow- a stone-tipped arrow in fact- hurtling towards him. There is no chance this time for him to dive away, and the arrow enters his neck, slicing though espophagus and trachea instantly, before exploding into a host of razor-sharp fragments. Muzzah's head, surprised look present upon, settles down two inches on the mangled remains of his neck. For several seconds, he stands there, arms shaking. Then, finally, he topples back, and moves no more.

"For Ruiwen?" Mugzog's finger manages to find a moment to scratch his head even as the wild attack comes at him. He tries to doge it, but in the press of goblins around him he gets pushed into the staff's back-swing even as it initially misses him. "Oof!" A spurt of air shoots from his mouth his belly takes the blow, nearly doubling his body over the pole. A cry from another goblin somewhere nearby enters the air, "Ruin 'em boys!" and Mugzog, catching his breath and darting back to a balanced stance says, "Oh! For RUIN!" He goes to attack again, but is swept up in a fresh push of orcs and goblins, and lost in the fury of the fight.

Duinlas runs toward Ailiell, his left arm trailing blood down it as he holds his spear in his right, he looks at her and grabs her arm to get her attention, although the action causes him to wince slightly, he asks through pants of breath, "Is Dairwenraiel already in the retreat behind us?"

Celebren steps backwards, straighteNing his staff to block the orcs slash, but backs into a mace which comes barrelling down on his head. The world around him seems to slow and blur as he falls to his knees. His ebony hair masks the blood that spills forth as he lays on the ground, barely aware of the surroundings.

His weapon cast aside as he fell, Ranknor stands up quickly, unarmed. He looks around, slightly panicked, and collects rudimentary spears from his fallen comrades. When he has run about a little, and has seven spears. He runs away from the melee a short way, and begins throwing them. He throws three, all one after the other, at Celebren, and the remaiNing four at Feandril. His aim is not particularly good, but they go in the right direction. Exhausted by the effort, he collapses and sits down.

Perhaps Feandril has seen it coming, but what can you do against two sides... Just above the other cut, Faik'datz' blade drives through the leather of her tunic. It slips on a rib, perhaps fortunately for the elf-woman, as she turns in the same fluid movement, and vehemently swings her sword up in a surprising arc that aims a cut from hip to shoulder.

Slowly the Elves are giving way to the onslaught. Yet they have left much behind. Tumbled packs, snapped arrows, the occasional body such as the smith whose empty stare fills the sky. Gilathan lands near his body from the blow of the troll, his face near to that of his dead friend. With all the strength, grace, and experience borne of several thousand years he whips back to his feet with all his though riding the point of his sword to the Troll's abdomen. They are closer to Feandril and her band of suitors.

Gondramind watches with a look of hot satisfaction as the stone arrow hits its mark and relieves the evil orc sergeant of his foul head. He smiles and looks toward Ailiell, and the smile quickly fades. He takes up another arrow. To Duinlas he says, "I have not seen Dairwenraeil. We should join the retreating line now I think. Help Cefelleth."

"Hey Slag! Get over 'ere 'n cut this elfers liver out! I gotta have a word wiv dat Great Gobliner!" Simon yells this across the decaying battleground to his guide from the Shaws.

Baraceleb has seemed to have pushed himself further into the battle. Seeing this he wonders If he should join the retreat or his fellow comrades still in fight.

Linnuial manages to muster what little strength remains in his speared leg, leaping to the side even as Simon's club crushes the spot of ground he just stood on. He smiles thinly at the troll, but still recedes slowly away, managing his own retreat without leading the troll to the others. About to lash out with his sword again, he notices Simon's call to the orc. The edhel lets out a sigh of relief, taking this moment to turn and move closer to the others, so as not to get surrounded. He takes no heed of the orc the troll called.

Rollypolly smiles to himself as Celebren lsumps to the ground and he spits, "Fragile little light lovers! sure don't take much to kill them." He bounds off loooking for another elf to bash.

A cackle sounds amid the din of battle, and but is cut off to strangled silence. Faik'datz stands motionless for a brief instant, the joy of his sucess still etched into his features, before he looks to his shoulder, and the bloody stump that Feandril's sword has made of it. Blinking at the spouting ichor that guses forth, he takes a pace or two backwards, before his wits collect enough to focus on the elf once more. His scimitar is raised, though its vicious purpose seems dulled by the injury, and he does naught but remain on guard as he continus to face the elf warrior.

Ailiell looks blankly up towards Duinlas, Gondramind's smile going all unanswered. Instead she silently reaches for the poet's arm, to bind it before he goes to Cefelleth's aid. "Come," she says quietly, leaving her bow upon the ground. "Come, we must run." A glance goes towards the thickest line of battle, her dark eyes skimming for those who may be in need of her aid.

The shattered remains of the camp are a playground for small and agile Dairwenraiel. The maiden leaps over a toppled crate of ore and slashes wildly at an orc. WHich was probably not an entirely sound idea, as the young tracker now has the orcs full attention after creating a new wound along it's back. It turns and snarls at the elleth, hefting a club. This does not bode well for our little heroine.

Gilathan's voice cuts though the din and clash of war. 'Retreat! Fall back swiftly. We can not hold much longer!'

Cefelleth is already runNing, however, blindly and with as much speed as her lithe form can muster along the retreating line of Elves. She glances over her shoulder, looking at Ailiell and offering an empty smile in thanks.

Gondramind obeys Gilathan's command and begins to run, looking to see if Ailiell and Duinlas are near at hand.

Ghashriz spins, in a fashion that resembles a dog chasing his tail, and then bolts (in spite of his injured leg) after the retreating elves..fast approaching Gondramind. The mismatched eyes, one red and one green, are hate filled and full of blood-lust as he lopes and then leaps towards the stone-crafter, wanting to land on him.

Baraceleb seeing Linniuial not far and alone he starts that way. Slowly he goes though for his way is barred by many goblins. At Gilathan's call he hurrys swinging with more severity trying to get to Linniuial befor it is to late.

Erupting from the darkness and turmoil comes the goblin Slagat, his blood streaked face a mask of hunger and fear. Black is the blood that lines this one, for he has been feasting on his own kind in the wake of the fiercest melee. A tangle a torn flesh still hangs from his horrid maw as the hunched orc raises his bow toward Simon the troll and abandons the goblin corpse he has been pillaging. Silent is he as he scrambles in the troll's direction even as it departs, no war cry escaping him as he spies the wounded Linnuial making slow progress away from the bulk of the goblins. Hissing, the snuffler raises his bow to the fore and sets an arrow to the gutstring, loosing with a low hiss at the withdrawing elf.

Bertha's middle may be too large for her own good. Even as she leans to the side, away from Gilathan's sword, it makes a returns swing back, catching on the blade's tip as it settles down. "Me belly!" she cries, stumbling back. "Aye, elf, yer up to no good! Ye hit me where it hurts, and for that, you'll be stewed nice 'n slow." Again the troll reaches forward.

On the edge of existance, Celebren struggles to understand what's going on around him. Barely awake...or even alive, the world seems to fade away. The blurred images and slurred sounds little more than a far off dream.

Feandril's breath comes in painful gasps, but she does not bother to look to her side where her clothing darkens with blood. Experience has taught her that hesitation is little good in battle, and she has need for speed. Without a pause, she thrusts her weapon forward straightly towards Faik'datz.

Duinlas lets his arm be bandaged, but he shakes his head as he does, "If she wasn't with you, then she may be at the camp..." and he turns quickly to head that direction, nearly sprinting now, his spear tip dripping wet with the blood of the recently slain orcs, his keen eyes looking for threats, but trying desperately to see sign of Dairwenraiel.

Rollypolly raises his mace again to bash another elf in the back when the elf accidently swings his staff back over his head and hits Rollypolly on the top of his head, "You hit me on the head AGAIN!! Nasty elfs not play fair. Rollypolly not like elves. Rollypolly go home." And he turns and starts walking back toward Goblintown.

Gondramind hears the uneven thumping of pursuit and turns in time to see the flying dog-orc. It slathering evil-eyed face fills all his mind and he collapes under the weight of the foul creature, struggling from his claws, his drippig fangs... The impact of the aNinal loosed the stone arrow from his hand and it lies uselss on the ground. He cannot reach his chisels because they are behind him and his hands are ... busy.

The Goblin King, flourishing his robes (and lamenting the tears that crisscross its expanse), chases after a fleeing elf, hacking at only air as the lithe artisan makes a deft escape. TurNing, he notices that the field has cleared. Gilathan's clear voice rings in his ears. He has heard that tone of speaking before: Retreat! The King does his best to hasten it, picking up a still-smouldering torch from the ground.

"Chase them into the West, boys, and save the dead for our friends, here." He points the flame at Bertha and Simon. "They'll have their picking of the finest cuts."

Linnuial, having retreated from any immediate opponents, now returns to his true instrument: Brantoril. Drawing out his bow, he lets loose a flurry of arrows, hoping to hold back the flood long enough for his company to gain a sizable distance. His stance is rigid even as he takes the occasional step back, his body rotating this way and that to line up targets.

The shock of his blade shivering against the body of the troll resonates up his arm. There is time to beat away the roaming hands even as the Elf stumbles back and away. With a regretful twist of his sword he forgoes any stinging replies, beginNing to run back to Feandril. Arrows fly past him

Faik'datz growls once more as Feandril presses her attack, but he is not bested quite yet. Vicious and desperate instinct seems to guide his sword arm, and there is a sharp ring of impact as his blade deflects her lunge, her blade scattering away to his side. Still does his shoulder weep though, and this couples with the effort of his parry to cause the goblin breath to wheeze. His energy is almost spent, and it shows upon his movements as his sluggish riposte is slow and laboured. Nevertheless, the serrated blade still makes its weary way as if to hew away the elf maiden's regal head from her comely shoulders.

Indeed Ghashriz is an aNinal of a goblin and he is well pleased that his leap placed him squarely on top of Gondramind and for a moment (that feels like an eternity probably) he pins him down. Slather and froth falls in abundance from the fangs that fill his mouth as he curls up and sinks the jagged and filthy fangs teeth into Gondramind's shoulder.

When last we left our heroine Dairwenraiel, she was covered in yuck and faced off with a yrch. The situation has not changed. The darkling lets out a cry of rage and hurtles at the elleth. Only, the elleth has the indecency to not be there anymore. The tracker is in fact heading to the fallen figure of Celebren. Not about to bother with prey that requires so much work, the orc gives off pursuit and instead turns to closer targets.

Ailiell shouts as Gondramind falls, and she rushes towards him with empty hands --her bow left behind. The healer draws one hand-sized leather pouch from her waist as she runs, and swings it towards the creature's slavering face. A fine yellow powder trails behind: bitter, hallucinogenic wormwood.

Eye wide with sudden fear as his arrow plants itself in the rump of Simon, Slagat spits the foul flesh from his lips with a yelp of surprise. Ducking close to the ground, the goblin elicts a low chuckle at his 'misfortune' and hustles through the goblin ranks to get a better view of the elf Linnuial. Even as he raises his crimson gaze to focus once again on the elf, he finds his person the unwitting target of an elf dart. A cry of dismay twists at his lips as he throws himself downward to the dirt too late, for the arrow head shatters on the crest of his helm, sending a concussive force through his skull. Fingers twisting in the muck and blood, Slagat groans and spits as he is trampled by charging goblins, "Off me! Off, you pack o' dung!"

The Parvasson runs swiftly into the southwest, but the cries of Gondramind and Ailiell mingle in her mind, and she turns to see a foul Orc atop her gwanur. Swinging about her in her sudden flight, Cefelleth now charges back towards Gondramind, swinging her back wildly in an attempt to batter or drive the Orc off of him.

Gondramind watches as in slow motion as Ghashriz drools and slathers atop him and he cannot stop the descent of the aNinals fangs. He screams in pain as Ghashriz's long, blood drenched caNines sink into his shoulder. But it is all opportunity he needs. He looks into the orcs piebald eyes and with a grim ferocity presses the top of the aNinal's further into his shoulder, so its caNines are caught on his own collar bone. With that hair's breath opportunity, he shifts, reaches behind his back and pulls forth a stone carving knife and draws it slowly across the aNinal's throat, then plunging it, finally, deep into its trachea.

Duinlas reaches the camp, having lost the rest of his left sleeve and looking perfectly unkempt, when he spots Dairwenraiel and sprints toward her, stopping practically on top of her, but for the moment he glances around at any foes who might be approaching, then he turns to Dairwenraiel, "We have to go!" he states, as he is wont to do, the obvious.

She may be wounded, and pressed hard, but Feandril seems quite attached to her head and has an interest in having it remain where it is. Using the momentum she gains through her fast dodge, which prevents her head from being cut off quite yet, she thrusts her sword forward where it is... at the fell, bleeding orc's side.

Rollypolly seems rather upset as he slowly stomps off toward the halls of Goblintown. Black blood flowes freely from his nose and runs down the front of his ring mail armor, "Nasty light lovers not play fair. Me go home." He makes no attempt to stop the flow of blood.

The mountainside lends Gilathan the grace of speed as he leaps over trapping roots upthrust amongst strewn stones towards his wife. With the gift of that added force he arcs his blade towards Faik'datz, crying out some bright cry, runNing still. As he does so the clump of silver ore he held earlier falls to the ground.

The she-troll receives only the slap of the side of Gilathan's sword, only a momentary wince from pain. But this is enough to keep her next two steps from trampling the elf as planned, and she continues to pursue him. Though this pursuit is half-hearted; the goblins and their friends seem to be doing well--or have won this chase, though without much food to stop Bertha's stomach from rumbling once, louder than any other growl released during the battle.

Dairwenraiel doesn't bother with a healers gentle touch. She's a tracker. After flipping him onto his back, slender hands grip under Celebren's arms and pull upward. "Get to your /feet/." The small maiden screams in his ear.

Enough is quite often enough, and so it is with Faik'datz. His final attack having failed, the goblin is left with only death as Feandril's sword drives up into his torso. A grimace of pain scrunches up his foul expression, and as the weapon slips free of his flesh, his wavering frame faces the elf, scimitar dropping from his weakened grip. Hatred and anguish untempered smoulder in his gaze as he looks upon his bane, but vengeance escapes him as he sinks unceremoniously to his knees. His chest heaves, and a sea of blood and bile erupt from his mouth, splattering upon the ground in a pungent waterfall of gore. At long last, he topples forwards, and moves no more. Life is over for this hapless orc.

Linnuial continues his backpedaling, posing here and there to let loose an arrow at an orc that catches his eye. Noticing Bertha's continued pursuit of Gilathan, he releases another arrow her way, though he gives little hope to it, save that it might deter Bertha further. "That is it!" he cries. "We can linger here no longer!" His shouts have no particular target, but instead carry across to all who have not yet turned west.

Baraceleb still stands nearby fighting off orcs from Dairwenraiel and Celebren. His arms tire but he still swings his staff with skull craking force. "Get up Celebren" He yells.

Celebren's head fallsback as he is lifted, and blood drips down to stain the earth beneath him. His eys close as he slips from conscioussness. His chest barely moves with the short sporradic breaths of air the Celebdan takes...which may be his last.

Ghashriz snorts deeply, getting a good lungfull of the yellow powder, even as Gondramin forces him against his shoulder and in the instant that the stone-knife starts to slice across his throat and cut him from his life he gasps "'Shnot fair muva.." Strange thing for such as slathering deformed goblin to gasp with his last breath? maybe the effects of the powder--sure thing is that the creature dies with its jaws still clamped, and spewing blood, onto the elf.

Ranknor finally stands up, and shakes his head a little. He is still weaponless, and now witless as well. He begins searching the bodies of his fallen comrades for a weapon, completely oblivious to elves and orcs alike around him. To top it all off his seach is not bearing any fruits. He finally finds a small dagger, and stands up, looking fiercely at Linnuial, whose arrow just hit nearby.

Exhaling a shaking breath of relief that he is not dead, Slagat glances up toward the elf with the bow once more, blinking rapidly to clear the dirt from his eyes. Another goblin steps on his back, bringing a growl from the prone orc, "Maggots!" Staggering to his feet again, the slaver closes a few paces before shifting to one knee and releasing another arrow toward Linnuial.

Duinlas scowls at Dairwenraiel, "We have to carry him out! Come on, you get his legs!" he says as he slips his arms under Celebren's armpits, holding him up.

Gondramind lays his head back, too exhausted to move or even call for help.

It seems the normally fickle elleth is somewhat driven to the point of folly in this battle, but that does not stop her from aiding her kinsman. Knocking the Orc off him with another blow from her bag as best she can, Cefelleth slings the pack over her shoulder and reaches down to grab Gondramind by one arm, attempting to drag him upwards while also turNing to run back into the southwest, hindered as she is by the bite on her thigh.

Linnuial's arrow grazes Bertha's shoulder even as she ducks. But perhaps this was a fortunate shot, for though she has not found her supper yet, something else catches the troll's eye lying on the ground. For there--free for the taking, without having to attack a caravan or dig in a cave, there sits a shiny stone. The creature snatches it up, storing it in one large fist. It will be hoarded away later.

A ringing parry of bright steel against a ragged mace. Gilathan's momentum carries him past the dying orc to thrust away another attack behind her. 'Retreat!' His voice is a great shout in the night. Then he spies Celebren. 'Come meltha,' he calls, 'Let not your new friends find us bereft of our company!' He is close to Celebren now, bending to scoop him up. As he does so a rose of blood blossoms from a seeded arrow in his arm.

The blood spills liberally onto Dairwenraiel as well. At Duinlas' words she nods and sets the edhel in his arms before moving to his feet. An awkward carry, but movable none the less. "Go, go, he's more chance away from here."

With the fierce look still in his eyes, Ranknor overconfidently strides towards Linnuial, throwing the dagger from one hand to the other. When he is in range, he raises the dagger above his head, and throws it towards the elf's chest.

Baraceleb spots Gondramind laying on the ground, Cefelleth above him. He runs to to Where Gondramind lies killing any orc harshly and quickly as they get in his way. There he looks to the wound and decides to pack him himself. "Help me get him on my back Cefelleth! We must leave now" He starts to pick up his friend.

"That's what I'm doing!" Cefelleth snarls, not in anger but fear, though her eyes flash to Ailiell to see what the healer does.

At last, Feandril sways slightly, and presses her left to her side. A quick glance around... the elves seem to be retreating, although many are left behind, fair bodies mingled with dark ones. Still, dawn seems to approach, a subtle lighteNing of the sky... the counsellour falls back. Pain can be dealt with later. Bending down to help a more gravely wounded to their feet and supporting them, Feandril, too, flees, back to the southwest. Perhaps day will bring relative safety.

Dairwenraiel blinks as a stronger edhel takes up her burden. Moving to a position of defense, the elleth joins the retreat beside Duinlas.

Duinlas walks backwards, Celebren in his arms, his spear tucked uselessly under his arm, he shouts to Dairwenraiel as he moves backwards up the retreat path, "Keep your eyes open! And warn me if I'm about to walk into any swords!"

Already, the scraggly and rufftuff gang of Goblins is ravaging the former elven camp. They run amok, like so many gremlins, laughing haggardly and destroying everything in their path. Woosh! Woosh! Several tents go up in flames, smoke spiraling into the night sky. The amber glow of the flames shines devilish light on the hideous faces of the eveNing's victors. They dance around in circles:

"Crash and burn and kill and maim,

That's our favorite night-time game,

For when the winter's cold and the Mountain falls,

We'll still wield our blades and mauls!"

The Great Goblin crosses his arms and laughs, watching the remaiNing elves run to the West. "Like I said, boys, gather up the dead. We'll feast tonight!"

The Hirvaethor suffers another wound, his own firing having drawn arrows toward him. Slagat's strikes him soundly in the right side. He gasps a choked breath of surprise, but strangely seems mostly unhindered by the shot, until he seeks to aim his bow once more. With the movement, the arrowhead tears at his muscles and he screams at the pain and odd feeling. He bends, one hand grasping the black shaft, but he dares not pull it out. By some strange fortune, his crumpling from the arrow serves to save him from Ranknor's dagger. It passes over his head harmlessly, though it does get his attention. He scowls at the orc, and with one quick motion, grabs his own dagger from his belt, flinging it with practiced skill toward the foe.

Gondramind is only vaguely aware of those around him. Perhaps Cefelleth's voice... or Briniel's. His sight blurrs and his limbs do not function and for some reason it feels as though he cannot swallow well. He looks turns his head sideways and sees, through a haze of blood and foggy vision, a stone arrow lying upon the groung.

"Cefelleth --!" Ailiell begins, but the creature's fangs have been ripped away. "Wait," she continues softly. "Or --" Gilathan's words shatter whatever strange stillness the healer has slipped into. She hesitates, as dark blood wells from the stonesmiths' deep wounds. "If you are able, then run!" Her cloak is swiftly unfastened and pressed against the wound. She flags down fleeing artisans, for aid in carrying the mason, staying by to slow the evil, red flood. "We must go. Now."

"Baraceleb and I can carry him," the Parvasson responds hastily, and then nodding to the Thandir and protege of the Elf she holds, Cefelleth gives as great a heave as she can muster, dragging Gondramind free of the Orcish corpse and attempting to pull him along the Elvish line of retreat, knowing that she cannot bear such a burden without Baraceleb's aid.

Aiding as he might with Celebren, his voice wrought with pain Gilathan says, 'The faster we run the sooner we find healers. But carefully!' His arrow sprung arm is useless though he still grips his sword. The clearing is behind them now, the deeper shadows of trees about as they rush away.

Duinlas races as fast as his feet can fly backwards up the trail, shouting for Dairwenraiel to be the forward scout, as he nods to Gilathan's help carrying, his eyes watching their flanks.

Baraceleb quickly goes to the help of Cefelleth, slinging his staff on his back in its holder. He lifts the other side of Gond more easily than Cefelleth. Together they start quickly with the reatreat

Gondramind feels himself lifted from the ground, carried, and slips into unconsciousness.

A small agile bundle of sharp edges. That what Dairwenraiel becomes to any that approach the pair carrying Celebren. There is not grace or art to the act, only utilitarian brutality. As black slime joins the canvas of death that the traskers clothing has become, she says with rage. "I hate trips! I hate them! No..." She kicks a fallen darkling. "More..." The knife bites through leathery flesh. "TRIPS!" The elleth moves through the skirmish to the open ground up the trail from the camp. "It's clear! Run! Run!"

Duinlas quickens his pace and races back the retreat path, wincing as he sees the bandage on his arm has sprung a leak and drips blood slowly down his left arm again. But he holds tight to Celebren's arms, with only a grunt to betray the effort.

A menacing smile of delight crosses the distorted features of Slagat as his arrow plunges into the flank of Linnuial, his voice a mumble of amusement, "Hoi! That one is mine!" The shout rises from him as Ranknor attacks 'his' elf. "Down him, but dont kill it! Worth more alive, they are!" Even as he shuffles forward, Slagat places another arrow to the bow and looses, intentionally aiming close to Ranknor.

Celebren's breathing becomes undetectable, his body becoming completely limp as he mingles with the icy chill which death's grip is bringing over him.

All through the pain is a living concern for Feandril. He has lost her to sight though his mind tracks her, her pain his. Gilathan staggers slightly trying to adjust his wounds to helping bear Celebren away from the battle.

The dagger flies at Ranknor before he has time to react, and it hits him in his belly. He doubles over with pain, but pulls it out, and stands up again, slowly. He gives a worried look to the brighteNing sky, and then looks at the dagger. He runs his finger along its edge, which is smeared with black blood, and some foul green substance, and absent-mindedly sucks his finger. He lets out a loud shout, something like "Blaaaaeeeerrrrhaas" and stands bolt upright, eyes open wide. He goes beserk. The arrow falling near him enrages him, and he looks round for its originator. His search failing, he turns back to Linnuial and runs at him, arms flailing, but in no way a threat.

The focus of two orcs' attention, Linnuial finds little time to even gather his breath, let alone exchange weapons once more, to meet Ranknor's charge. Nor would he have the strength to match the orc, in his present state. Still, he is in dire straights, and the pain from the arrow must be ignored this moment. With a great cry, he strains against the arrow that still digs at his side, raising to level his bow at the charging orc. By will alone is he able to pull the string back--only part way--but the shot he fires is still sound, for he practices for such need and difficulty. Yet even as the arrow leaves Brantoril, another of Slagat's deadly darts finds Linnuial, shredding his outer thigh and bringing him to one knee.

Still there are more behind, Gilathan can hear their cries, the scent of blood flavours that of the resin pines. 'Take him, I will tarry here,' he whispers to Duinlas wearily. He fears that Celebren is passing West even as they carry him. Then the Shipwright is but a tall shadow filtering back towards the grievous shout.