Maethoriel looked up from her perch and sniggered at the speech. She dumped out the pipe and ground the ashes out with her heel. Standing with a yawn the half-elf stretched and cracked her neck. With a few steps she brought herself into the thick of the group, her small knife already in hand and spinning quickly. Her cane was nowhere to be seen and neither was her cloak, they had both been cast off to make her movements freer. This was what she had waited for, she grinned.

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Heavens no. Hell Yeah.


Set 1: Nurr | Set 2: Me

Deawen frowned and instantly stopped squirming in her saddle. After awhile she sighed " Yes I need a rest."
" Why do you look so upset?" Deawen asked warily.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

"Why am I so upset?" Fearan smiled sarcastically. "What's there to be upset about? I only just left my own people to fend off a massive attack from a giant band of orcs that I had no notion about, despite the fact that I am a ranger and wander these parts looking for trouble exactly like that. Come, the hill over there will provide shelter." He turned Silmiel slightly to the right towards a tall, sloping hill.

The faint chink of armor as men shifted was all that broke the near silence atop the tower. The Gondorians stood in ordered ranks behind their earthworks, waiting.
The orcs were nearer now, just over half a mile distant and plainly visible. They came on like a tide, swarming blackly over the rough terrain.
The Gondorians waited.
The orcs came on, howling their victory at having trapped their quarry. At a signal, the Gondorian archers, standing to the rear of the main line, bent their bows and nocked arrows. At another signal, they raised their bows. Arandur gauged the distance carefully as the orcs came still nearer, and then in a smooth motion, raised his arm and chopped downward.

Seventy five arrows left their strings, arching slowly up and over, before falling in a deadly rain among the leading ranks of orcs. Their shouts turned to cries of pain as the missiles fell among them, dropping dozens and sending others screaming to the earth.
"Shoot at will!" Arandur shouted, himself loosing another arrow. The enemy were near enough that he saw his arrow strike and the orc go down, clutching his throat.
More arrows followed the first volley with devastating effect, but it was plain that it would take far more than their paltry number of bows to ever slow the tide. Yet every one killed with an arrow was one less to fight with the sword.

Deawen frowned but remained silent. She followed Fearan to the cave and dismounted.
" I don't understand why Arandur picked you. If it makes you feel better you can always leave me here I am sure I will be fine." Deawen said full heartedly.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

(Alright, lets move this thing.)

The first rank of orcs was nearly at the top of the slope, seemingly oblivious of the hail of stones and arrows that fell among them. There were shouts of surprise as the first ranks simply vanished into the trench at the Gondorians' feet, but they soon turned to cries of agony as more fell full onto the stakes; pushed heedlessly into the trench by the press from behind.
Arandur swore, realizing that it would only be a matter of time before the trench simply filled up with the dead.
Some orcs in the trench began hacking or pulling at the stakes, and soon more joined them. The Gondorians continued raining rocks down on them, but it wasn't long before substantial portions of the stakes had been removed and orcs began scrambling up the side of the trench. Men kicked them back onto their fellows, or prodded downward with spear or halberd, until the bottom of the ditch was covered with the dead and dieing.
Arandur had his sword out and thrust downward, taking a climbing orc in the chest as it cleared the edge. It fell back with a scream, but more climbed to take it's place. Suddenly, on the opposite side of the trench from him the press parted, and he saw orcs carrying a what looked like a makeshift bridge up the slope towards the trench. A moment latter, he realized that the 'bridge' was the body of one of the wagons that they had been forced to leave a the bottom of the slope. The wheels had been removed, and now, perversely, it provided the perfect means of bridging the span.
It was brought to the edge of the trench and stood on it's end, and then dropped across the intervening gap like a drawbridge over a moat. One soldier, in the act of thrusting an orc down, was caught by the falling end and crushed by the heavy bulk as it hit. With a shout Arandur sprang forward as a rush of orcs started across. Arandur struck an orc in the side of the helm with a powerful swing, sending it careening off the bridge, and reversed the swing to strike at another. A Gondorian soldier took a position beside him, and shoulder to shoulder, they held the bridge against the tide.

All along the trench other bridges were falling in place, and the fighting began in earnest.

"It wouldn't be very kind of me to leave all alone, now would it?" Fearan smiled, trying to hide the turmoil of his feelings. True, he stayed with Deawen out of courtesy to keep her safe, but that wasn't the complete reason. As ashamed as he was to admit it, battle didn't just scare him, it down right terrified. Where some men saw glory and honor, Fearan just saw blood and pain, and a desperate, gory attempt to feep peace by slaughter. Necessary, most likely, but bone chillingingly frightening.

And yet, another part of him wanted to leave Deawen, wanted desperatly to fight the battle despite the fear. For if he didn't fight to keep his homeland safe, what right did he have to it? If the enemy won because he didn't have the gall to fight, who would die because of it? His friends? Mothers? Children?

No, he was just one man. He was a ranger, not a soldier. Better to fight alone than lined up with soldiers.

Fearan shook himself out of his musings. Hoping he hadn't shown his thoughts to Deawen, he said. "Besides, I'm here more to keep the world safe from you, than you from the world."

Deawen was slightly touched by his words. No one had never really cared about her before, it was refreshing but then again it scared her. Even from the distance they were from the battle she could hear it. She unpacked her saddle bags from Bredol to the cave. Her leg was still being a pain but her stubborness kept her going. " I am going to get firewood." she said limping off into the dense woods. She enjoyed the blissful peace of being alone and took the opportunity to check on the battle nearby. It wasn't going as well as she had hoped. She wasn't sure why she felt any pity for the gondorians but she did. SLowly the soft interior of herself was showing replacing the cold exterior. They needed help, outside help. She frowned at her own suggestion then reasoned Without that outside help the orcs were free to roam at will with no mercy. She made up her mind and searched the underbrush for a certain herb. She found the small herb plucked a few leaves then limped back to the cave with the fire wood. She said nothing to Fearan about her plan fearing he would stop her. She set the wood down then sat down.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

((A certain herb...interesting. I can't wait to find out what that's all about! ))
Fearan shook his head and smiled to himself as Deawen limped out of the cave and into the forest. The woman made even the thickest headed mule look like a pushover. Gathering what sticks and kindling lay around the cave, Fearan started a fire. Just as he was wondering if he should run into the forest to grab a couple sticks for the fire, Deawen appeared out of the woods. Smiling, took what wood he needed and fed it to the fire. "Are you hungry?" He asked, not sure if she had food in her

" Yes actually" she responded. The water skins needed refilling and Deawen had seen a stream nearby while on her gathering. " I am going to refill the skins" she said getting to her feet. She grabbed the skins and once again limped from the cave to the stream. she filled skins fromt he stream then slipped the herb's leaves into the skin. She had to remember not to drink from the water skin. She wasn't sure what the herb was called but she only knew it's property. It was a sleeping drug. She figured Fearan would be furious with her when he woke but it was mandatory after all it was for the greater good. It would give her an hour's headstart which was all she needed to reach her destination. She returned to the camp slowly she felt guilty and tried not to show it but deep down inside she felt remorse even at her coldest moments.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

"And there she goes again." Fearan murmured to himself as he watched Deawed dissapear into the forest once again. Absent mindedly he poked at the fire, watching the as the flames danced hypnotically. He was so entranced he almost jumped out of his skin when Deawen came back into camp. Fortunately he supressed his urge to squeel and instead took his water skin from Deawen with a grin. "Thank you" he said as he took a swig. Fearan grimaced. "Is this stream made of grass?" He asked, startled by a strong earthy taste in the water. "It tastes like a mouthful of leaves." He took another sip. "Though I must admit, its not all that bad." He set the skin down next to him and continued to poke at the fire. Biting back a yawn, he took another swig of the water, hoping the coldness would wake him up from his sleepiness. But why was he tired? He hadn't woken up any earlier than usual, nor had he done any hard labor. But still he felt the blanket of sleep growing heavier on him. Desperatly he tried to keep awake, but his body wouldn't listen. The very act of keeping his eyes open was difficult. "Deawen..." he murmured as he began to fall into an unnatural sleep. "Somthings wrong, I..." But he fell into a slumber before he could finish the sentence. Fearan slumped to the ground near the fire, completely oblivious to the world.

Deawen shook her head to clear her remorse. After he slumped over she quickly laid him down properly then covered him warmly. He would only be asleep for an hour but she didn't want him to think she did this out of meaness. She took a knife just in case but left her belongings. She saddled Bredol quickly then took off in a blur of copper. She rode hard as if the very hounds of Mordor were after her. She did stop to rest when Bredol refused to go without rest. She was tired as well she stopped near a fallen tree to give some shelter. She wondered what Fearan was going to do when he woke up and found that she was gone. SHe hoped he would be able to forgive her in time.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

Arandur cut viciously sideways, slicing across the upper arm and chest. The orc fell, screaming. Another lept over it's fallen comrade, bringing an axe over and down in the same motion. Arandur had no time to think; he lunged forward, crashing bodily into the orc, barely getting inside the axe's swing.
They went down together, landing hard on the blood-slicked surface of the bridge. The rolled over and over, until Arandur jerked his knife free from it's sheath with his off-hand, and thrust it home deep in the orc's chest. Around him the fighting continued, and he grabbed up his fallen sword as he rolled free of the dead orc.
He came up a near the edge, and ducked as another orc swung at his head. rising sharply, he kicked out, taking the orc in the knee. As it went down, he followed up the kick with the hilt of his sword to the orc's head, sending it careening off the bridge.

He turned, intending to rejoin the Gondorians now fighting a dozen feet away, and as he did so he saw the blade coming. And in that split second, he knew he could not stop it.
It struck him on the shoulder, the force of it sent him spinning, and it continued to cut a ragged gash across his upper back as he fell.
There was a sickening moment that he felt nothing, but he struck the ground, and burning fire lanced through his chest.

An instant or a thousand years, he did know how long he lay there. Some rational part of his mind realized he was laying in dirt. That should have been wrong, but he did not know why.
Screams and the wild din of battled raged around him, over him, seeming to bore into his scull. Dimly, he felt something fall over him, a weight that pressed him down, and wondered if it was the finishing blow descending.

But then it lifted, and hands grabbed him, hauling him upward. He found his arm across the shoulder of someone helping him to stand, and they were moving away from the fighting.

After a while the grip holding his arm loosened, and he was sagging, until whoever it was - a soldier probably - helped him to sit on the edge of a cot in the infirmary, and then left.

Fearan woke groggily, blinking a few times before he could even really think straight. When he did manage to form cohesive thought, he swore. "Of all the Valor bright and mighty..." He knew the feeling of waking up from a sleeping drug. Was Deawen alright? He looked around, but couldn't see her or Bredol. Bredol's tack was also missing, but the saddlebags had been left behind. "Deawen." Fearan growled. "Hard headed spawn of a mule, no better than the dog that must have whelped her." His hard words were ones of mostly worry, not anger. Of course he was a bit angry (being drugged has that effect) but at the moment he was more concerned for Deawen's well being. Thanking the Valar he could track, Fearan quickly scanned the area around where Bredol had been kept. Fresh tracks led away from camp, towards where the orcs were attacking. Fearan muttered a long, hard, and quite rude string of words. By the looks of the tracks that he could see, Bredol was being ridden hard. Quickly Fearan tacked up Silmiel, ignoring her protests as he did a less than thorough job. He mounted after he kicked out the fire and spurred his mare into a gallope.

It was not too long until the first of the wounded and dying were dragged back to the tent. One of the men teamsters who drove one of the discarded wagons had been volunteered as her aide. He was sent to bring those that couldn't walk into the two medical tents. She gave out bandages to those with superficial wounds, then set to work sewing gaping slashes shut. As the battle got progressed, the Master Surgeon's tent became full, and the cases came to her. She rolled up her sleeves and began putting into practice what she had just learned. She removed a spear head from a man's stomach and was able to stop his bleeding and get him to sleep on a cot in the corner. Another man had taken a hatchet into his forearm and required an amputation. Another, an arrow in his eye-not that she could do much, she gave him a great swig of liquor and sedative herbs before pulling the barb out and binding his face. She tired to forget those who she could not save.

After the first wave of about 30 men, the casualties lulled and she finished the last suchers and bandages to a soldier's calf. Against her advice, he had pulled back on his stockings, leather breaches, and greaves and was heading back into the melee. All he had said was, "If they ain't get me the first time, they ain't gettin' me now!" She checked on the soldier with bandages on his face before allowing herself to sit. The edges of her sleeves, even at elbow length were a disturbing red, as was her apron. She pulled a basin of water to her and washed her hands. She pulled a water skin (one of many) off a tent peg and drank deeply. As she wiped her lips, she saw Arandur sitting blankly on a cot. Alarmed, she rushed to him. "Sir, what has hapened to you?"

_________________
Reasons I love England #217:
I saw "whilst" on a traffic sign

Deawen's leg ached from being used. She felt the common fever creep up. She was starting to wonder if this was a good idea. BUt she was trying to prove that she was good deep down inside.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home