Of Fey and Shadow - A Midnight story hour (Restored 14 May 2006)
Emiricol
Registered User
As the three travellers reached the verge of the Glen, Thrayn motioned for them to halt. They had approached from the east and Thrayn had led them around, past the southern edge, to cover the most likely approach of the Orcs. "This is the direction they should be coming from. Find two sturdy trees and if you can, climb high into their branches. Make ready your bows and several arrows. We will await the brutes from there. Whatever happens, do not enter the Glen - it is perilous to mortal Men and is guarded by a beast out of legend."
Rongald nodded but shared a wary glance with Bornhild. Then wordlessly he began to look about for a fitting tree.
Thrayn took the horse by the reins and led him closer to the Glen a short way, but beyond sight of their ambush spot. He could hear the stream of the Glen just beyond the treeline and it called to him as though his blood itself yearned to go there, but he put his desire aside and tied the horse to one of the trees, and returned quickly to the Men. They had already ascended two large trees and were passably hidden within the ancient branches. Thrayn chose a third tree, nearby, creating something of a crossfire. He found a spot on a large branch and nestled into the joint where it met the bole, then drew forth half a dozen arrows, setting them at his feet where he crouched. One, he knocked into his bow. With his free hand he attempted to arrange the twigs and branches around him to cover his appearance from below. Now all that was left was to wait and hope for the best.
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The Oruk leader had the Orcs moving as fast as possible through the woods, but the Third Tusk suddenly felt something new. It tingled his scalp and raised the hairs on his arms and neck, and he realized what it was - fear. He quickly ordered the Orcs to a halt, and the heaving, panting invaders did just that, and gratefuly.
The Legate's Whisper said to turn North, and I have felt that feeling but once before - facing one of the pointears' blasphemous sorcerers. Is that what we are to destroy? Why then would we be ordered to taint the pond we will find? Bah! I ask too many questions. There is magic ahead, I can sense it. If I were the Fey, I might have a sorcerer to defend such a place.
The Oruk barked to Second Tusk in the Master inflection, "We rest. Two hours. We will move ahead when the sun begins to set. Make ready. Any Blade who wearies or retreats will serve Izrador one last time, as extra rations for the rest of us."
Second Tusk immediately passed this along to the Blades, the warrior orcs beneath him, and they snorted and laughed at the thought of extra meat - none too concerned that they themselves might be the one to tire first.
They rested for two hours, then Third Tusk gathered his forces and ordered javelins out and ready. Two Blades were placed ahead and to his left, two ahead and to his right. The fifth Blade he took himself, and ordered Second Tusk in the center, to quietly relay commands and support whichever team encountered something interesting first.
The other Orcs did not fail to notice this brilliant plan put the Oruk in the rear with a bodyguard, but in the end they obeyed despite their clear misgivings.
With a forward wave of his hand, Third Tusk set the force moving slowly forward. He had picked his path better than he could have hoped, though he didn't know it; it wasn't until the two eastern Blades were within a mere 15 yards of the two Men in the trees, with the Second Tusk a mere 5 yards beyond, that the ambushers became aware of their presence, the Orcs emerging from a dense cluster of brush to expose themselves briefly.
Rongald nodded but shared a wary glance with Bornhild. Then wordlessly he began to look about for a fitting tree.
Thrayn took the horse by the reins and led him closer to the Glen a short way, but beyond sight of their ambush spot. He could hear the stream of the Glen just beyond the treeline and it called to him as though his blood itself yearned to go there, but he put his desire aside and tied the horse to one of the trees, and returned quickly to the Men. They had already ascended two large trees and were passably hidden within the ancient branches. Thrayn chose a third tree, nearby, creating something of a crossfire. He found a spot on a large branch and nestled into the joint where it met the bole, then drew forth half a dozen arrows, setting them at his feet where he crouched. One, he knocked into his bow. With his free hand he attempted to arrange the twigs and branches around him to cover his appearance from below. Now all that was left was to wait and hope for the best.
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The Oruk leader had the Orcs moving as fast as possible through the woods, but the Third Tusk suddenly felt something new. It tingled his scalp and raised the hairs on his arms and neck, and he realized what it was - fear. He quickly ordered the Orcs to a halt, and the heaving, panting invaders did just that, and gratefuly.
The Legate's Whisper said to turn North, and I have felt that feeling but once before - facing one of the pointears' blasphemous sorcerers. Is that what we are to destroy? Why then would we be ordered to taint the pond we will find? Bah! I ask too many questions. There is magic ahead, I can sense it. If I were the Fey, I might have a sorcerer to defend such a place.
The Oruk barked to Second Tusk in the Master inflection, "We rest. Two hours. We will move ahead when the sun begins to set. Make ready. Any Blade who wearies or retreats will serve Izrador one last time, as extra rations for the rest of us."
Second Tusk immediately passed this along to the Blades, the warrior orcs beneath him, and they snorted and laughed at the thought of extra meat - none too concerned that they themselves might be the one to tire first.
They rested for two hours, then Third Tusk gathered his forces and ordered javelins out and ready. Two Blades were placed ahead and to his left, two ahead and to his right. The fifth Blade he took himself, and ordered Second Tusk in the center, to quietly relay commands and support whichever team encountered something interesting first.
The other Orcs did not fail to notice this brilliant plan put the Oruk in the rear with a bodyguard, but in the end they obeyed despite their clear misgivings.
With a forward wave of his hand, Third Tusk set the force moving slowly forward. He had picked his path better than he could have hoped, though he didn't know it; it wasn't until the two eastern Blades were within a mere 15 yards of the two Men in the trees, with the Second Tusk a mere 5 yards beyond, that the ambushers became aware of their presence, the Orcs emerging from a dense cluster of brush to expose themselves briefly.
Emiricol
Registered User
Thrayn's eyes narrowed as he heard the sounds of the oncoming orc raiding party. Shadows flickered between the brush and boles of the trees as they approached. Almost without warning, three of the beasts stepped into view sneaking in an odd echelon order. Two were close together and nearest to the hidden men. The third was slightly further back and deeper in the brush. Not trusting the humans to hit such a target, he narrowed his eyes and pulled back the string of his bow. As his thumb touched his ear in the Fey fashion of drawing, he loosed the shot. The whiz of the arrow's flight was cut off abruptly as it sunk deep into the Orc's stomach. With a truncated yelp, the brute fell to his side and lay curled in a quivering ball around the shaft and fletching. Time for satisfaction later, if we survive. He reached for another arrow hastily.
From just to his south Thrayn heard the swish of Rongald's arrow and saw as it streaked forth to sink into the chest of another of the orcs. The creature howled and reached instinctively for the wound as he stumbled back, but did not lose his footing. Almost simultaneously, Bornhild's arrow took the third Orc in the hip, and deeply. The Orc's leg failed him and, as he fell, Thrayn could see the broad head of the Norther arrow, black with blood, thrusting from the creature's buttock.
The orcs' discipline failed them. The sight of their Second Tusk going down with an elf-fletched arrow in his gut, and their supposed leader safely in the rear, was just too much for the naturally chaotic Orcs. The two wounded who remained standing, realizing their vulnerability in the relative open space they were crossing, determined quickly that they could not close the distance to where the arrows likely came from - at least not before more arrows rained down upon them. They chose instead to dash for the cover of a large tree trunk, every Orc for himself.
The one with the arrow penetrating his hip hobbled, the joint partly dislocated and definitely chipped. Once safely hidden, they glanced over their wounds. "We would both have need of the cutter, if we lived long enough to get back to our lines," panted the one, clutching the arrow in his chest to ease the pain. "We are not totally out of the fight yet, Blade-brother. We may yet earn Izrador's blessings when we pass over, if we do it well."
The other team of Blades didn't miss the rain of arrows and dashed forward to cover, the better to peer out and try to make sense of the situation. Meanwhile, running through the northern treeline, the Oruk and his bodyguard kept behind cover as they circled the ambush site, eyes wide open and registering the extent of their predicament.
The ambushers quickly renocked arrows, having removed them from their quivers ahead of time for speed of loading, but even so it was too long - their prey had cover, now, and no longer surprised. With their targets gone from sight, Thrayn and his men quickly spotted the larger Oruk and his man coming into view and shifted aim.
Rongald and Thrayn clearly had the same thought as their arrows flew toward the obvious leader of the raiders. Oruk stood at least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than their Orc cousins, and when in their company, were always the leaders. Bornhild made his target more modest, aiming for the more exposed Orc bodyguard. There was no need to call out to each other now. They were caught up in the rush of the battle. Speed would make the advantage now - speed and accuracy. If the Orcs fled, they would be forced to give chase for none could live now to bring back others. Survivors spoke of survivability. I will never encourage further attacks on the lands of my people again. Never, thought Thrayn bitterly as he unleashed his arrow.
The arrows struck in a staccatto of heavy thwacks - Thrayn's and Rongald's protruded, side by side, from the Oruk's belly, low and near his legs in a location that would make hardened warriors blanch. Blood spurted from the wounds and he fell without a sound, succumbing immediately to shock and pain. Bornhild's arrow still quivered in the tree it had struck, missing the orc by mere inches.
Thrayn took stock of radically changed the situation. Both the leader and his Second Tusk were down and not moving, and two Blades were hit and unable to advance in cover. The third unwounded Blade was staring down at the still quivering form of the Oruk dispassionately.
The wounded Blades exchanged meaningful glances. No, neither one would be running for distance any time soon, and both were bleeding enough to leave a trail. They were two days into the woods of the enemy. Retreat was not a survivable option. The Orc with an arrow in his chest panted and said between gritted teeth, "We have healthy Blade Brothers not fifty feet away. We'll never make it with our wounds - not without getting shot again." He left much unsaid, but the other nodded in unspoken agreement. As one, they screamed their terrible warcries and ran, as best they could, from the cover of their isolated tree and straight at the two humans perched in the trees east of them. In the lead was the one with an arrow in his chest, , and the other performing an odd limp-drag-scoot as fast as he could behind, despite the pain of a partially dislocated hip and arrow-shattered joint. They closed a good five yards in but a second, recklessly closing on the ambushers without thought to their safety.
The two unwounded Blades from behind their own cover saw the courageous charge of their companions, and their decision was made. "I will not be the first to run while less able warriors charge! Izrador!" He screamed the last.
As one the two able warriors lept from their cover and likewise charged, unheeding of the danger, across the open ground between them and the ambushers. They were faster than the others, of course, making nearly twice the distance their hobbled fellow Orcs made, and slowed only when they stood a mere four or five yards directly north of the Men. At this range, their javelins would be as effective as arrows, and the Orc strength could tip the balance. To take one of their enemy with them would make this an exchange the Shadow got the better of in the long run, for the Orcs were expendable.
Again the ambushers loosed their arrows as the Orcs charged recklessly. Rongald's arrow took one of the wounded in the eye and the brute's head snapped back as his feet flipped into the air. He was dead before he hit the ground. Bornhild shot the other wounded Orc in its sword arm, embedding itself through the elbow as the beast prepared m to throw a javelin. The weapon fell to the ground as the victim spun towards the wounded arm, sheilding it out of instinct. The other two Orcs seemed to be ignoring Thrayn - they had also drawn their javelins and were approaching the Dornlander's tree.
Curse upon Shadow! Again I will be passed over while companions die! Thrayn's face twisted into a snarl of rage as he drew back the bowstring. I will not let these people die, though mere Men they be! He would not let the Orks despoil his homeland any further. With each attack that breached his borders more of his people died. Death wasn't enough for Izrador any more. Now the Shadow had to ruin the very land and kill the souls of his people.
Thrayn's shot went wide when he fired, his hand shaking with rage, but did manage to hit the trailing healthy Orc in the hip. Blood spurted in a crimson arc from the severed artery as it toppled to the ground with a cry of pain.
The only Orc left uninjured among the four rushing Blades let his javelin fly, his massive strength propelling it at fearsome speed. Rongald jerked as the spear took him in the gut, but he thanked the stars that it was merely a shallow wound. He was saved from likely death by his mail armor, which Thrayn had purchased for him in the Fey village before they left. He grunted and grasped the haft with his free hand and pulled, setting the heavy Orc projectile next to him. Blood oozed from the rings of his rent mail.
The orcs were close now. Close enough that they could get more of those javelins fired off if they aren't taken out immediately, thought Thrayn calmly as he fired yet another arrow. There was really only one target for him to take - the uninjured Orc who had attacked Rongald. Swish, the arrow streaked away, his aim almost perfect. There was a satisfyingly solid thud as the arrow took that Orc in the chest, piercing his heart directly. Death was so fast, he had not even time to grimace, merely tumbling forward to slide some feet face-first in the dirt before his momentum was spent.
Rongald and Dornhild released in unison at the two remaining Orcs charging them. Rongald shot well despite his wound, and his aim was true. The arrow, fletched in the fashion favored by the Dorn with larger feathers and a slightly broader head, slid effortlessly between two ribs of the hip-shot Orc from before, piercing its lung. The massive creature fell to its knees, then flopped onto the leaves of the forest floor. It gasped for air but found not enough as its lung filled with blood. It was dead, it just didn't know it yet. Rongald nodded in satisfaction.
Dornhild followed suit, firing at the only Orc left standing - this the one with arrow through both hip and elbow. Die, you thrice-curst bastard! He had aimed true once more, and for the second time this battle the arrow streaked straight to the head of his target. The broad tip took the orc in the eye, piercing all the way through the skull to protrude halfway out the back of its skull, fletching a mere inch from the now savaged eyesocket.
Rongald called to Dornhild, "You doubted the ability of the Elf, eh? Here without his Shadow-cursed sorcery he has done as well as either of us - we, lifelong hunters and bandits. Ha!"
Dornhild merely nodded, hopping quickly from his tree perch with spear now in hand, and set to finish off any dead. Rongald slung his bow and climbed gingerly from his own perch, still bleeding slightly through the rent links of his mail armor. He had drawn his axe by the time Thrayn emerged. The Human was bent upon the necessary mutilation of the corpses, following after Dornhild so as to ensure he got no surprises from not-yet-dead Orcs.
Thrayn shook his head slowly, speaking in a quiet tone as hard as iron. "You need not dull your blade on their necks, Norther. This place will brook no Fell."
Dornhild grimaced. "We are to trust you on this, Fey? 'Tis your kind who brought the Curse upon us, revenge for our failure to stand against Izrador."
Thrayn's eyes narrowed. He had taken a step forward when Rongald interposed himself between the two, yelling at his fellow Dornish warrior, "Shut up, fool. You are as superstitious as the old washermaids! No wonder the Shadow rules our homeland. Bah. Norther!" Again, he had spit the name venemously, and Dornhild clenched his jaw in anger but turned away to finish his grisly business of finishing off the Orcs. For now, then, no fight was coming, which clearly relieed Rongald, who glanced at Thrayn with a nod and half-smile, almost apologetically.
It was then that Thrayn finished counting the bodies. A sixth Orc was missing from among the dead. One had escaped the ambush - the one who had been with the Oruk! Thrayn ran then to the corpse of their leader. Thrayn's eye travelled quickly to the missing ear, and raised an eyebrow in curiosity and some confusion. He looked up from the felled Oruk toward the Glen. No doubt the Orc had continued on to finish his work for his dark master.
Fury welled within Thrayn and he turned to the humans, his face blank and cold but eyes like two blue flames, flashing with the power of his rage. To Rongald he spoke, "Take anything of value and pile the bodies. We dare not burn them in this sacred place." He turned, about to run to the Glen. "Whatever happens, do not follow me - your kind are forbidden to enter. You would surley die." At that he was gone, running into the forest toward the Glen, his fighting knives in hand.
From just to his south Thrayn heard the swish of Rongald's arrow and saw as it streaked forth to sink into the chest of another of the orcs. The creature howled and reached instinctively for the wound as he stumbled back, but did not lose his footing. Almost simultaneously, Bornhild's arrow took the third Orc in the hip, and deeply. The Orc's leg failed him and, as he fell, Thrayn could see the broad head of the Norther arrow, black with blood, thrusting from the creature's buttock.
The orcs' discipline failed them. The sight of their Second Tusk going down with an elf-fletched arrow in his gut, and their supposed leader safely in the rear, was just too much for the naturally chaotic Orcs. The two wounded who remained standing, realizing their vulnerability in the relative open space they were crossing, determined quickly that they could not close the distance to where the arrows likely came from - at least not before more arrows rained down upon them. They chose instead to dash for the cover of a large tree trunk, every Orc for himself.
The one with the arrow penetrating his hip hobbled, the joint partly dislocated and definitely chipped. Once safely hidden, they glanced over their wounds. "We would both have need of the cutter, if we lived long enough to get back to our lines," panted the one, clutching the arrow in his chest to ease the pain. "We are not totally out of the fight yet, Blade-brother. We may yet earn Izrador's blessings when we pass over, if we do it well."
The other team of Blades didn't miss the rain of arrows and dashed forward to cover, the better to peer out and try to make sense of the situation. Meanwhile, running through the northern treeline, the Oruk and his bodyguard kept behind cover as they circled the ambush site, eyes wide open and registering the extent of their predicament.
The ambushers quickly renocked arrows, having removed them from their quivers ahead of time for speed of loading, but even so it was too long - their prey had cover, now, and no longer surprised. With their targets gone from sight, Thrayn and his men quickly spotted the larger Oruk and his man coming into view and shifted aim.
Rongald and Thrayn clearly had the same thought as their arrows flew toward the obvious leader of the raiders. Oruk stood at least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than their Orc cousins, and when in their company, were always the leaders. Bornhild made his target more modest, aiming for the more exposed Orc bodyguard. There was no need to call out to each other now. They were caught up in the rush of the battle. Speed would make the advantage now - speed and accuracy. If the Orcs fled, they would be forced to give chase for none could live now to bring back others. Survivors spoke of survivability. I will never encourage further attacks on the lands of my people again. Never, thought Thrayn bitterly as he unleashed his arrow.
The arrows struck in a staccatto of heavy thwacks - Thrayn's and Rongald's protruded, side by side, from the Oruk's belly, low and near his legs in a location that would make hardened warriors blanch. Blood spurted from the wounds and he fell without a sound, succumbing immediately to shock and pain. Bornhild's arrow still quivered in the tree it had struck, missing the orc by mere inches.
Thrayn took stock of radically changed the situation. Both the leader and his Second Tusk were down and not moving, and two Blades were hit and unable to advance in cover. The third unwounded Blade was staring down at the still quivering form of the Oruk dispassionately.
The wounded Blades exchanged meaningful glances. No, neither one would be running for distance any time soon, and both were bleeding enough to leave a trail. They were two days into the woods of the enemy. Retreat was not a survivable option. The Orc with an arrow in his chest panted and said between gritted teeth, "We have healthy Blade Brothers not fifty feet away. We'll never make it with our wounds - not without getting shot again." He left much unsaid, but the other nodded in unspoken agreement. As one, they screamed their terrible warcries and ran, as best they could, from the cover of their isolated tree and straight at the two humans perched in the trees east of them. In the lead was the one with an arrow in his chest, , and the other performing an odd limp-drag-scoot as fast as he could behind, despite the pain of a partially dislocated hip and arrow-shattered joint. They closed a good five yards in but a second, recklessly closing on the ambushers without thought to their safety.
The two unwounded Blades from behind their own cover saw the courageous charge of their companions, and their decision was made. "I will not be the first to run while less able warriors charge! Izrador!" He screamed the last.
As one the two able warriors lept from their cover and likewise charged, unheeding of the danger, across the open ground between them and the ambushers. They were faster than the others, of course, making nearly twice the distance their hobbled fellow Orcs made, and slowed only when they stood a mere four or five yards directly north of the Men. At this range, their javelins would be as effective as arrows, and the Orc strength could tip the balance. To take one of their enemy with them would make this an exchange the Shadow got the better of in the long run, for the Orcs were expendable.
Again the ambushers loosed their arrows as the Orcs charged recklessly. Rongald's arrow took one of the wounded in the eye and the brute's head snapped back as his feet flipped into the air. He was dead before he hit the ground. Bornhild shot the other wounded Orc in its sword arm, embedding itself through the elbow as the beast prepared m to throw a javelin. The weapon fell to the ground as the victim spun towards the wounded arm, sheilding it out of instinct. The other two Orcs seemed to be ignoring Thrayn - they had also drawn their javelins and were approaching the Dornlander's tree.
Curse upon Shadow! Again I will be passed over while companions die! Thrayn's face twisted into a snarl of rage as he drew back the bowstring. I will not let these people die, though mere Men they be! He would not let the Orks despoil his homeland any further. With each attack that breached his borders more of his people died. Death wasn't enough for Izrador any more. Now the Shadow had to ruin the very land and kill the souls of his people.
Thrayn's shot went wide when he fired, his hand shaking with rage, but did manage to hit the trailing healthy Orc in the hip. Blood spurted in a crimson arc from the severed artery as it toppled to the ground with a cry of pain.
The only Orc left uninjured among the four rushing Blades let his javelin fly, his massive strength propelling it at fearsome speed. Rongald jerked as the spear took him in the gut, but he thanked the stars that it was merely a shallow wound. He was saved from likely death by his mail armor, which Thrayn had purchased for him in the Fey village before they left. He grunted and grasped the haft with his free hand and pulled, setting the heavy Orc projectile next to him. Blood oozed from the rings of his rent mail.
The orcs were close now. Close enough that they could get more of those javelins fired off if they aren't taken out immediately, thought Thrayn calmly as he fired yet another arrow. There was really only one target for him to take - the uninjured Orc who had attacked Rongald. Swish, the arrow streaked away, his aim almost perfect. There was a satisfyingly solid thud as the arrow took that Orc in the chest, piercing his heart directly. Death was so fast, he had not even time to grimace, merely tumbling forward to slide some feet face-first in the dirt before his momentum was spent.
Rongald and Dornhild released in unison at the two remaining Orcs charging them. Rongald shot well despite his wound, and his aim was true. The arrow, fletched in the fashion favored by the Dorn with larger feathers and a slightly broader head, slid effortlessly between two ribs of the hip-shot Orc from before, piercing its lung. The massive creature fell to its knees, then flopped onto the leaves of the forest floor. It gasped for air but found not enough as its lung filled with blood. It was dead, it just didn't know it yet. Rongald nodded in satisfaction.
Dornhild followed suit, firing at the only Orc left standing - this the one with arrow through both hip and elbow. Die, you thrice-curst bastard! He had aimed true once more, and for the second time this battle the arrow streaked straight to the head of his target. The broad tip took the orc in the eye, piercing all the way through the skull to protrude halfway out the back of its skull, fletching a mere inch from the now savaged eyesocket.
Rongald called to Dornhild, "You doubted the ability of the Elf, eh? Here without his Shadow-cursed sorcery he has done as well as either of us - we, lifelong hunters and bandits. Ha!"
Dornhild merely nodded, hopping quickly from his tree perch with spear now in hand, and set to finish off any dead. Rongald slung his bow and climbed gingerly from his own perch, still bleeding slightly through the rent links of his mail armor. He had drawn his axe by the time Thrayn emerged. The Human was bent upon the necessary mutilation of the corpses, following after Dornhild so as to ensure he got no surprises from not-yet-dead Orcs.
Thrayn shook his head slowly, speaking in a quiet tone as hard as iron. "You need not dull your blade on their necks, Norther. This place will brook no Fell."
Dornhild grimaced. "We are to trust you on this, Fey? 'Tis your kind who brought the Curse upon us, revenge for our failure to stand against Izrador."
Thrayn's eyes narrowed. He had taken a step forward when Rongald interposed himself between the two, yelling at his fellow Dornish warrior, "Shut up, fool. You are as superstitious as the old washermaids! No wonder the Shadow rules our homeland. Bah. Norther!" Again, he had spit the name venemously, and Dornhild clenched his jaw in anger but turned away to finish his grisly business of finishing off the Orcs. For now, then, no fight was coming, which clearly relieed Rongald, who glanced at Thrayn with a nod and half-smile, almost apologetically.
It was then that Thrayn finished counting the bodies. A sixth Orc was missing from among the dead. One had escaped the ambush - the one who had been with the Oruk! Thrayn ran then to the corpse of their leader. Thrayn's eye travelled quickly to the missing ear, and raised an eyebrow in curiosity and some confusion. He looked up from the felled Oruk toward the Glen. No doubt the Orc had continued on to finish his work for his dark master.
Fury welled within Thrayn and he turned to the humans, his face blank and cold but eyes like two blue flames, flashing with the power of his rage. To Rongald he spoke, "Take anything of value and pile the bodies. We dare not burn them in this sacred place." He turned, about to run to the Glen. "Whatever happens, do not follow me - your kind are forbidden to enter. You would surley die." At that he was gone, running into the forest toward the Glen, his fighting knives in hand.
Emiricol
Registered User
The Orc reached down and, with one deft and callous motion, sliced the ear from the twitching Oruk at his feet and calmly put it in his beltpouch, then looked apprehensively about. The Third Tusk is dying, and he is the only one who has ever heard the Legate Whisper. Perhaps the magic is in his ear. When I get to the glen, it will tell me what to do. His decision made, the Orc moved out east among the trees and found a path just ahead that might enable him to sneak unseen away from the ambushers who were slaughtering the rest of his group even now. He moved off at a fast pace, hunched down to present the smallest profile he could.
Carith gazed out at the battle beginning before him and began to move in. The archers can handle the charging orcs. I'll handle the one going for the Glen myself. Throwing his pack and bow off his shoulder he dropped into a quick run, Raseri Styrke the blade of his ancestors, coming free of its scabard as he ran. The longsword had been crafted using techniques now lost to the Dorn in a time before Shadow ruled his homeland, and it had never met its match in battle according to all the family legends.
Carith breathed somewhat heavily as he kept rough pace with the fleeing Orc, never losing sight of the creature's back but also unable to close with it. He would not have been able to keep the pace up for long; fortunately, his prey came to a halt abruptly after bursting through the treeline to stand on the southern edge of a moderately sized pond of the purest clarity. Despite the forest, there were no leaves or debris in the water, and the entire area had an otherwordly feel. A Fey place of power, throught Carith with as much excitement as concern; every fiber of his being longed to rest in this tranquil place, for it felt like home - a thing he had not felt in quite some time.
The orc, hearing the Man still behind him, slowly turned to face the approaching Carith, drawing at the same time his massive Vardach, a heavy falchion-like blade meant for two hands and Orcish strength. He grinned after a brief glance about, but it was not a friendly expression. "Northslave, I'll have your meat tonight to feast upon. I will cook it over the fires of the burning woods, your blood drained first into the pool to drive out the spirit of the Shadow that resides there. That power is not for Men or Elf, Infidel." His voice dripped with religious fervor. It stepped lightly on the balls of its feat, slowly approaching Carith inexorably. There would be no time for arrows in this fight.
Carith kept his blade steady as he dropped into a low defensive stance and advanced towards the Orc ."I am no one's slave, weakling. Now show me what little courage you have, for the time for talking is over."
The orc stepped forward with murder in his eyes and swung high and fast, hoping to end the fight quickly but unwilling to commit heavily to the attack yet. Carith stepped up to meet him and swung his own sword high to deflect the attack. The ringing of steel echoed through out the sacred pond as the blades met and with a grunt Carith pushed the Orc backwards. He then launched a probing strike at the orc's midsection, but he saw it coming and knocked the Man's longsword aside with ease.
Realizing the Orc's momentum, Carith took a step back and raised his blade once more. The orc swung high again, but much weaker this time. With a sudden surge of strength Carith knocked the swing aside and pivoted hard to his left, using the energy from the deflection to help propel his sword at the orc's belly once again.
The orc was no slouch, and faster than he looked. His Vardatch found itself right where it needed to be to parry the man's attack and, before Carith had a chance to recover fully, he swung the Vardach upwards in what would have been a devastating uppercut if not for the keen balance of Raseri Styrke and the skill of the Man behind it.
Catching the blow low Carith tried to push the orc away once more, but the shadow creature's strength prevailed. Raising his Vardatch again, the orc lashed out, taking advantage of the Man's momentary awkward position. Carith parried, but the blow merely glanced upward, catching Carith square in the ribs and nearly knocking the young woodsman from his feet.
Carith thought for a moment that the fight was over, but a glance down showed that his life had been spared only by his armor, which now had a number of deformed links that would require mending. Better the armor than the Man. Gritting his teeth he stared into the eyes of the orc and snarled the best he could in its tongue, having after all no tusks, "I've been hit harder by children and goblins, and you pretend to be the Shadow's favorites?"
The orc roared with rage, swinging his vardatch up at Carith's head. While his blow was powerful, it was ill-timed and Carith stopped it with little more than a thought, launching his own counter attack with a quick slash out across the orc’s body. Off balance then from his miss-aimed blow the orc tried to raise his blade to parry, but the strike came too fast and before he could get into position the Man's keen longsword met the top of his head from front to back, shattering bone in an instant. The Orc dropped instantly, bleeding profusely from his deep head wound.
Breathing heavily from the short fight, Carith griped Raseri Styrke tightly and thrusted it deep into the chest of the Orc, finishing it off. Using one hand to wipe the sweat from his brow he glanced about the clearning, for the first time taking in the sight of the place that had called to him in his dreams for days now.
Carith gazed out at the battle beginning before him and began to move in. The archers can handle the charging orcs. I'll handle the one going for the Glen myself. Throwing his pack and bow off his shoulder he dropped into a quick run, Raseri Styrke the blade of his ancestors, coming free of its scabard as he ran. The longsword had been crafted using techniques now lost to the Dorn in a time before Shadow ruled his homeland, and it had never met its match in battle according to all the family legends.
Carith breathed somewhat heavily as he kept rough pace with the fleeing Orc, never losing sight of the creature's back but also unable to close with it. He would not have been able to keep the pace up for long; fortunately, his prey came to a halt abruptly after bursting through the treeline to stand on the southern edge of a moderately sized pond of the purest clarity. Despite the forest, there were no leaves or debris in the water, and the entire area had an otherwordly feel. A Fey place of power, throught Carith with as much excitement as concern; every fiber of his being longed to rest in this tranquil place, for it felt like home - a thing he had not felt in quite some time.
The orc, hearing the Man still behind him, slowly turned to face the approaching Carith, drawing at the same time his massive Vardach, a heavy falchion-like blade meant for two hands and Orcish strength. He grinned after a brief glance about, but it was not a friendly expression. "Northslave, I'll have your meat tonight to feast upon. I will cook it over the fires of the burning woods, your blood drained first into the pool to drive out the spirit of the Shadow that resides there. That power is not for Men or Elf, Infidel." His voice dripped with religious fervor. It stepped lightly on the balls of its feat, slowly approaching Carith inexorably. There would be no time for arrows in this fight.
Carith kept his blade steady as he dropped into a low defensive stance and advanced towards the Orc ."I am no one's slave, weakling. Now show me what little courage you have, for the time for talking is over."
The orc stepped forward with murder in his eyes and swung high and fast, hoping to end the fight quickly but unwilling to commit heavily to the attack yet. Carith stepped up to meet him and swung his own sword high to deflect the attack. The ringing of steel echoed through out the sacred pond as the blades met and with a grunt Carith pushed the Orc backwards. He then launched a probing strike at the orc's midsection, but he saw it coming and knocked the Man's longsword aside with ease.
Realizing the Orc's momentum, Carith took a step back and raised his blade once more. The orc swung high again, but much weaker this time. With a sudden surge of strength Carith knocked the swing aside and pivoted hard to his left, using the energy from the deflection to help propel his sword at the orc's belly once again.
The orc was no slouch, and faster than he looked. His Vardatch found itself right where it needed to be to parry the man's attack and, before Carith had a chance to recover fully, he swung the Vardach upwards in what would have been a devastating uppercut if not for the keen balance of Raseri Styrke and the skill of the Man behind it.
Catching the blow low Carith tried to push the orc away once more, but the shadow creature's strength prevailed. Raising his Vardatch again, the orc lashed out, taking advantage of the Man's momentary awkward position. Carith parried, but the blow merely glanced upward, catching Carith square in the ribs and nearly knocking the young woodsman from his feet.
Carith thought for a moment that the fight was over, but a glance down showed that his life had been spared only by his armor, which now had a number of deformed links that would require mending. Better the armor than the Man. Gritting his teeth he stared into the eyes of the orc and snarled the best he could in its tongue, having after all no tusks, "I've been hit harder by children and goblins, and you pretend to be the Shadow's favorites?"
The orc roared with rage, swinging his vardatch up at Carith's head. While his blow was powerful, it was ill-timed and Carith stopped it with little more than a thought, launching his own counter attack with a quick slash out across the orc’s body. Off balance then from his miss-aimed blow the orc tried to raise his blade to parry, but the strike came too fast and before he could get into position the Man's keen longsword met the top of his head from front to back, shattering bone in an instant. The Orc dropped instantly, bleeding profusely from his deep head wound.
Breathing heavily from the short fight, Carith griped Raseri Styrke tightly and thrusted it deep into the chest of the Orc, finishing it off. Using one hand to wipe the sweat from his brow he glanced about the clearning, for the first time taking in the sight of the place that had called to him in his dreams for days now.
Emiricol
Registered User
The glen was preternaturally silent, except for the quiet burbling of the stream that led away from the pool in the center of the clearing. Carith, catching his breath, leaned down and cleansed the orc ochre from his blade on the Orc's own tunic, rubbing it clean with practiced ease.
Carith froze suddenly, as a blur of moment was caught in the corner of his eye. He slowly turned his head to the left and up, from his crouched position, and there before him standing twelve feet on its hind legs if an inch was the most gigantic bear he'd ever seen. Though it was twice as tall as a bear, it was at least three times more muscular, the knotty sinews bulging beneath the massively thick hide and fur.
The great bear snarled, and the sound seemed to make the very ground beneath his feet rattle. Unnatural ridges and spikes along the muzzle and neck of the creature stood out, completing the terrifying picture of primeval death that stood before Carith.
Before he had a chance to move the creature was upon him, roaring, baring teeth as long as a man's fingers. It towered over the Man.
But then, rather than attack as Carith had expected, it stopped. Simply stopped. After a moment it tilted its head in a most comical fashion, totally at odds with the fearsome display of mere moments before. It sniffed him once. Twice. Then turned its back on the Man and trudged heavily to the west, disappearing amid the hills and the caverns therein.
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Thrayn arrived too late. He was only barely at the ridge of the trees by the time it had attacked the Man, but then suddenly, the beast stopped in its tracks. A moment later, it smelled him just as it might any Fey, and the tilt of its head showed it to be as confused as Thrayn himself. Miraculously, when the bear turned to leave, the human was still alive.
Never had Thrayn heard of such a thing in his entire life, nor any of his studies, nor any legend uttered in his hearing.
Quietly, Thrayn sheathed his knives and drew his bow once again. He nocked an arrow and stood from the undergrowth he had been crouching in. "Man! This place is forbidden to you! I know not what foul magics of the shadow you used to bewitch the guardian, but I will slay you where you stand if you..." He stopped as he saw the ork laying near the pool. "What Deceipt is this?!" He hissed to himself.
Carith turned slowly and held up his hands, carefully dropping his sword to the ground. "There is no deception here, master Elf. My name is Carith and I was called to this place to defend it," he said reasonably, in as even a tone as he could muster. "For days my dreams have been haunted by nightmares of orcs entering this sacred pool, and the every time I opened my mind to the Whisper of the trees they bid me travel here. I picked up the trail of the orcs earlier today and as I saw this one break away from your ambush I gave chase and made sure he could not complete his dark mission and spoil this sacred place." Stepping cautiously toward the Elf, hands still held out, he almost whispered, "I am sorry if I offended you master elf, I was simply doing what I can to defend the magisty of these woods."
Thrayn lowered the bow perhaps an inch, still searching for any sign of deception from this Human. "Whispers of the trees? Impossible. You lie. Only the Adepts may hear the murmuring of those passed on. What are you that you may stand here unharmed? Legate? Some contrivance of Izrador?" Thrayn's eyes burned holes in Carith as he spoke, his lowered voice hanging menacingly in the cold air.
Carith shook his head vigorously. "I am no servant of the Shadow! I am a free-willed Man who dwells among these trees and through their blessing has come to understand them in some measure. I do not know why I have been given this gift, but I am marked by these woods, and I swear to you I am among its defenders."
Thrayn grimaced. None of this makes sense! He is obviously a Man and no halfling child. He can not possibly be telling the truth. Yet, I can not deny the slain ork or the Great Bear's acceptance of his presence, as galling as that may be. He stepped forward, keeping the bow leveled at the Erenlander's chest. "We shall see what is true soon enough, Human." He said the last word with venom. When he came to within a yard of the man he channeled the sorcerous energy within him.
"Intellegam Meantus Verasitum Calviae." The words thrummed with power. He could feel the Human's thoughts - slight trepidation, the animal urge to fight, frustration, yes. But no sense of deception. His words had been true. Somehow, impossibly, they had been true. Or at least he believes that he speakes the truth.
Thrayn's face twisted with indecision for a moment before he finally lowered his bow. "You speak the truth. For some reason this place welcomes your presence. Do not leave that... thing," he spat the word as he pointed to the ork, "here to rot. Burn it beyond the reach of the glen."
He gave the Human one more measuring look and then turned abruptly to walk back the way he had come. It was time to bring Rongald in to tend to his wounds. Bornhild can watch the fire and fret alone in the woods.
--------------------
Carith dragged the orc through the woods towards the rising plume of smoke from a distance off in the trees and into the small clearing. Tossing the dead creature onto the fire and nodding to the northman who kept watch of the fire, he said with a friendly enough tone, "Greetings friend, I am Carith Darstin, and you would be one of the elves companions?"
Dornhild simply grunted, "Aye," as he tightened his grip on his spear. Then after a long moment of considering the newcomer, he said in his quiet voice, "And why are you walking these woods, dragging a dead orc no less? You are no Elf."
"I am a woodsmen who is blessed by the powers of the trees. I was called here to defend the pond beyond these trees in the Glen from those orcs." After a moment of silence it became clear the Dorn had no interest in idle talk. Carith brushed off his hands and said, "Now if you will excuse me I must make sure their are not more of the foul creatures about."
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As the odd man left the fireside, Thrayn walked from amongst the trees leading the pack horse. He handed the reins to Bornhild and walked over to Rongald, who was sitting down and holding his wounded belly. Thrayn offered the man his hand and helped him to his feet. "Come. I will help you with your wound."
The two of them wandered away slowly, back towards the glen, Thrayn leading the way. Rongald staggered here and there, but was not so gravely wounded that he could not keep pace for so short a distance.
Thrayn spoke as he walked. "Stay near me and do not stray from my side. The Glen is treacherous to those without the blood of the Erunsil." He looked back over his shoulder and fixed Rongald with his eyes. "There is a Guardian here, terrible to behold. I say again, do not stray from my side. So long as I escort you, you will not be harmed." Rongald merely nodded, his face a grimace of discomfort. Walking with a belly wound was not exactly fun.
Thrayn was irritated at having to bring the Dorn into the sacred Glen, but having taxed his magical strengths testing the Erenlander's honesty there was no other choice than to draw on the Glen's power to aid him. He truly doubted that either of the men who had set foot in the Glen appreciated what a gift they had been given, to see this bastion of the Elder Fey in these dark days and yet survive to tell of it.
They passed beyond the treeline and stepped into the clearing of the Glen. Thrayn motioned for Rongald to stop, and he did so gladly. In moments the Great Bear was upon them, appearing with alarming speed from its cave and charging. The beast rose to it's hind legs mere feet from Rongald and gave a deep, terrible growl of warning before slowing dropping down again to all fours. The ground shook with it's weight. Rongald tensed but Thrayn grabbed his arm before he could bolt. "Stand fast if you value your life," he hissed with anger.
The bear's enourmous head swung from side to side before Rongald, and the sound of it's snuffling was like that of the bellows of a great forge. The moment stretched almost painfully, but soon, satisfied of Thrayn and his ward, the bear turned away slowly and walked back toward his cave.
Thrayn could feel Rongald relax and let go of the man's arm.He led him over to the edge of the pond and sat. Closing his eyes for a moment, he centered his thoughts on the power saturating the Glen and opened himself fully to it. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and began to trace Erunsil runes for health and convalesence in the air with his hands. "Creo Corpus Areat Sul" As he spoke the words he lay a hand lightly over Rongald's wound, and a bone-cold chill passed through both of them. A silent wind blew about them, charged with energy even Rongald could almost feel. And then it was gone. When Thrayn raised his hand, the wound beneath was closed, with only a well-healed scar on his stomach to show where the Man had been pierced.
Thrayn said dismissively, tiredly, "Now return to the camp. I will be along shortly. I have much to think on." He stood as he spoke and began to walk on, deeper into the Glen.
Rongald stared at his belly in astonishment but soon, blinking, shook off the feeling. I have been healed by Thrayn thrice before, but I doubt I shall ever become used to it. He watched the Elf walking for a moment, then turned away and began the walk back to camp.
Carith froze suddenly, as a blur of moment was caught in the corner of his eye. He slowly turned his head to the left and up, from his crouched position, and there before him standing twelve feet on its hind legs if an inch was the most gigantic bear he'd ever seen. Though it was twice as tall as a bear, it was at least three times more muscular, the knotty sinews bulging beneath the massively thick hide and fur.
The great bear snarled, and the sound seemed to make the very ground beneath his feet rattle. Unnatural ridges and spikes along the muzzle and neck of the creature stood out, completing the terrifying picture of primeval death that stood before Carith.
Before he had a chance to move the creature was upon him, roaring, baring teeth as long as a man's fingers. It towered over the Man.
But then, rather than attack as Carith had expected, it stopped. Simply stopped. After a moment it tilted its head in a most comical fashion, totally at odds with the fearsome display of mere moments before. It sniffed him once. Twice. Then turned its back on the Man and trudged heavily to the west, disappearing amid the hills and the caverns therein.
----------------------------------------
Thrayn arrived too late. He was only barely at the ridge of the trees by the time it had attacked the Man, but then suddenly, the beast stopped in its tracks. A moment later, it smelled him just as it might any Fey, and the tilt of its head showed it to be as confused as Thrayn himself. Miraculously, when the bear turned to leave, the human was still alive.
Never had Thrayn heard of such a thing in his entire life, nor any of his studies, nor any legend uttered in his hearing.
Quietly, Thrayn sheathed his knives and drew his bow once again. He nocked an arrow and stood from the undergrowth he had been crouching in. "Man! This place is forbidden to you! I know not what foul magics of the shadow you used to bewitch the guardian, but I will slay you where you stand if you..." He stopped as he saw the ork laying near the pool. "What Deceipt is this?!" He hissed to himself.
Carith turned slowly and held up his hands, carefully dropping his sword to the ground. "There is no deception here, master Elf. My name is Carith and I was called to this place to defend it," he said reasonably, in as even a tone as he could muster. "For days my dreams have been haunted by nightmares of orcs entering this sacred pool, and the every time I opened my mind to the Whisper of the trees they bid me travel here. I picked up the trail of the orcs earlier today and as I saw this one break away from your ambush I gave chase and made sure he could not complete his dark mission and spoil this sacred place." Stepping cautiously toward the Elf, hands still held out, he almost whispered, "I am sorry if I offended you master elf, I was simply doing what I can to defend the magisty of these woods."
Thrayn lowered the bow perhaps an inch, still searching for any sign of deception from this Human. "Whispers of the trees? Impossible. You lie. Only the Adepts may hear the murmuring of those passed on. What are you that you may stand here unharmed? Legate? Some contrivance of Izrador?" Thrayn's eyes burned holes in Carith as he spoke, his lowered voice hanging menacingly in the cold air.
Carith shook his head vigorously. "I am no servant of the Shadow! I am a free-willed Man who dwells among these trees and through their blessing has come to understand them in some measure. I do not know why I have been given this gift, but I am marked by these woods, and I swear to you I am among its defenders."
Thrayn grimaced. None of this makes sense! He is obviously a Man and no halfling child. He can not possibly be telling the truth. Yet, I can not deny the slain ork or the Great Bear's acceptance of his presence, as galling as that may be. He stepped forward, keeping the bow leveled at the Erenlander's chest. "We shall see what is true soon enough, Human." He said the last word with venom. When he came to within a yard of the man he channeled the sorcerous energy within him.
"Intellegam Meantus Verasitum Calviae." The words thrummed with power. He could feel the Human's thoughts - slight trepidation, the animal urge to fight, frustration, yes. But no sense of deception. His words had been true. Somehow, impossibly, they had been true. Or at least he believes that he speakes the truth.
Thrayn's face twisted with indecision for a moment before he finally lowered his bow. "You speak the truth. For some reason this place welcomes your presence. Do not leave that... thing," he spat the word as he pointed to the ork, "here to rot. Burn it beyond the reach of the glen."
He gave the Human one more measuring look and then turned abruptly to walk back the way he had come. It was time to bring Rongald in to tend to his wounds. Bornhild can watch the fire and fret alone in the woods.
--------------------
Carith dragged the orc through the woods towards the rising plume of smoke from a distance off in the trees and into the small clearing. Tossing the dead creature onto the fire and nodding to the northman who kept watch of the fire, he said with a friendly enough tone, "Greetings friend, I am Carith Darstin, and you would be one of the elves companions?"
Dornhild simply grunted, "Aye," as he tightened his grip on his spear. Then after a long moment of considering the newcomer, he said in his quiet voice, "And why are you walking these woods, dragging a dead orc no less? You are no Elf."
"I am a woodsmen who is blessed by the powers of the trees. I was called here to defend the pond beyond these trees in the Glen from those orcs." After a moment of silence it became clear the Dorn had no interest in idle talk. Carith brushed off his hands and said, "Now if you will excuse me I must make sure their are not more of the foul creatures about."
-------------------------
As the odd man left the fireside, Thrayn walked from amongst the trees leading the pack horse. He handed the reins to Bornhild and walked over to Rongald, who was sitting down and holding his wounded belly. Thrayn offered the man his hand and helped him to his feet. "Come. I will help you with your wound."
The two of them wandered away slowly, back towards the glen, Thrayn leading the way. Rongald staggered here and there, but was not so gravely wounded that he could not keep pace for so short a distance.
Thrayn spoke as he walked. "Stay near me and do not stray from my side. The Glen is treacherous to those without the blood of the Erunsil." He looked back over his shoulder and fixed Rongald with his eyes. "There is a Guardian here, terrible to behold. I say again, do not stray from my side. So long as I escort you, you will not be harmed." Rongald merely nodded, his face a grimace of discomfort. Walking with a belly wound was not exactly fun.
Thrayn was irritated at having to bring the Dorn into the sacred Glen, but having taxed his magical strengths testing the Erenlander's honesty there was no other choice than to draw on the Glen's power to aid him. He truly doubted that either of the men who had set foot in the Glen appreciated what a gift they had been given, to see this bastion of the Elder Fey in these dark days and yet survive to tell of it.
They passed beyond the treeline and stepped into the clearing of the Glen. Thrayn motioned for Rongald to stop, and he did so gladly. In moments the Great Bear was upon them, appearing with alarming speed from its cave and charging. The beast rose to it's hind legs mere feet from Rongald and gave a deep, terrible growl of warning before slowing dropping down again to all fours. The ground shook with it's weight. Rongald tensed but Thrayn grabbed his arm before he could bolt. "Stand fast if you value your life," he hissed with anger.
The bear's enourmous head swung from side to side before Rongald, and the sound of it's snuffling was like that of the bellows of a great forge. The moment stretched almost painfully, but soon, satisfied of Thrayn and his ward, the bear turned away slowly and walked back toward his cave.
Thrayn could feel Rongald relax and let go of the man's arm.He led him over to the edge of the pond and sat. Closing his eyes for a moment, he centered his thoughts on the power saturating the Glen and opened himself fully to it. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and began to trace Erunsil runes for health and convalesence in the air with his hands. "Creo Corpus Areat Sul" As he spoke the words he lay a hand lightly over Rongald's wound, and a bone-cold chill passed through both of them. A silent wind blew about them, charged with energy even Rongald could almost feel. And then it was gone. When Thrayn raised his hand, the wound beneath was closed, with only a well-healed scar on his stomach to show where the Man had been pierced.
Thrayn said dismissively, tiredly, "Now return to the camp. I will be along shortly. I have much to think on." He stood as he spoke and began to walk on, deeper into the Glen.
Rongald stared at his belly in astonishment but soon, blinking, shook off the feeling. I have been healed by Thrayn thrice before, but I doubt I shall ever become used to it. He watched the Elf walking for a moment, then turned away and began the walk back to camp.
Soullessweare
First Post
Great
I'll keep reading. I bought the Midnight setting some time ago. Waiting for my turn to DM now, thank you for the inspiration
I'll keep reading. I bought the Midnight setting some time ago. Waiting for my turn to DM now, thank you for the inspiration
Emiricol
Registered User
I'm glad there are people reading this and enjoying it. It's been a lot of fun DMing this group, and despite a few more typos than usual in my last post I think it's generally going really well
Good luck when you get to DM Midnight! I'm sure you are familiar with the midnight forums, but just in case not - www.againsttheshadow.org has tons and tons of useful information for DMs, and some pretty active Midnight-specific forums.
Good luck when you get to DM Midnight! I'm sure you are familiar with the midnight forums, but just in case not - www.againsttheshadow.org has tons and tons of useful information for DMs, and some pretty active Midnight-specific forums.
Emiricol
Registered User
Carith, turning away from Dornhild, walked through the woods until he found a small grove of trees. As he moved to place his hand upon one ancient, gnarled pine tree, his mind became aware of a greater existance, and drew then upon the power of the Whispering Woods.
The instant his hands touched the great pine he was struck forcefully by a whirling flurry of images, confusing and troubling. Orcs dying by the hundreds; Men and Elves dying in lesser numbers, but still the orcs came. And came. And came. Every image contained a flash of red - a banner here, and a pennant there; a shield cover, a breastplate. On each flag and pennant, shield and cuirass, there was embossed the image of the talons of a raptor, a stylized foot, which clutches within its claws a green sphere. Blood-red gashes vividly marred the surface.
Then, like a hammer he felt struck by the vivid image of a small, glass-smooth pool of inky blackness; torches were lit but the pool seemed to drain away even the light itself, such that it left the place illuminated only faintly; lines and corners of a lighter shade than the pitch black of every flat surface was the only effect of the torches.
Then, disorientingly fast, the vision shifted to what looked to be a day in early spring with mostly melted snow. The vision of a village, its pallisade - meant to keep out Fell and predators - burning and raising plumes of black smoke to the sky. The dead lay everywhere, mostly Men.
Another shift and there was the view of a cluster of dead Orcs and Oruk, piled at the base of a highly unsual rock formation. A butte of red rock rose out of the tall grasses of the fields surrounding the burning village, and on it, men stood with weapons raised, screaming a bloody victory cry.
It shifted again. Same vista, but this time the men were dead. Oruk were mutilating the bodies, casually slicing off scalps, ears and noses, pulling teeth, and gathering worse trophies as well.
The scene shifted once more, and there was a Legate, one of the dread servants of Izrador himself, laying dead at the base of the butte; he wore as his personal crest the same red and green image that colored the standards and armor of the Orcs. His black hair, long as a woman's, lay trampled into the mud, which was red with his blood. The once-dark features of his face, that of a Southerner, lay pale and blue and still and his eyes looking blankly to the sky.
What does it mean? thought Carith hazily, coming out of the hallucination. It was impossible to tell with certainty. As always, the sheer volume and quantity of the Whisper of the Woods was deafening, drowning out the potential for real understanding. If only I could focus the voices, narrow in on one! But no, they are a mere cacaphony of sound and vision.
And then he stumbled back as he finally broke contact, the assault on his senses too much to withstand any longer. He nearly fell over backwards, so dizzy and disoriented was he. He caught himself on another trees as the last tendrils of the spell's power faded from his body. A bad omen to be sure but what does it mean. That legate may be the one who sent the orcs to this pond, and if I am reading the vision correctly, this will not be the last of his foul deeds. Perhaps if I find that butte of red rock and the village near by I could make a difference there, or at least gain a place to start.
The instant his hands touched the great pine he was struck forcefully by a whirling flurry of images, confusing and troubling. Orcs dying by the hundreds; Men and Elves dying in lesser numbers, but still the orcs came. And came. And came. Every image contained a flash of red - a banner here, and a pennant there; a shield cover, a breastplate. On each flag and pennant, shield and cuirass, there was embossed the image of the talons of a raptor, a stylized foot, which clutches within its claws a green sphere. Blood-red gashes vividly marred the surface.
Then, like a hammer he felt struck by the vivid image of a small, glass-smooth pool of inky blackness; torches were lit but the pool seemed to drain away even the light itself, such that it left the place illuminated only faintly; lines and corners of a lighter shade than the pitch black of every flat surface was the only effect of the torches.
Then, disorientingly fast, the vision shifted to what looked to be a day in early spring with mostly melted snow. The vision of a village, its pallisade - meant to keep out Fell and predators - burning and raising plumes of black smoke to the sky. The dead lay everywhere, mostly Men.
Another shift and there was the view of a cluster of dead Orcs and Oruk, piled at the base of a highly unsual rock formation. A butte of red rock rose out of the tall grasses of the fields surrounding the burning village, and on it, men stood with weapons raised, screaming a bloody victory cry.
It shifted again. Same vista, but this time the men were dead. Oruk were mutilating the bodies, casually slicing off scalps, ears and noses, pulling teeth, and gathering worse trophies as well.
The scene shifted once more, and there was a Legate, one of the dread servants of Izrador himself, laying dead at the base of the butte; he wore as his personal crest the same red and green image that colored the standards and armor of the Orcs. His black hair, long as a woman's, lay trampled into the mud, which was red with his blood. The once-dark features of his face, that of a Southerner, lay pale and blue and still and his eyes looking blankly to the sky.
What does it mean? thought Carith hazily, coming out of the hallucination. It was impossible to tell with certainty. As always, the sheer volume and quantity of the Whisper of the Woods was deafening, drowning out the potential for real understanding. If only I could focus the voices, narrow in on one! But no, they are a mere cacaphony of sound and vision.
And then he stumbled back as he finally broke contact, the assault on his senses too much to withstand any longer. He nearly fell over backwards, so dizzy and disoriented was he. He caught himself on another trees as the last tendrils of the spell's power faded from his body. A bad omen to be sure but what does it mean. That legate may be the one who sent the orcs to this pond, and if I am reading the vision correctly, this will not be the last of his foul deeds. Perhaps if I find that butte of red rock and the village near by I could make a difference there, or at least gain a place to start.
