Participants: Theodred (Haengol), Hephtur (himself), Urgamurk (Hronegnir), Brac/Ealgar (Barseg), Grimbold (Falred), Grimdash (Rukghash), Sigeweald (Giondan), Maabrim (himself), Beowein (himself), Ealric (himself), Gilken (Pough), Elfhelm/Haldric (Ceolhelm), Aylean (herself), Gratak (Vinyarod)
Real Date is: Sun Jan 19 2003
North Bank, Fords of Isen
The Sun is shining brightly, and only a few scattered clouds mar the perfect blue sky. A slight breeze is blowing from off the plains.
A hillside near the Fords of the River Isen, which runs through the valley below you, from northeast to southwest. The road runs down the slope southeast to the ford. Looking that direction you see the foothills and peaks of the White Mountains. A gap in the mountains is visible some distance away along the mountains: the entrance to the Deeping Coomb and the fortress of Helm's Deep.
The Misty Mountains rise up sharply north of you, and you can see the misty ring of mountains known as the Wizard's Vale, or Nan Curunir, to the north. The fields of Rohan stretch away to the east, and the Gap of Rohan opens up to the west and northwest.
The road continues northward toward Nan Curunir, and southeast down the slope to the ford itself.
Obvious exits:
North leads to Intersection of Great West Road and Old South Road.
SouthEast leads to South Bank, Fords of Isen.
[Theodred(#9621)] Thundering hooves sunder the turf as a thousand horsemen swarm the plains of Isengard. Victory on their voices, they sweep forward, heartened by an easy end of the vanguard of Saruman's troop. The air is misty on this late-winter's day, and so the noble commander of the horsemen, Theodred notices not the numbers of the stiffening resistance until it is almost too late. A few dozen scant yards from an entrenched line of pikemen, the Prince of the Rohirrim rears his horse and blows a horn call of retreat. deft riders maneuver as easily as they may amidst the cruel arrows and sword strokes of their foe, racing to outrun the force which moves to outflank them on the east. "Eorlingas! To the Ford! Retreat!"
[Hephtur(#4407)]
The lines are thick and deep, the pikemen of thousands stands fast with their weapons raised upon the incoming riders. Wicked grins and cruel faces glitters in the light as horses with men and uruks clash together. And so the battle has begun, and slowly the lines starts to move as waves, crushing back and forth. Slowly the riders give away for the great force of the white hand. And as the booming sound of the prince's horn is heard, a great cheer of guttural voice is raised as the humans give away and prepares the retreat.
Some warriors darts forward, as fast as they can, to kill those riders astray, some succeed, other fails. But so the lines starts to move, pursuing the riders in a steady pace, not letting the get out of sight.
Far away to the east from the ongoing battle stands another force, though smaller but crafty. Hephtur stands upon a hill, all clad in chain and with weapons at hand. Cruel glittering eyes is seen and so he watches over his force and salutes towards the banner, swinging in the wind above him.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern bank>
A bead of white liquid whips through the cold air and falls back into the muzzle of its owner, a beast of hideous form and size. Like a child's nightmare, it awaits growling far away along the Eastern bank, as mud and grass is torn and upturned under its impatient paws.
A howl most primeval from it, but it is not from the panting maw of the wolf, but from the shape lying on top of it. Lying against the back of the beast is a small lump of rags, from which extend two hands clutching fiercely at the fur on the beasts neck. Small red eyes remain focussed on the line of horsemen and infantry breaking against the forces of Isen below them. And so awaits Urgamurk of the wolfriders.
<Eastern Bank> Across the Isen, the columns of retreating horsemen seem shrunken to mere ants at this distance ... and like ants, they seem to scramble desperately to find a new course as they encounter an obstacle. Booted feet march steadily south towards Hephtur's banner, along a path already trampled by padding paws - footmen follow the feared Wolf-Riders as swiftly as they may (and as closely as they dare). Men indeed; for in Saruman's purpose two races have united here today. An anticipatory smile curves the lips of Brac of Dunland as one of those fleeing dots across the river stumbles and falls, its rider overborne almost instantly by leaping Orcish figures.
[Grimbold.(#15851)] <Western Bank>Leading the rearguard of the Eorling host is Grimbold, Lord of Grimslade. As the retreat is sounded, he wheels his horse about, calling to the guard, and letting the rest of the massed eoreds pass around them. Nothing then, between them and the hosts of the White Hand, nothing but hauberk and blood-stained spears and courage to endure. As they are pressed by the murderous horde, the Lord of Grimslade is forced to turn his men again and again, holding their surge back for a time so that Theodred and the main body of the Riders of the Mark can retreat, before he himself turns the hindmost eored to catch up. And then it begins anew, mile after wearying mile, back towards the dubious safety of the Fords.
[Grimdash(#11368)]
<Western Bank> Among the forces of the Western bank is Grimdash, clad in tightly tucked chain armour supported by numerous leather straps. In his hand is held a short braodsword of crude make; the blade nicked and dented - even slightly crooked to the discerning eye. No matter. As the forces of whiteskins and Isengard clash, Grimdash's eyes flash in a burst; the smell of blood and death beginning to permeate the air.
"PUsh the whiteskins back!" Comes a guttural call from Grimdash's throat, his eyes glowering ahead. At this the Uruk-hai pushes forward among the forces, making his way to the front of the charge to push the Whiteskins back and away.
[Sigeweald(#26950)] <western bank>Amidst the compagnie's of riders, after several attacks on the trenches, Sigeweald and his fellow riders are given the order to retreat, a loud horn blows over the plains; And a voice cries. Allover, men can be seen, turning their steeds around, ready to follow the prince, some being hewn down by persuing men and beasts f isengard. As Sigeweald is close to the prince, he calls back a few time, raising the blood covered spear high in the air, "Retreat, Retreat." and turn his horse around, spurring it forwards after the prince. Allready many men have died, but many are following now, as the compagnie's of riders are clearly moving away, to the fords.
[Maabrim(#31370)] <Eastern Bank>
A tall, overbearing beast of a man almost wades in a sea of swirling black pocked here and there with the brand of a white hand. Stark on Maabrim's own bared chest is this same ghoulish imprint of the hosts of Saruman, and he wears it proudly. No sound emits from the large man's conically bearded mouth; steady, stoic concentration reins the man's focus in upon the Forgoil to his fore.
The singing of Maabrim's steel is horribly dwarfed by the mingling masses about him, and the pounding, almost heartbeat din of the surrounding battle. The man breathes deep with widened nostrils, and eyes closed as he pulls a massive longsword down and to the right of the sheath strapped to his back.
"Let the filth come. Our time is now," he says mater of factly to no one in particular.
[Beowein(#30389)] <Western Bank>A tall rider armored in ringmail, with longsword and shield ready, squints his eyes into the distance and leans forward on his slender horse as the Rohirrim forces speed forward. His eyes darting quickly across the massed enemy Beowein's face twists into a grimace as he thinks to himself what a memorable battle lay ahead. Turning his head as the retreat is a sounded he slows and nudges his horse back towards the now retreating lines of his fellow sperewigend.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Western Bank> Charging swiftly down upon the force arrayed against them is the newest member of the Eored. Ealric Eodredson is riding hard upon his steed and friend Beortbrond, Bright Fire in the Common Tongue, when the horn is sounded and calling for the retreat. Nearly slamming himself and his horse into the weapons of the pikemen, the Eorling wheels about in the nick of time and pushes hard to regain his position amongst the kindred he rides with. Swift, deft strokes of his arm hew limbs from several Orcs before Ealric has caught up with the rest of the Rohir. "Now is the time of our ballad, Beortbrond! For the Prince!" He calls out to his horse and continue to fight his way back with his follows.
[Gilken(#10607)] <Eastern Bank> Standing close by to his leader, Hephtur, Gilkin the half-orc looks sneeringly upon his small company of Uruk. With shield in left hand, he rests his right upon the pomel of his iron mace, which he has planted into the earth beside him. Silently, he awaits for the call of the Human.
[Haldric(#30397)] <Western Bank> The deafening clamour of war cries and stamping hooves rumble as the horn of Theodred heralds retreat. Swerving his ebony steed , the leather reins pulled taut in determind grip, a young Rider, no more than nineteen winters, turns to the call of his superior. Haldric's sword is clenched tight in a bloodied hand, his flaxen brow is soiled and beaded with sweat, as his icy eyes widen to the sheer numbers of their foe. Prompting his mare with the clip of his heel, the Sperewigend rides forth weaving his steed betwixt those un-horsed, ever towards the fords.
[Hephtur(#4407)]
<Western Bank> The orcs continues to push onward, though loud screams of anger and dissapointment are thrown out into the air as the crescendo of thunder. The screams are easily explained at the ongoing disturbing attacks of Grimbold and his riders. But still Grimbold and his force is clearly not large enough to halt the tidal wave of orcs who marches with death and agony in mind. The thundering sounds of their footsteps does not stop.
<Eastern Bank> Hephtur eyes the ants moving towards the fords and with a low, icing cold voice he speaks towards Gilkin, "Find the banner of the prince. He shalt not live to see another dawn..." the voice carries death through the air. The eyes are nothing but slots in his cruel face, as he now shows who he really am, and what he was trained to do.
[Aylean(#28442)]
Perhaps some of the men and women among the pikemen, grimly eyeing the straw-heads riders, patiently waiting for the command to move forwards, don't bear cruel faces or wicked grins, but cool eyes that speak of hate, a deep hate collected through years and years of wait and anger, of disdain and wrath that right now materialize as the enemy is spotted. Thin red lips, feminine lips, curve up in a smirk as a spit leaves and lands to the ground. Alas, the cowards retreated and missed it, but with luck soon they will know of the wrath of the north and their men... Slowly, while the black eyes narrow and pierce to the Ford, a hand slips under the cloak searching for the pommel of a blade, forged long ago with this purpose - to soil the land with forgoil's blood.
[Theodred(#9621)] <western bank> Theoden's son frowns, hating to fall back in the face of the traitor's swarm, but knowing that to remain would be folly. The loss of his force would leave Rohan wide open to plunder by the viscious beasts. And so the safety of the river and the earthen forts at its banks are his only solution. Thick, black arrows fill the air like angry hornets, and many fair blonde men return not to the green fields of their home. Theodred looks back often, wishing the best for his friend and lieutenant, Grimbold as the hosts swarm back towards the border of the Riddermark. He tarries at the tail of the Rohirric horde, directing stragglers and waiting shouting commands to his various officers. "Thendhelm, to the east bank when you've made it!" "Eohrin! watch your left!"
<Eastern Bank> Brac's head whips round at the sound of Maabrim's words - speech from a human throat. "Our time is when the Hand commands," he growls in response, his own hand trembling slightly as axe is drawn, and dark eyes linger not on the retreating strawhead horsemen but the hunched shapes of wolves and the goblins that ride them. Fear? His feet are planted firmly as he awaits whatever orders will come ...
[Grimdash(#11368)]
<Western Bank> The short broadsword lashes out! Schink! The rough blade hews only sparks from clashing with metal. The Uruk-hai's arm shudders from the impact, continuing to move his body forward towards the Whiteskins.
A malicious grin seems to be on the face of Grimdash, his crimson eyes glowering at the backsides of the retreating Whiteskins. "Keep after them!" Grimdash shouts, his voice raising above the din of battle around him. Whoosh! His short broadsword lashes out towards the leg of a horse - another miss, the horse too fast fro the Uruk-hai's swing.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
The sun casts long shadows and in these shadows are seen another twenty pairs of red eyes swivelling in every direction as they look upon dinner start to make their way to the eastern bank. "Ehhhhehhheh", the sniggering laughs of many of them make the wolves even more anxious.
A couple lunge forward, and are dragged back by the hands at their necks. Snarls and whines erupt as some of the wolves turn around and try to nip at the hands that hold them back. Fierce handhold still keeping his mount steady, Urgamurk growls back at it, "Soon.. soon.. "
[Sigeweald(#26950)] <western bank>Plain roll by, and dirt scatters as the Eored of Prince Theodred, and his riders, with quite some speed are racing to the fords. As Sigeweald looks to the east, he can see many foes, also moving quickly towards the fords, horrid sounds follow them, and Sigeweald, his face covered in dried blood, hands also; spurs his horse forwards again; a bit to the east following the many riders infront of him. Often an arrow swoops by, hitting riders at random, and many friends of Sigeweald fall. Sounds are heard in from the back of the Eored, as the following isengarders attack the rear, and many cries of despair are heard; making the men ride even harder.
[Gilken(#10607)] <Eastern Bank) The Arauruk turns his piercing gray eyes upon the human, insanity clearly seen in his ebony pupils, "Aye my lo'd! These maggots shall not wait long for thier childs blood play!" In his final words he guestures to the mass of Uruk behind him.
The fell creature rolls his shoulders then and adjusts the round shield upon his arm. Opening but a little his mouth he rasps "Indeed we will all..."
[Maabrim(#31370)] Maabrim stands his ground, sliding the wickedly long blade in his hand from left to right as he battles already with the anticipation begging to exit his body in rage personified.
The merest glance is disallowed the nearby Brac, but the human's baratone rumbles again. "Let that tongue slip again, maggot, and I'll personally rid you of it."
Maabrim chuckles unsettlingly.
[Gratak(#20993)]
With gritted teeth and weapons held high, a group of Uruk-Hai bearing the white hand slash forward to follow the men and beasts. Cruel weapon's coated with thickening blood of man and horse are held aloft in threat, the servant's of Saruman drive onwards to bring down the Men and their beasts. Pushing forward into the midst of horseflesh, stirred forth by the call for death, Gratak raises his axe to bite cruelly into a horse's flank. Growling smoothly, he draws back his weapon from the strike, tearing flesh and spilling blood to the sound of a horses scream of pain. The Uruk draws back his arm to strike once more, his aim to plant the axe into a man's back.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Western Bank> Ealric's bright green eyes land upon an Uruk-hai who has made his way upon the western bank and is attacking his follow Sperewigends. Digging his heels into Beortbrond's flanks, he urges the horse on swiftly and approaches the massive creature from behind. The Eorling positions his shield to defend himself and brings his sharp and deadly longsword to bear on the Uruk-hai's head, preparing for a decaptating swing.
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Western Bank> heavier than torrents of a spring storm fall the black arrows of the orcs, and the screams of Riders and of horses fills the air. Blood stains the green fields, the earth going red and muddy in the mire of gore. Grimbold shouts orders to his own men, wheeling about once again to meet the latest onrush of the hate-filled horde. He turns his head but a moment, seeing the distance that has opened between himself and the rest of the host of the Mark. And yet, what can so few do to stave off so many, but to trust that the rest of the companies will make it to the Fords. His men dwindle, but Grimbold's courage does not. Taking up his mighty spear and stabbing it through one of his foe, he takes up a war-song of the Mark, the sound of it ringing brave and bold above the cries of men.
[Hephtur(#4407)]
<Eastern Bank> The head of Hephtur drops towards his chest as he moves his eyes away from the slaughter of the humans. And as he raises it he turns and watches over the force surrounding him, a faint smiles lies upon his lips. The eyes moves over the Dunlendings and he nods towards a few of them and as his eyes falls upon Aylean he bows his head in greeting. Though his gaze moves on and ends up on the wolf riders to whom he speaks "Riders, charge their left flank when I give the command."
He does not wait for a reply but moves towards Aylean and the other humans and as he reaches their lines he grins a happy grin, glittering of happiness, "Put preassure on the right flank of their forces when we charge. I shall lead a plow in the center..." his gaze never leaves the figure of Aylean where he stands, and so the ending words come, "Good luck."
[Beowein(#30389)] <Western Bank>Looking backwards for a moment as he continues nudging his horse into increased speed, Beowein's gaze searches the dust and sights of battle for any threats coming near. His eyes widen suddenly as an arrows seeks to do him harm, quickly lifting his shield he lets out a deep sigh of relief as the arrow sticks itself into his defense rather than his back. He lowers his body closer to his horse and cracks the shaft of the arrow off of his shield before tossing it into his horse's wake.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
Riders, charge..", and only these words from Hephtur are heard before one of the warg-riders takes off like an arrow from a tensed bow. But no arrow it is, unlike the one that appears in Urgamurk's hand as he cocks his bow and shoots at the back of the charging rider.
Black shaft flies true through the air, and a dead uruk topples down. The wolf skids to a stop, trots back and starts to chew at the fallen orc. "Any more that charge without my order, will feel the same..", he rasps to those around them. Ahead of them, the warg is dashing the lifeless body around to try and sever its limbs.
[Theodred(#9621)] A gust of breeze from the west begins to vanquish the shrouding evening mist. The milling, driving forces on the east bank are thus revealed to the horsemen, and not a few cry out in despair at the rapid advance of that army. Foaming with sweat, their mounts carry them quickly to the Fords, a wide, slow spot in the river isen. Theodred wheels, using his sword and booming voice to command his men as best he may. Fortune is with them that, despite the harried retreat, they are a well organized and disciplined fighting force. The majority of his forces he sends across the river, in hopes of bolstering the far eastern bank. His personal guard, now some 80 men remaining of their original 120 swarm about him expectantly, awaiting his command. "Grimbold!" A booming voice that is almost lost above the din of battle. "Grimbold! Reinforce the earthworks on this western bank. Take 50 men! Send your horses across the river!" He then directs a command to his own waiting men. "Brave eorlingas, stand with me on yon island, that we may cover the Lord of Grimslade when he falls back! Dismount and send your horses east! To the eyot! Move!"
[Aylean(#28442)]
"I can't see the point to waste our time while they retreat and we wait for the command. We will give you more time to run away. Captain? Shall we?". The woman beside Hephtur queries. But as soon as he speaks, a nod is offered and some words muttered under her breath, "Same to you... Hephtur." The gaze slips briefly towards Maabrim, a new nod and a deep sigh is heaved to take forces. Drawing her longsword from its sheath, the woman marches to meet the riders and her own fate.
Gilken watches as the human moves off to his fellow kin, before turning again back to look down upon the battle, his cool gray eyes searching furiously now.
[Grimdash(#11368)]
<Western Bank> The pounding of hooves upon the ground, like a thunderous roar, attracts the attention of Grimdash - his head turning to the side to see a Sword raised high and lowering quickly for a swing at his head. Whish! The sword flies overhead, the Uruk-hai duggin and moving his body out of the way of the horse.
Yet, the sword arm of the Uruk-hai lashes out to his right - not for rider but for horse, its side and haunches. Misguided, the strike is barely even hopeful yet still it lashes as a whip for flesh. Even then Grimdash raises his body back up from the ground, his legs shifting round to set himself in a more defensive position.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Western Bank> "On my honour and the blood of my forefathers you will not leave this field with breath in your lungs!" Ealric calls out to the Uruk-hai as he wheels his horse about and holds, leveling the point of his sword at the Grimdash, "Forth, Beortbrond! Let our force be one and our steel ring true!" The human urges his horse on, the hooves digging deeply into the turf and foam flying from his mount's mouth. Drawing back, the Rohir swings down with a grunt at an angle upon the Uruk-hai's shoulder.
[Gilken(#10607)] <Eastern Bank> The twisted being of orc and human form alike jumps back, his breath expelled at once in a harsh rasp into the air alone. "The prince of pony ride!" He grits to himself and spins to the company now before him. "Hephtur of Men!" He cries aloud, falling into a crouch alike to that of his orcish relatives. "The prince of the Rohirrim! He rides within the waters now! We must send ourselves forth!" Wripping his iron mace from the hill-tops earth he hisses again and turns to his own company, "Prepare!" he screams.
[Hephtur(#4407)]
<Eastern Bank> At the words from Aylean a low laughter leaves the lips of Hephtur before he nods in reply. And at the sound of Gilken's voice he comes to turn around and starts to run towards the front of the forces, the lips a thin line and the eyes as small slits in his face as he places his gaze of hatred upon the location of the prince. Slowly he licks his dry lips as he raises one of his axes into the air and with it raised he looks upon the banner spreading the sign of the white hand in the sky. His voice is heard as he as the commander of the force screams out loud.
"Wolf Riders! Dunlendings! Axemen! Let your blades be blessed by Saruman! Attack!" And with the words being said he takes his first step towards the battle and then comes into a run, still letting his eyes of hatred stare upon the banner of Theodred. And so the second tidal wave is set in motion.
[Haldric(#30397)] <Western Bank> Onwards the young man pushes his horse, his progress slow as he moves against the driven tide of Rohirrim. The din and roar of pursuing Uruk-Hai intensifies, the vile stench of their approach hanging fresh in the close, musty air. This petrid scent of death clings in Haldric's nostrils, as he hearkens to the fords, his pale briads whipping his tanned features as he draws closer with eager trot to the river.
Though, mayhap this has all been too easy as before the Sperewigend has chance to turn to the uproar that follows closely on his tail, the screech of his horse pierces the air as the axe of an orc slices through ebony flanks. Foam spits from the steed's mouth and as Haldric raises his sword to the foul dark beast, the axe finds its mark on his back the deep wound forcing him to the wet ground in a puddle of crimson.
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Western Bank> The great voice of the Prince of the Eorlingas rings as loud as any horn, the words resonating and carrying above the din of battle. Hearing the command, Grimbold calls for his own men to fall back into a line, like a dike to hold back a raging flood. So he hopes to hold back the sable-clad host so that Theodred can get the men across. "Hold them! Hold them back!" he cries, to what is left of his men. "Sigelac, take the men of your patrol across behind the Prince!" Bit by bit, he send his force too, into retreat, as Theodred has ordered.
[Maabrim(#31370)] <Eastern Bank> The tall man quietly refuses the nod of the advancing woman to his right with an almost tinge of sadness.. Still, purposefully set, and grimly serene, Maabrim advances; slow at first, but as the drum beat picks up, and the feet of the uruk about him coalesce with the thumping instruments, so does he.
Sweaty bodies hurl themselves headlong at the Forgoil ahead, and white hands fall from their perches atop streaming banners only to be recovered by scurrying bodies, and frantic hands intent on the eyot ahead. Bodies uruk, Rohirric, and of hillmen alike are pounded mercilously into the trampled earth as the host heaves toward the Rohirrim ahead. Sighting a mounted figure hewing at bodies left and right, Maabrim bellows.
"Rider! Riiiiider! Let you to me! Come!"
The veteran raises his sword high above his head, signalling the nearby Beowein with it's tip now pointed headlong at the man's chest.
<Eastern bank>The ground trembles with the thud of marching feet, as the Eastern forces start to move at last. As the armies of Isengard take up their positions, a distance opens up between footmen and wolf-riders, and that warg tearing so eagerly at the fallen body of its rider. The unease lifts from those of Dunland blood at last, as axe and spear are raised and shouted insults bolster men's courage. "Death to the Strawheads!" "Spill the robbers' guts!" and one, more prosaic, "Death or victory!" echo in the air as march becomes jog, and jog becomes run ... Cheers rise each time one of those pale dots that are the figures of distant horsemen trembles and falls.
[Sigeweald(#26950)] <westernbank>A spatter of blood, falls on the flank of Sigeweald horse, he glances to the side, just in time to see yet another one of his friends fall, arrow sticking out of his neck, and being trampled by horses. a tear wells up in his eye, but no time for grief is there, he gathers his wit, and pulls the reign, steering the horse around rocks, jumping over now and then a body. spear still pointing up. Then, as they near the fords, Sigeweald can spot the eyot up ahead; then a voice calls out, ordering the riders to dismount, and stand fast, some men are send to the west bank, other, are here to stay. defending the Eyot. Sigeweald dismounts quickly, and send his horse to the east, "Run Erngod, we'll meet again" pushing the horse it the right direction. As soon as the men gather, they run for the eyot, and pull up a defensive, lowering spears, pointing them outwards, and drawing swords again.
[Grimdash(#11368)]
<Western Bank> No words come from Grimdash, his fet set and cut rough as hewn stone; fresh from the quarry. The Uruk-hai's broadsword sweeps up and around to deflect the descending blade of Ealric. Clang! Schinnnn. The blades clash and then slide down their lengths, eventually seperating.
Grimdash turns - dirt and mud flung up into his eyes by the passing horse. "GRaaahh." Grimdash grumbles, his throat rumbling loudly. His gauntleted hands reach up and hurriedly wipe at the dirt stuck within his visor - his vision blurred and blocked.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
The collective force of the warg-riders freeze for an instant as the order comes from Hephtur. RAARRR!! The cry goes up from every uruk throat except from Urgamurk. To Hephtur he bows low, and a grubby clawed hand rises up in a salute.
"To the crossing", he growls and points below to the point of attack. "Rout the horses.. and leave the horsemen for the arrows. Tonight you will feast my pretties.. ATTACK!" And pounding paws drumbeat the earth underneath them. The Charge of the Warg-Riders...
[Beowein(#30389)] A rider halts his horse with a quick pull on the reins, dust and grass torn from the ground by the force of the hooves digging in. Positioning himself looking towards Theodred as he runs a hand over his horse to ensure no harm has of yet come to it, Beowein takes heed to Theodred's orders and spurs his horse towards the island while constantly looking about his surroundings and listening to the screams and sounds of battle make their way ever closer.
As he nears the island, Beowein hears the deep voice of a man known long past, centering his gaze upon Maabrim. Shaking his head and readying his sword at his side, he halts his horse only for a moment to salute his fellow riders before he storms off towards Maabrim. The steel of his weapon gleaming at his side, he whispers something into his horse's ear before placing both feet upon his saddle and placing his studded leather shield directly in front of him. Grass and ground seem a blur as he nears Maabrim, his heart beating increasedly fast, yet his hands remain steady. He lets out an earth-shattering warcry as his feet leave his saddle and he hurtles himself towards Maabrim with his shield directly in front of him, attempting strike him with the blunt of his shield as he sails closer towards the man.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Western Bank> Seeing the rest of his fellows dismount, Ealric quickly swings off of his horse and slaps is across its hindquarters with the flat of his blade and sends it across the ford. Though his mounted advantage against the Uruk-hai has just been lost, the Eorling charges forward at a dead sprint. In a single swift motion, he brings his shield off of his back and onto his left forearm with the power of his sinewy right arm bringing the steel of his blade vertically toward the enemy's groin.
[Gilken(#10607)] <Eastern Bank>
The Arauruk now runs before his band of Uruk, his black mace clenched tightly within his claws and naked head held high. Screaming into the wind he urges his team forward, himself keeping only a short distance behind Hephtur. "Fling yourselves into their bellies!" He cries to the air, "And wrip your way out and to their doom!"
[Gratak(#20993)]
Flared nostrils draw in the sweet scent of death as his axe hits home, pausing as the blade tears through flesh, muscle and bone. Pushing over the screeching horse, following the wounded man down and away from the dying horse, Gratak tears the axe upwards bringing with it dripping flesh and blood. Grunts of satisfaction mingle with cries of the dying as the Uruk prepares to wield the death blow.
Reaching forth a clawed and bloodied hand, the dark warrior digs deeply into the long golden hair peering from under the Rohirrim helm, making the target clear. Howling, he swings his axe once more to striking the tender flesh of the Rider's neck, cleaving the head free of the body. Still grasping the hair, the head is flung into the riders as a means to give them a glimpse of their own fate.
[Theodred(#9621)] <Island>
Drawing his forces close to him, Theodred, directs what men as he may to the defense of the island, placing stout men in a circle along the perimeter of its banks. The water of the river already flows red, blood and earth mixed to darken the normally tranquil crossing. Sodden bodies bob downstream, some already fine meals for the circling crows and other birds of prey. The prince clambers up a small outcropping of rock, his standard bearer quick at his side. "These lines will have to hold, Heldrich", he offers in brief confidence to his henchman. He scans the defenses of his small eyot, and the lines about him, where both banks are now engulfed in a writhing black swarm.
[Maabrim(#31370)] <Eastern Bank> Maabrim's impressive stature steals itself for the impending impact of the sailing rider, slightly taken aback at the unexpected attack.
*Craaaaaaang*
Beowein's metal shield sings loudly as it connects with the Isen's horizontal longsword in a deafening hail of forged song. A bundle of nearby uruk are crushed to the ground as Maabrim's large body falls beneath the rider in a swirl of detritus and hurled tufts of broken grass; grunting, cursing, and unmeasurable seethings of hate pour from the man's throat as he hurls with all his might at the body atop him.
[Hephtur(#4407)]
The sound as the forces of Hephtur and the forces of Theodred meet overcomes the sound of thunder. It is like two walls facing eachother as Hephtur and his plow of elite axemen crashes into the wall of shields of the Rohir. The screams are hardly heard as the sound of metal meeting metal echoes over the field. The river of Isen slowly turns crimson, bodies of both men and orcs molested and twisted lies in the water, side by side, like brothers. The air is thick, arrows fly back and forth as the strings of bows twing as the arrows are released. Horses withour riders flees in panic through both forces of humans and orcs. The onslaught continues.
Hephtur swings his axes with deadly precision, as he moves himself forward. He is flanked by beasts like himself, and they move towards their goal with determination. For the first time Hephtur lays eyes upon the figure of Theodred and presses on towards him. Slowly closing in upon his goal. The battle continues.
[Grimdash(#11368)]
<Western Bank> The white hand print on the chest of Grimdash seems to grow and shrink with each heaving breath. Finally, the Uruk-hai clears his eyes of the dust and dirt, his broadsword shifting again to his right side and his shield raising up.
Quick-stepping backwars twice Grimdash manages to avoid the rising swing of the Whiteskin. "No, Whiteskin, you will not raise your lungs again. Not once more." Slash! In an instant the Uruk-hai pushes forward with two pounding steps, bringing his broadsword down from on high and to the right cutting down towards the left - a cleaving strike. Slish! The blade slices through the air, cutting for its target's neck.
On the eastern side of the fords, a wave of running bodies pours towards the horsemen's eastern flank. Brac grunts as a stray horse dashes past, and simply dodges the fleeing bulk of the frightened animal - with wargs on the prowl, the creature won't get far. Then on towards the true enemy, the pale-haired Riders. A shining spear-tip arrows toward Brac's breast, and he pulls his axe back to hack savagely at the wood.
[Aylean(#28442)]
"You will find very soon that to keep your horse with you would have been better for you. He could serve you to ride to the hell. Now it is too late!." The morning breeze carries the words that a woman calls out while runs to meet Sigeweald. "Now we will see if you the straw-heads are brave enough to fight without the protection of your horses!." The blade glitters while is lifted and gets down in an arch, cutting the air and aiming the riders' neck as if searching to decapitate him, at the back of the woman some corpses soil already the ground profusely bleeding and the fight and the shouts continue.
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Western Bank> The rearguard retreats slowly, begrudging every inch of ground, as in small groups their numbers dwindle to fifty, the others departing across the Fords. Horses are sent east as well, and the remaining Riders bolster the ranks of the West-fold infantry that has been raised by levies and sent here before today by Theodred, for the attack is not wholly unexpected.
Grimbold is the last to dismount, and he sends his horse across the river with an affectionate pat before turning once again to the grim business at hand. A head rolls almost to his feet, and the sightless eyes of the dead Rider stare up at him. A wordless cry of rage escapes him, and he unsheathes his sword, his spear now useless, and he strides to the front of his defending line, planning to bloody the burnished metal as much as he can.
[Beowein(#30389)] Thrown off of the body of his foe by the man's strength Beowein lets out a grunt as he rolls and uprights himself. He quickly recovers himself and wastes no time in launching a secondary attack towards his foe. His shield strategically placed towards his opponent, his sword hisses through the air as he attempts to deal a blow to Maabrim's lower right leg. His jaw is clenched and his eyes focused, his scars from many battle now clearly visible and accentuated by his current surroundings.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
The wolves like blocky arrows head straight for the forms of horses as they cross onto the east side. For orcs they are a well-disciplined force, as a full three out of the ninteen follow the orders of Urgamurk and try to nip at the flanks of horses.
Whinnying and growls of beasts mix with the screams of man and orc, but more man than orc. Chunks of flesh fly through the air, and pearls of blood mark their trajectories as the teeth of wolves and blades of orcs starts to press on the Rohirrim guarding the eastern banks.
Among them rides Urgamurk, an old broken axe flailing wildly at anything that nears his mount, or gets past its teeth. "Kill! Kill!" The chants rise around him.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Western Bank> As the Uruk-Hai's broadsword comes toward him, Ealric manages to raise his shield arm in a split second. The weapon of the enemy crashes down upon the boss of the Eorling's shield and his forearm is broken in a sickening crunch. A scream of pain and anger erupts forth from his mouth as he draws back his sword. "FOR THE RIDDERMARK!" Ealric calls out loudly before thrusting the tip of his weapon through Grimdash's throat, black blood erupting from the back of his neck.
The young man's shieldarm hangs limp at his side as blood pours out from beneath his ringmail, bone fragments puncturing the skin in various places. With a grim look in his eye, Ealric places his foot in the Uruk-hai's stomach and withdraws his blade from the beast's neck. As he watches the creature fall to its knees, the human brings a lateral swing across the body and cleaves its head from his neck. The color begins to fade from the Rohir's face as he makes his way back to Grimbold's line to aid with the defense of the ford and the Prince.
[Haldric(#30397)] Torn from his saddle, the warmth of oozing blood surrounding his bent form, Haldric narrows his eyes as a film of haze mars his icy vision. Little can he see, as the tastes of iron lingers in his dry throat. Life seeps from his body, though still can he feel the claws of the beast whom pulls back his neck for the clean blow. A salty tear traces the path of a tanned cheek, the shadow of darkness descending with the blade of the axe.--Darkness--
Gilken lets himself go in a screaming rage as he clashes with the forces of Rohan, immediately targeting and swinging for the legs of remaining horses here. His mace is as a dying crow, black and swinging in incoherrent directions, connecting with all that it will, drawing blood and crushing bone... However, Gilken is not so lucky as that, already within the first minutes of his fight, he takes several slashes upon the top of his head before he disposes of his enemy...
[Sigeweald(#26950)] <eyot>More and more riders can be seen, retreating to the east bank, tired, but full of pride, covered in mud, blood, and other foul, the sit on their horses and, purr them into the shallow of the river, going east. The knoll of the eyot point straight upwards, laying a huge shadow on the, as the sun is creeping lower and lower. A captain shouts out, commanding the riders on the eyot. A large force of foul looking creatures and men are storming up to the eyot, screaming, howling, shooting arrows, and slinging stones. Sigeweald is commanded to the outer ring of the eyot. The force clashes, a confusion of steel swords, spear tips, blades that swings, blood that spatters is setting in, trusting his spear with force, keeping a huge orc at bay, and lashing out with his longsword, at random, hoping to tear as much flesh as possible. A glance to the east; men are battling heavily, river red, men fallen.
[Maabrim(#31370)] <Eastern Bank> Maabrim grits his teeth as his meaty pelvis is rent by the sudden retort of the Rider; "A bit faster than I first imagined," he thinks to himself while shrugging aside the stinging pain plaguing his right leg, "But are they all?"
Rolling end over end with sword beneath him, the large man aims a savage kick at Beowein's legs, doing his best to bring him to the trampled earth, and to further attack. Maabrim's hands tense about his sword hilt as he swings up with the pommel toward the face surely soon to fall beneath his tangling legs.
"Come to the Hand, straw-head.. It's time to keep our date from that bar long ago! Come!"
The grins splitting the Isen's straining features is grim to behold indeed.
[Theodred(#9621)] <Eyot>
The scattered troops on the eastern bank are no match for the viscious wolf-riders and the brutal axes of their commander's company. Soon the water is fowled with the thrashing, charging feet of the Uruk-hai horde as they close in on their specific target: The Prince of the Riddermark. Theodred's men, who love him even unto death, fight visciously in defense of the small dot of land. But quickly their numbers fail as one after the other falls under the fell Isen axes. The prince himself is soon engaged, his ancient sword singing as it finds purchase on flesh and sinew, whenever a foe comes within sweep of his sword. His shield is half-rent and studded with arrows, but there is viscious force left in his sword arm as he collect a hefty toll for this river-crossing.
[Kierkgard ZMO(#17726)->] Jolena an OOC female <Dunlending> has connected in Dunland: Kierkgard Dun <<Main Gates>>.
<Eastern bank> Wood splinters as the Forgoil spear is sheared away, and Brac ducks in low to swing his axe towards teh forelegs of the now rearing horse, shield raised above his head to deflect its rider's blows. A lucky swing, for as the beast crashes back to earth it sways and then falls, its rider trapped beneath it. Brac leaps back, before the axe cleaves downward towards where the enemy's bright hair spills from beneath a burnished helm.
Beside him, others are less lucky. A young Dunlending lies with his guts spilled, hammer still in his outstretched hands, whilst another has taken a spear through the shoulder. Axe and spear against sword and spear ... battle continues, and little by little the Rohirrim's eastern force is failing.
[Beowein(#30389)] <Island> Grins as he sword hits it's mark, "Long 'ave I awaited 'tis day!", he growls towards Maabrim as the large man rolls. As he speaks he sees Maabrim's legs whipping up towards him. His response delayed by his quick comment, he hurls himself backwards towards the ground beneath him as he swings his sword quickly at the incoming threat, hoping to at least fend off the attack if for just a moment so that he can gain his bearings.
[Hephtur(#4407)]
<Eyot> Hephtur moves on, he slays a rohir with a swift blow and finally reaches his goal. Blood covers his armor, both his own and from others, and with cruel look upon his face he raises one of his axes into the air and prepares to swing as the other is raised in defence. The eyes glitters of hatres as he takes aim upon the prince. For the moment all goes silent within the head of Hephtur, all around him is forgotten as his axe moves down with great speed towards the shoulder of Theodred. No sound comes from him as his lips are but thin lines.
[Grimdash(#11368)]
<Western Bank> Grimdash's attack sweeps down, managing to connect with the Rohirric rider. "See, Whiteskin! I have...." Schunk! A blade unseen, wielded by the Whiteskin sneaks up, slipping, sliding between the chinks of the armour at his throat. *Gurgle* An eruption of black blood, spurting and horrendous, comes from Grimdash's neck. The blade withdrawn, the Uruk-hai collapses to his knees, his sword dropped; hand clutching at his throat.
Pitiable eyes glare out, glazed with pain, staring at the wounded and retreating Whiteskin. "I....rgaasshhgg...ki*grahhs*lled.." Grimdash's voice, cluttered with drowning black blood, struglles to make words. Gack! Hack! Cough! Blood sputters out from the mouth of Grimdash, landing onto the dirt before him. Clunk! The Uruk-hai's body collapses to the ground. Writhing, twirking, twitching, Grimdash's body seems in immense pain. Jerk! Twitch!
Stillness. An oddity among a sea of chaos. Peace. Unheard of in mid-battle. Yet so goes the body of Grimdash, slain with a sword through the throat; blood still managing to ooze and drip from the ever-fresh wound.
[Sigeweald(#26950)] As the onslaught continues, sweat flows over his back, and on his head, into his hair, and it is getting warmer and warmer under the armor and helmet. As he swing his sword with both hands at the orc, men, and even women charge upon the eyot, as a wave of grass rolling in the wind. A woman jumps in place, screaming and yelling at Sigeweald, where only moments ago, a orc was hewn down; He ignores her foul talk, and sees the sword arch toward his neck, he parrys the reckless attack with his sword, pushes it to the side, and with the hilt he strikes out to here face, screaming "Go back to your own land, witch". all around the men are fighting and dieing bravely.
Gilken screams again, his boots back-stepping as swiftly as they may, but it is to no avail. His mace-point still embedded within the side of proud, but already wounded steed, he looks in horror as he falls swiftly to its death. The Arauruk slips then, and tumbles upon his back within the water. "The legs of me!" He cries, even as the horse rolls over his two most favored limbs, breaking them apart within his skin... Stuck fast beneath the once-beautiful beast, it is all that the horrid creature can do to keep from drowning in the water and blood that swirls about him...
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Western Bank> "Red runs the river, wrath-stained with blood...." Grimbold mutters the old staves to himself. But this time it is not the blood of the enemy that stains it, so much as the blood of his own kinsmen, fallen on the field. Reddish now as with iron ore, the Isen it is well-named now... The lines of the west waver, but they do not fail. their numbers dwindle, but the westfolders under Grimbold fight to hold the bank. Yet now from behind come sounds of battle as well, and many are the voices that cry out in dismay.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Western Bank> After disposing of the Uruk-hai, Ealric has finally made his way back to the line of rear defense that he has been making his way to ever since the order had been given. His arm hanging limply at his side, the shield weighting him down, the young Apprentice Sperewigend is fighting as valiantly as possible. However, the item that once provided his defense is now serving only to drain his energy and with each blow from an Orc blade or every swift move to avoid a seen arrow, the Eorling is rapidly weakening. As he looks to his left and right, he finally finds himself amongst his swordbrothers and Grimbold is on his left, of all people. "My lord!" He calls out with acknowledgement toward the superior warrior, trying his best to not get those around him killed with his own weakness creeping into his bones rapidly.
<Eastern bank> So many are falling ... The young face of Ealgar of Westfold is white as he stabs his spear downward once more towards the press of foes - only to find that he has struck to hard, and the weapon is yanked out of his hands. Trembling, he reaches towards his sword even as he leans over the neck of his beloved mount, whispering words of encouragement to her.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
A lull in battle, for the horses and their masters press not upon Urgamurk's force any more as they did. A broken axe rises above the head of the wargs as Urgamurk howls a cheer of seeming cheer and rage. Turning around, he looks for the enemy, but none remain at hand.
And then to the west, the mass of men on the island catches his attention. Whirling his axe around, he points it out to the riders beside him. "To the enemy!", he shouts as he pushed his wolf onwards. At the edge of the bank, however the force stops.. for the wargs try to push back and away from the water.
Forward you wretched son of a mudhole!" growls Urgamurk but to no avail, as he sits seething at the edge of the water wretchedly. Around him, the rest of his troop fight the same reluctance and howl as they miss the thick of battle.
[Maabrim(#31370)] <Island> Maabrim curses as his attack fails, but quickly hurls himself to his feet, kicking aside the blade feebly aimed toward his lower leg.
"Get up! Get up!"
Holwing and bellowing at the top of his lungs, the large man clutches the longsword in his right hand as he lowers his left to grasp Beowein by his collar. Equally swift, the pommel in his oppisite hand sings downward to the Rider's helm, intent on having the tempered metal about his head become quite permanent. Sweat oozes from every pore of the man's heaving torso, while his lank, salty hair swishes to and fro atop his head, oblivious to the frenzy churning about him. A slow, drumbeat chant begins bottled in his rage-heated head... 'Death! Death! DEATH!'
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Eastern Bank>Perhaps the number of the foe is less here on the east shore of the river, but the confusion is far, far greater. As the wargs plow into their midst, the spare horses pull up their pickets, and the horses returning from the west bolt, fleeing fleetly as far as hooves will carry them. The attack takes the crossing Riders off-guard, for they had hoped for safety. There is none, only more death.
[Theodred(#9621)] <Eyot>
The prince withdraws his blad from the bulging gut of one slithering, dying orc. he steps back, breath coming hard as his eyes, stung red with sweat, scan for another target. he sees not the Captain of Orcs behind him, and a warning is called out, but lands too late. Hephatur's blade hits him and bites deep, sending the prince to sprawl on the ground after a brief tumble down the rocky ledge of the outcropping. Consciousness is yet with him, and he scrambles to his feet as he may, his shield arm hanging useless at his side. In the red light of the day's death throes, he peers up at his assailant. His voice booms. "To me, Eorlingas!" It carries above the din, carrying for miles. "To me, Eorlingas!" Gritting his teeth, he disposes of his shield and prepares to dispatch the ambusher.
[Aylean(#28442)]
The shield is lifted to parry easily the rider's strike. A laugh leaves the lips of the woman as Sigeweald speaks and soon comes the reply, "I am in my land and you are the robber, forgoil. It is you who will leave, but not to your land, only to the place where the bastards as you and your kinsmen come from. Come, come" she waves to him, "and we will see if you can manage your blade better than your tongue". Once again, arm and sword leans forwards, seeking for the man's chest, still the laugh playing in the woman's lips.
[Gratak(#20993)]
<Western Bank>Trodding over bodies and a ground dampened and muddied by blood, Gratak takes no time to savor the death of the now headless Rider. Pushing forth he raises his axe once more and swings viciously to strike at the legs of a passing horse neatly cleaving its rear right leg from it's body. Screams of the injured animal fill the air around the Uruk. Scrambling back as the horse falls and traps its master, he leaps forward as the animal quivers in fatal pain. With his axe raised the Uruk prepares to strike!
Before the Uruk a blade lunges forward, diving deeply into the chest of the unprepared dark warrior. Gratak pauses and grunts slightly, spilling deep black blood over his lips as he does. Bringing his axe down, notably with less power in a dying attack, the bloodied weapon lands firmly into the trapped Riders face, dividing the noble features neatly in two. With his last strike driven home, the Uruk crumbles over both man and beast joining them in death.
<East bank>Young Ealgar is among the confused on the east bank ... turning this way and that, he seeks for the commanders of his eored, but sees only enemies. Orcs, and men as wild as Orcs, dart this way and that ... a howl rises to his left, and his mare, Farahild, bucks suddenly. "Easy, girl ..." His sword tastes no blood yet as it is all he can do to keep his seat.
[Beowein(#30389)] <Island> His heart pounding as he falls to the ground, he curses himself for making such a foolhardy mistake. He sees Maabrim for only a moment before the muscled man's hilt strikes his head. Pressure swelling as his helmet presses into his skull, his vision begins to fade for a moment before returning. His muscles tightened, he booms at the man, "For king, clan and country!", as he quickly lifts his shield and attempts to land a blow directly to Maabrim's face.
[Hephtur(#4407)] <Eyot>
It is with great pleasure Hephtur sees how his axe cuts into the prince. With a sweeping movement he cuts a throat of Rohir trying to help the prince. Slowly the thin lines of his lips moves up into a wicked smile as he raises his second axe again and prepares to swing. A few drops of blood drip from it's edge and so he moves in a step, swinging the axe down yet again towards the shoulder of the prince, though a feign it is, as the axe changes direction as Hephtur sidesteps. Hephtur pushes his shoulder up against another warrior and then brings up his axe towards the chest of the prince, still a smile lies upon his lips, but the eyes shows nothing but pure hatred for the man before him.
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Western Bank> "Theodred!" Grimbold turns at the Prince's cry, and he calls to the men nearest him. "Come with me! You and you and... you..." Ten men is all he can spare, including himself, and he calls to them to follow him. "To the island! For the Prince!" He cries. "Helm let us be in time... "The rest of youm, hold the line! Hold it to a man!" With these final words of encouragement, Grimbold plunges into the bloodstained water, splashing it red about him, as he charges across to the island with a handful of men.
[Sigeweald(#26950)] <Eyot>Left hand shield, right hand longsword, with that, he must do till the end; keeping the shield close, and sword at the ready. he kicks out with his boot, lift his shield as the woman aims for his chest, and catches the blade in the air, a loud - THUD - is heard, and Sigeweald kick out towards the woman's shins, and quickly; steps forwards, and lets his sword arc towards her right shoulder blade. Then, he hears the Call of the Prince, a clear and loud voice, heard on both sides of the river. A quick glance sideways learns him that the prince is wounded, and being attacked by a huge foul beast.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
The wolves sit and howl mournfully at the edge, for the waters separate them from their prey. "What we do Master?", comes a crawly voice from atop one of the wargs towards Urgamurk. An answer is not returned immediately, for the red dots are now focussed on the line of riders crossing the river to the east.
"More meat", rasps the voice of Urgamurk, as he points at the head of the riders. Around them, orcs on feet catch sight of the prey too, and start to run, but none can outrun a wolf, and a few fall underfeet as the troop of wargs surge forward.
At the head, the axe of Urgamurk swings slowly as the warg jumps at the horse at the head of the column(Ealgar).
[Elfhelm.(#30397)] <Eastern Approach to the Fords>The ride from Edoras had been long and tiring, the four companies led by the First Marshal Elfhelm riding under the summons of Prince Theodred. Though no action had they expected for days to come, their initial destination being Helms Deep, where his men might rest for the night.
Only the reports of scouts, of scattered wolf-riders and the sighting of uncounted horses fleeing from the Fords alerted the Marshal that something was amiss. Thus, he turned his forces to the Fords of Isen with all speed, still unaware of the chaos and battle that was to await.
[Maabrim(#31370)] <Island> Maabrim's laugh of victory quickly escalates into a shriek of rage in it's purest as his eyes behold their doom.
*Shiiiiiiiiiiiiink!*
Blood, clean and oxidized fumes in an almost spectacular fountain from the large man's features as the Rider's blade respectably splits his features from chin to upper right temple. The sword so recently clutched in the Isen's hands falls useless to the ground as he clutches his visage in his hands; red liquid bubbles and seeps between his fingers as he attempts to keep everything in their rightfull place... but there is another thought besides pain indominable that enters Maabrim's head: Fear. Fear of the Hand. Fear of the wizard, and his unquenchable ire at failure.
Hurling his own life force so recently puddled in dripping hands at Beowine, the burly man charges headlong to tackle him to the unyielding ground. Fists already pumping indiscriminately towards the Rohir ahead, backed by the ever present fuel of Saruman's fear.
[Theodred(#9621)] <Eyot>
Theodred staggers back as the bulk of the half-orc approaches, his action lessening what might have been a fatal blow as the heavy uruk blade catches his mail hauberk with a crunch, but not enough impact to rend the well-linked mail. A thick ooze of blood steams down his arm, however, slickening his grip on his sword as he weilds it now with both hands. Perhaps this is the first time the prince has known fear, and it is a biiter pill of bile in his throat. He slices valiantly at the attacking warrior, seeking a ribcage left open by the axe's wide arc. Below him, the rocky turf grows slick with his own blood.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Western Bank> Though he himself is badly wounded and is likely to only harm those around him than help, Ealric Eodredson follows the orders of his commander and sloshes his way into the bloodstained waters of the Isen. 'If I must fall, it will be in the defense of my Prince.' He thinks to himself as he manages to finally slip the shield from his wounded arm. The metal in the shield causes it to drop to the bottom of the river and the Eorling moves with a renewed vigor in his body. "For Rohan!" He calls loudly, raising his swordarm high and charging through the water.
A scream - but not from a human throat. Ealgar's sword rises to parry the Orcish axe that swings towards him, even as he pulls his shield round to cover his body - but his mare has no such protection. Blood pumps from a deep gash in her belly torn by Warg fangs. Tears blur Ealgar's eyes as he thrusts blindly forward and down towards the ravening maw, relying only on his shield for protection from the beast's rider.
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Eyot> "Eorlings!"
Grimbold reaches the eyot, calling out a fierce battle cry in challenge to those that now assail his prince. Wrath, rage, burn hot in his blood, and he takes no heed for his own safety as he begins to hack his way towards the Prince, caring little for finesse or if a kick rather than a sword-thrust brings a foe down. "For the Prince! For the Prince!" Fierce is the onslaught of Grimbold and his men, and though they begin to fall, so do many of their enemies.
[Aylean(#28442)]
The blow is parried by the shield and yet both, arm and blade tremble for the hit, when the man /kicks/ her!. "Ah, look. You kick as a mule, how fit!" The woman begins to say but need to cut down her words as the new attack is seen. Rising her own shield to protect her arm, she steps forwards to set her feet firmly on the ground, as she hears as well the call of the son of Theoden. "The bastard's son gets in problems?" She hisses while switches of position and tries to hit now Sigeweald's right arm. "Will you leave?".
[Hephtur(#4407)]
<Eyot>
The free axe is raised in defence from the coming blow from the prince, though late it is and crowded around the two great warriors. The axe comes to a stop as it connects with falling axemen and so, nothing stands between the longsword of Theodred and Hephtur's chest. A clinking and rasping sound is heard as the blade's egde cuts against the rings of the mail, some holds, other don't. And so the smile of Hephtur fades into a thin line as he swollows a scream of pain as the blades cuts through his skin, tearing the skin and flesh apart, letting his own blood flow down over the glittering armor.
With staggering steps after the blow he withdraws perhaps half a meter, the left arm pressed against his wounded chest as he growls towards the prince. The metal clad boots are pushed against the ground and he hurls himself forward, swinging with one axe to push away the blade of the prince, to open up for the second axe, which is already in motion, to yet again batter against the chest of the prince.
[Beowein(#30389)] <island>His face spattered with a heavy amount of blood, Beowein takes great solace in the fact that it is not of his own body. He stumbles up, his senses not yet recovered from the blows of Maabrim, his eyes watch with unbridled delight at the sight of the large man's sword falling from his hand.
He has not long to recuperate however, for just as quickly as Maabrim let up, he is back upon Beowein again. As Maabrim launches himself towards Beowein the young rider lifts his shield close to him and blindly waves his sword as he is tackled to the ground, sweat pouring outwards from his dirtied and battle-worn face.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
Like a shaman's heated blade through flesh does the troop of wargs go through the column of men, broken men and horses sheared off and lying on the ground. But some of the horsemen are hardier, and even a warg or two lies twitching..
Urgamurk's axe just glances off the sword of the horseman, but his warg's teeth are truer, and a strip of horsemeat flops from its maw. Scraping to a halt on the other side of the column, it turns and looks for the wounded horse. Rough uruk paws nudge the beast in the right direction, and it charges again, this time heading for the flank of the broken horse. As they near, the orc uses the momentum of the charge to jump forward onto the form of Ealgar, axe held ahead of him.. a flying bludgeon.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Eyot> Slaughtering Orc and Dunlending alike, Ealric's newfound strength begins to wane. Nearing the Prince of Rohan, Ealric thrusts his sword through an Orc's stomach and watches him fall to the ground, screaming in rage. Just as it appears he might survive the battle, the black arrow of an Orc screams through the mire of the battle and pierces his shoulder. Though it doesn't appear fatal, the shock of the blow knock the young man to the ground where he is pinned by his own weakness and the body of a dead Orc. Effectively out of the battle, the Eorling tries to hack away at the legs of the enemy when they move by him.
[Theodred(#9621)] <Eyot>
Victory! Or a brief hope of such as his grim blade finds purchase of the maurading Hephtur. He may actually hold until his reinforcements arrive. Surely his cousin Eomer must be riding swiftly to relieve him. Somewhere out there in the darkening gloom of falling night. But a broef second does his mind wander thus, until it is brought back to the present by the hars treatment of his foe's two-axed attack. Weakened from his injury, and unable to retain his blood-slickened grip against the half-orc's cruel bashing, Theodred looks in dismay as his sword, "Guthbrand" flies away from his grasp. The ancient weapon clangs uselessly among the stones of the eyot.
His dismay is not long-held, however, as the second axe of the sturdy isendrim finds its mark in his chest. rending steel, and flesh, and bone, the filthy blade produces a gaping, sickly maw of a wound in the Prince's body. Weak knees fail, and Theodred falls back. The growing darkness before his eyes is no longer the fault of the sun's setting rays.
[Sigeweald(#26950)] <Eyot-knoll>Sigeweald begins walking backward, up the knoll, towards the place where the cry was made. Such a voice can not be resisted by a rider, and thus, Sigeweald, while holding the woman at bay, parrying, hacking, poking, shielding, taking wounds on his right arm, deep cuts, blood running out of them, arrows flying around, and hitting his shield.
The woman has a lose tongue, as she keeps trying to distract the rider with her foul words. tired faces all around, and dirty, trying to hold his shield up. But the woman keeps coming, and not alone she is, as now and then a rider is hewn down next to Sigeweald, a orc jumps in place, and with a quick stab, while holding the warrior woman at bay, hewing the orc down, cracking the skull of the beast; this repeats itself more than once. Again a cry is heard, this time, coming from the shore of the west bank, it is Grimbold and his men! Now, as the voice gives him hope, he strikes out at the woman, feinting to the right, ducking, shield raised, and waving his sword from the side, straight for the woman's head.
The warg's nudge was hardly needed, for even as Urgamurk and his steed reach Ealger, Ealgar's mare topples sideways, rider falling with her. Little chance of Ealgar avoiding the axe-blade, which buries itself deep in his left shoulder. Blood passes the young man's lips, which move slowly in words that cannot be heard. "Foul ... dwimmer ..." His right hand still grasps his sword, but the fall and the blow have stunned him and he cannot raise his arm to strike - not yet.
[Elfhelm.(#30397)] <Towards the Eastern Bank>The low sun sat low on the golden horizon, the sky splattered with streaks of crimson and fuchsia as the company of Elfhelm ride upon the straight, the view of the east bank now clear as the tirade of battle continues.
Pale eyes traced with the amber gleam of the falling light narrow to the sight before him. Casting a few glances to his patrol leaders, Elfhelm acts in all haste, turning to his exhausted men as the dazzling banner is lifted, a pinnacle of burnished white piercing the blood red skies.
"Eorlingasfor King ThoedenFor the MarkCharge!"
The thunder of hooves booms across the eastern horizon, the host of Riders enhanced by the shadows of the darkening heavens, the dust blown from the charging companies lifting an ignited mist to follow their course onwards. The white banner glistens like a new born star in the haze, the song of the Rohirrim drowning the din of battle below as they descend, driving fear in the hearts of their foes on the eastern bank.
[Maabrim(#31370)] Too quick is Maabrim to the attack. Too quick to dive, and to quick to harrangue the Rider with his dripping fists.
The man has only moments to consider the sword that, so oddly to he, protrudes from his back yet strangely holds his huge weight off the ground with a firm plant in his lower trunk. However, understanding dawns, and cold is the knowledge of death.
In vain, Maabrim's hands claw and scrape as he is slowly, and oh yes sooooo painfully lowered to the Rider's chest as his abdomen slides neatly down the upturned blade. Cloudy haze covers the man's eyes even as they strain, STRAIN their hardest to remain focused upon Beowein below..
"GhaaaaahahahahahahAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" :The final laugh and last words of Saruman's Huntsman. No peace, no serenity captivates his thoughts as he continues down and down and down and down; sinking into a pit of the deepest and darkest midnight at the hands of that scrapper from the bar long ago.. 'How ironic' he thinks as his head lolls for the last time toward the Rohir...
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Eyot>"THEODRED!!"
A great cry of rage, or anguish tears from Grimbold's throat as he gains the knoll, with but two of his own men still with him. Yet he is over-late, and the Prince falls. The banner of the Riddermark wavers, and falls into the bloody more, as if to lay beside the prince in death. "No! Eorlingas! Eorlingas! Too enraged now to think clearly, Grimbold plunges forwards, intent on killing Theodred's murderer.
[Hephtur(#4407)]
<Eyot>
With a sigh of relief at the sight of Theodred falling upon the bloodied ground Hephtur raises his arms into the sky as the victorious one. Slowly he closes his eyes as he raises his head towards the sky and speaks with a hollow voice "We are victorious!" and so his head is dropped towards his chest and so his is arms. He winces of pain and places his arm over his wound as he looks over the eyot and the ongoing onslaught. At the sound of the scream he turns and faces Grimbold.
A cruel grin lies upon his lips and his eyes glitters of joy as he sees the face of the Rohirrims as they realize that their prince is slayn. He raises his axe and prepares to swing, though his body goes stiff at the motion and he drops on of his axes. He places his hand over the wound on his chest panting heavily, grinning from the pain.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
The axe and its holder flies over the form of the toppling man, and fails to make contact. The shape of the orc twists as it rolls one hitting the ground and rises to face the fallen horseman. "Twice have my axe missed, and twice have you cheated death", growl Urgamurk as he advances.
In the background, the splitting of horse bones and the happy grunting of warg seem to indicate much happiness in his warg. "Your luck dies with you now worm", yells the wargrider as he runs forward and raises his axe above his head.. The glint of the western sun now almost gone, catches the edge of the blade as it flashes down upon Ealgar.
[Aylean(#28442)]
Perhaps the rider would like to join his prince or perhaps it is only that he begins to feel tired to defend a position that, going by the loses of the rohirrims soon will be lost. OR he feels lost if there is no official around to command him? Who knows. But the woman won't release her prey easily, not now, even if she need to follow him till the same place where Theodred lies. As the blade leans forward to her head, the shield is lifted, receives the blow and is shaken. She bends her legs slightly under the blow, but swift her own longsword leaves the shelter aiming blindly to the rider's gut while she regains her balance.
[Ealric(#1529)] <Eyot> A slight reprieve in the battle comes and the Orc body is removed from Ealric's frame by a fellow Eorling who is struck down by the spear of a Dunlending. In a cry of rage from Grimbold, the Rohir looks to see his Prince fall. Between the death of his Prince and so many of his swordbrothers, the flaxen haired man rises and swings wildly at all who stand against him. Many blows rain down upon shields and weapons but more than a few find their marks within the gullets and limbs of the enemy. Staggering along behind Grimbold, Ealric does his best to cover his commander's rear as the surge of the White Hand's forces closes the gap in front of him. "For my father!" He grunts as an Uruk is slain with a slash to his head. "For the Eored!" The young one cries as another Orc blade notches his own. "For the Prince!" Ealric screams loudly before another arrow finds his shoulder. He sword falls one last time, cleaving the Orc before him in two before exhaustion and blood loss overcome him. Ealric Eodredson collapses to the ground, more or less incapcitated and effectively removed from the heat of battle.
<Eastern bank> Death. Chaos. Such is the scene that greets Elfhelm and his men as they charge towards the red-stained Isen.
And such is the fate - and the luck - of young Ealgar. Blue eyes widen as Urgamurk's blade comes flashing down once more, then vanish forever beneath a sea of blood as the young Rohir's skull is cleaved in twain, and his spirit leaves the green Earth forever. The carrion will feast well tonight ...
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Eyot> The grin on the orc-beast's face is more than enough to fuel Grimbold's already-consuming rage, and he springs forwards, having eyes only for the slayer of his dear lord and prince. He cannot help the tears that mingle with the sweat rolling down his cheeks, but grief does not hinder or slow him. The Lord of Grimslade swings his blade with all his micht, the bloodstained steel arcing in the air, slicing with great force and dealy intent at the orc's already-wounded chest.
[Beowein(#30389)] <Island> His breath knocked out of him as he is knocked to the ground Beowein feels the sharp tip of a lucky arrow penetrate his shoulder as he descends. His hope fading and his strength subsiding, he thinks to himself if the sheer willpower of Maabrim is greater than he could have ever imagined. His shield blocks the path of his eyes as his sword suddenly sinks into his foe. Blood drips upon his shield and his sword wielding hand as he bears the scrapes and blows of the fallen Isen. As Maabrim slides down the length of his sword, the pressure upon Beowein is ever greater, his muscles too weak to push the man from atop him, yet he manages one last scream of victory before he rests his head back upon the ground and looks up towards the darkening sky, heaving in deeply wanted breaths. His thoughts wander to that of battle and death, and finally a strange peace as he struggles vainly against the weight of Maabrim.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
A clawed hand reaches down into the blood soaked brains of Ealgar and cups up a handful. The drip of blood slips down his mouth and his dark skin as he drinks the fruit of his victorious axe. But the repast is not long, for the charge from the east echoes down to him.
"Curse it, there are more of them", shouts Urgamurk, as he runs towards his mount. Jumping up, he lands on th back of the feasting beast, and surveys the charge. As he watches the force ride towards them, a blade appears in his right hand, and nicks another mark in his axe head, joining the hundreds there already.
"Form a line.. ", he orders, and the remainder of his troop, now fifteen strong ride up to him.
[<#14000>] A foul voice echoes above the chaos and speeds towards the tangle of men, and Hephtur in the island. "The horsemen charge from the east!"
[Hephtur(#4407)]
<Eyot>
With a hand pressed upon his chest Hephtur raises his other arm in a hopeless attempt to parry the blow. The two weapons connect for only a brief second and the axe and arm is pushed aside of the powerul blow, letting sword continue on it's path, though slightly changed. As the axe leaves Hephtur's hand, flying through the air in a majestic arc his eyes grows large. They follow the motion of the sword as if in slow motion. A scream is about to leave his throat, though the scream is cut off.
The slight redirection of the blade was enough. The tip of the blade cuts like a razor through the throat. Hephtur staggers for a brief moment, blinking with his eyes as he falls down on his knees. The arms are tried to be raised, though no such power lies in in his muscles. His eyes throws one last gaze upon Grimbold before he falls over on the ground. The blood giving him his life runs freely from the wound, and with it, his soul. And so he lies, like an empty shell. Lifeless. Around him the carnage continues.
[Elfhelm.(#30397)] <Eastern bank to Eyot>Driving through the dark hordes, the company of Elfhelm clash with the grating of glinting steel, arrows flying in deadly waves to the fleeing Uruk Hai and wargs. Proud and swift are the Riders who flood down the eastern banks, the glimmer of their spear heads igniting the bloodied field.
Dismounting half of his companies to defend the bank, many of his Riders pursue the retreating enemy to the north, Elfhelm ploughs relentlessly through the waning numbers, his sword hewing through beast and man. Though in the midst of carnage, Elfhelm hears the cries of Grimbold "Theodred..." The words echo in his mind, sweat pouring from his brow as whispered words of sorrow leave his lips. "Our Prince is fallen..."
No longer does his tarry, with the support of his company, he rides to the eyot in all speed.
[Sigeweald(#26950)] <eyot-knoll>Again a voice is heard, a foul voice, from behind, screaming victory; a quick glance again, reveals Grimbold, only twenty meters away; slamming into the great beast that slew Theodred, or so it seems; desperately trying to fight of the persistent woman, and orc's, that have joined her in the meanwhile, rather than advancing, Sigeweald is slowly driven up the knoll, it is there, surrounded with the remaining men of theodred's guard; That a clear voice rises from the sky, coming from the south east, screaming "Eorlingas!!", despair looming over the knoll, as the woman, together with her foul friends, attack once more, driving the Rohirrim men even further up the knoll.
The woman lunges for Sigeweald gut, a fierce attack, and too late Sigeweald raises his shield, and is cut, deep in the gut. A clean steel cut, right over the belly, a few sparks can be seen, as the mail is torn, and flesh and skin are laid open, breathing becomes instantly difficult, with blood streaming out; but the rider will not give up, seeing the men around him being hewn down, he jumps forwards, sword raised high, shield infront of his weak spot, huge gasps of air he takes in, with his full strength, he trusts his sword sideways, arcing in a clean line, neck height, hoping to hit as many as possible.
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Eyot> Grimbold prepares to strike another blow, but it is not needed. Dark blood spurts, staining his sword and mail as the great brute falls to the ground. Grimbold leaps over him, aiming a kick in his ribs as he lands, and stands at the fallen prince's side. "Theodred... mmy lord..." he says, not expecting an answer. For a moment he bows his head in grief, and then lifts his sword again. If it is too late to save Theodred, at least the orcs and their brood shall not have the body.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
As the line of the horsemen run through the uruk force on the Eastern bank, Urgamuruk howls in anger. "The wretched worms rise again!", he shouts before pointing his warg towards the head of the charging column.
Fresh Rohirrim blood lies glinting on his dark skin about his mouth and his chest, but there seems to be no sating the uruks thirst. Bounds and leaps go the little warg force and as they near, those that have them throw daggers and axes at the horse riders.
At Elfhelm itself speeds the heavy broken axe of Urgamurk. Death on a shooting stick it if touches.
[Hephtur(#4407)]
The commander of the isendrim forces stands far away, watching how Elfhelm comes to the rescue of the pressed forces of the rohirrim. He shakes his head momentarily before gives a nod towards a broad chested uruk-hai, "Give the signal, this battle is over, let our forces retreat..." and with those words he turns towards another warrior, holding his mount. As he mounts the horse a booming sound of a horn moves over the field. Only seconds afterwards the sound is filled with more horns and so the vast army of the white hand turns the tidalwave around. The back lines still pushing forward turns around, and so the banners of the hand still hangs high as the army turns and withdraws from the scene. Their mission accomplished. Theodred lies dead.
[Aylean(#28442)]
A loud laughter of joy mixed with self-satisfaction is heard in the battlefield as Aylean's blade dodges the rider's shield and easily reaches its target, black eyes shining with and inner fire. The man still prepares his next attack when the foul voice and the message it carries is noticed and the woman's attention is caught for a little while. Time enough to be caught off guard and not to parry Sigeweald's blade with her heavy shield on time. But the woman is agile enough to jump to the left, and the sword only meets her right arm instead the neck. "Time to retreat, forgoil, but we will meet again, this I promise to you" She hisses and spits upon him, while lets the man alone in his place, bleeding, and she hurries to join the isendrim army and its commander. Perhaps the rider might hear her call out to her kinsmen as she queries, "Captain Hephtur? Where...?" The last words are carried out by the wind that blows upon the soiled, sorrowed land around the Ford.
[Elfhelm.(#30397)] <Eyot> Like fresh lambs to the slaughter, Elfhelm's men drive back the enemy surrounding the knoll, each man embroiled in his own furious battle. Darkness envelopes the fords, the occasional flash of steel and cry of pain piercing the air.
Ever towards Grimbold Elfhelm drives, his sword held aloft as he spies the battered body of what would have been their future king. Tears of sorrow, frustration and anger well in irises of icy pale, though quickly does his attention return to the Uruk -Hai pressing his fellow Marshal and peering at Urgamark who stands between him and the knoll, the Rohir cries out with embittered tone, before lunging to the beast's blackened chest, a grimace of hatred drawn on full lips.
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
<Eyot> The clarion of the horncall surprises Grimbold as the sound echoes in his ears, but he has no time for wonderment. Weariness assails him, and it is all he can do to fight off the pair of orcs that attempt, heedless of retreat, to take the body of the Eorling prince back with them. His arms feel as weighted by lead, and he wonders how much longer he can hold his sword aloft. One orc he manages to fell, sending a stream of black blood arcing in the air, before turning to the other. Wearily he lifts his sword, prepared to die beside Theodred.
[Beowein(#30389)] <island> His shield and sword-hand now drenched in the foul blood of the fallen Isen, Maabrim. Pinned beneath the dead weight of the body, Beowein struggles in vain to free himself. He raises his only free hand in an attempt to attract the attention of his fellow Rohirrim.
Only moments later he feels a firm grasp pull on his hand, while another set of hands slowly rolls the body from atop of him. Rising slowly to his feet, he nods in thanks towards the men who freed him. Pain is clear upon his face as he snaps the shaft of the arrow portruding from his shoulder off, leaving the tip to be dealt with by the healers. Taking one last look at the face of his enemy, his slowly pulls his sword from Maabrim's body and sprints towards the now retreating foes.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
His axe seem off the mark, for it misses the leader of the horsemen and buries itself in another behind him. As he topples, Urgamurk growls, "My axe.. I want it back!", as Elfhelm lunges at him.
A tug at the warg's neck, and its teeth and maw face Elfhelm's horse as Urgamurk flattens himself against the beast's back. Even so, the horseman's blade carves a gash through the Uruk's back and his howl in the darkening night merges with the horns of retreat. "Back.. Back!", scream Urgamurk as he tries to get his warg to fall back from the wall of flashing metal ahead of him.
[Sigeweald(#26950)] <Eyot-knoll>Then, as if all the luck in the world is turning to Sigeweald for a moment, and seeing Grimbold standing over the fallen prince as he peers sideways; the forces assailing the Eyot, are pulling back; but not all, as a few huge orc's are still advancing, seeing them going for the top of the knoll.
Sigeweald runs as fast as he can; trying to catch up with the beasts, and true; He screams 'Eorlingas.!' and arc his sword, lunging towards the beast, a hews for the feet, and hits, bone is cracking, flesh is breaking, as the beast falls, and Sigeweald jump onto the beast, sword first, sinking it deep into the chest of the beast. Blood squirts up, covering Sigeweald in a black ooze. he stands, and just as he rises; A sharp pain enters his brain, feeling something sticking in his back. He freezes, drops to his knees, and at that moment all goes black. A orc that has climbed onto the knoll, sneaking up from behind, with a huge axe, let's it drop right on Sigeweald head, splitting his skull almost in two, and then removing the head of the body..
[Elfhelm.(#30397)] <Eyot> Blood drenches the land approaching the knoll, the light of an eerie sky scarce as the sun makes its final retreat to the craggy horizon. The distant tone of the horn lingers as Elfhelm ploughs through the clusters of Wargs, crimsom red now dripping from the tip of his blade as he at last reaches the side of his comrade. A swift blow, inspired by anger and torment fells one of the orcs , the sword of the Marshal sinking into it's back, then is brought in a clean slice across it's greasy throat, a gurgle and whine seeping from it's black lips.
[Urgamurk.(#14000)] <Eastern Bank>
This last charge may have been foolish, for only six remain of the wargs that had so long stood strong. Faster than they charged to tear into the horses do they retreat, spurred on by their riders as they struggle to get away from the reinforcement.
At the back of this retreating pack comes Urgamurk, struggling to hang on to his mount. At the farthest edge of this battle, he slows the beast and unsheathes a scimitar. Leaning down as the pass the last of the dead men, he chops an arm off, and pulls it.
The gruesome flopping human arm seems to waves mockingly at the riders as it is held in his teeth.. and so Urgamurk carries away his take-out dinner, and victory this evening.
[Grimbold.(#15851)]
,Eyot> Weariness clouds Grimbold's eyes, or is it blood? A hot spray drenches his face, and be wipes it away to see the form of Elfhelm appear in the gloaming. Yet no smile comes to his lips, but instead a twisted grimace of anguish. "We both... came too late." He goes down on his knees at the prince's side, slipping a hand under his shoulder to lift him up and bear him away. "I am sorry I failed you, my friend... it will not happen again." Bleakly he looks at Elfhelm, gesturing to him. "Help me to lift him... we shall bear back his body at least.
[Beowein(#30389)] Stopping and looking into the distance at the retreatuinng force, Beowein looks around at his fallen comrades and friends. Letting his sword drop to his side, he kneels down and wipes the blood from his hands and face. His eyes look sorrowful, yet determined as he salutes the fallen.
[Elfhelm.(#30397)] <Eyot> Idle and limp does the arm of the Marshal fall, the bloodied sword forsaken to his side as the din of retreat and battle continues around them. Falling to knees, mud and scarlet soaking his mantle, Elfhelm looks wearily to the Marshal then to Theodred, his eye lashes moistened with unshaed tears. "Aye, we failed him friend..." Emotive words tinged with pain cling to the air, as Elfhelm now stands, a curt nod offered in response as he makes to lift the battered body of the young Prince.
[Theodred(#9621)] <Eyot>
As the two commanders make to remove the body of their fallen prince, the end of the line of Theoden's blood, he stirs, life groping vainly at the man's wrecked and drained frame. It starts as a cough...something of a gurgle that is not the natural sound of bodily fluids settling in a spent husk. verily, there is vacant breath still at his lips. A protest is uttered, the plea just a shadow of the once proud voice of the fallen Lord. "No. Stay, my friends. Let me lie here - to keep the Ford till Eomer comes." Lifeless eyes drift eastward, as if to watch for the eored that will never appear. The line of Kings ends in a wretched slump. As the horizon devours the setting sun, Theodred is no more.
[Hephtur(#4407)]
The dead Hephtur rises from his resting position and turns his head towards the cameras. "Hey people, I hope you enjoyed todays show. More shows will appear in the coming week, so thanks a lot for bearing with us." and so he lies down again, playing dead once again.
Theodred's DESC
Broad-shouldered and standing about six foot four Theodred carries himself with an easy grace uncommon in men of his size. The sun streaks of youth have been gradually replaced in his dark blonde hair with glints of grey. Dark blue-grey eyes, surrounded by fine smile lines, peer out of a face weathered by a lifetime spent outdoors. Similarly the calluses on his large hands speak the tale of many hours of toil with rein, spear haft and sword hilt. A proud nose dominates his face and hints of a slightly arrogant and perhaps reckless nature. Two simple braids tied with leather circlets capture the hair from a face framed by a well-trimmed golden beard flecked with grey.
He is clad in steel, a mail-shirt that reaches to about his knees and whose glint speaks of fine metal, skilled craftsmanship and devoted care. A belt of cured leather where green polished stones gleam is at his waist and from it hangs the scabbard, engraved with runes, where the sword Guthbrand is sheathed and its hilt is of a sober beauty with yet another green jewel set in the pommel. A dark greenish cloak is clasped at his shoulder by a brooch that shines like a flame upon the fabric and where fine artisanship has inlaid the white horse upon a field of light green.
Hephtur's DESC
This man stands nearly six feet tall. The body is slim and sinewy rather than big and bulky, though still he seems muscular. The hair is short at the sides and longer on top. Though on top is a rough appearance as it points out in almost every direction like spikes. The color of the hair is black, with traces of silver, which could make it glitter in the correct light. His eyes have a grey intensity like worked steel. His facial features could have been chiseled from stone, jagged and sharp as they are. The teeth line is perfect as if filed down. A brown tan covers the face, it is a tan of someone spending much time in the sun. The lithe, fluid and inconspicuous movements give him a predatorial appearance.
Upon the left side of his neck and throat a tattoo is seen climbing out of the collar and almost reaches his ear. The tattoo is shaped like black flames. He is dressed up in dark clothes, a mixture of grey and black. Upon his upper body he wears a jacket, quite tight it appears with a round close fitted collar. The jacket itself seems to have been improved as the outlines of metal plates can be seen under the cloth. The pants he wears seems to have been imrpoved in the same way as the jacket, as metal plates can be seen here as well. The hands are covered by thin leather gloves. Upon his feet he wears dark colored soft leather boots. On his thighs leather straps can be seen which seems to hold the holsters for his two fully metal axes, around the handles of the axes leather string is seen to improve the grip.
Urgamurk.'s DESC
A young uruk this, at least young among its kind, for the green skin is yet firm and unscarred on its chest. The face is an equally unblemished patch, with on a couple of cuts that run from the edges of the mouth to both earlobes. A shaggy mat tops this creature, and it seems to be wearing the remanants of it wound around itself. One strip goes under an arm, another around the waist, a few curled around the legs, all in all a walking mass of old threadbare fur.
Slightly hunched over, its largish hands reach the ground, and the scratched and bleeding paws indicate that it drags them along than carries them. Along with the usual tattoo for all uruk, this one has been singed with a mark that looks like a snake twined on a log of wood.
Brac's DESC
This man is stocky in build, his sturdy bulk and firmly balanced stance giving an impression of controlled strength. His shaggy hair, which springs from beneath a worn helm to shadow his features, is a dark brown, his skin swarthy like that of most Dunlendings. His face is square-shaped, his lower jaw hidden by a beard, whilst the deep-set eyes that usually gaze upon the world with wary vigilance are a rich brown.
He wears a long overjerkin of studded leather, made bulky by the layers of padding beneath, and stretching down past his thighs. His lower legs are protected by leather boots, now filthy and caked with mud. The overjerkin has been dyed a dark red, and blazoned across the chest is a design of a roaring bear; the badge of a white hand on the man's helm seems tiny by comparison.
Grimbold.'s DESC
Great in stature and proud of bearing is Grimbold, lord of Grimslade and defender of the West-Mark. His hair is flaxen-pale, bleached by the sun, bound in two flowing braids wrapped in tooled leather adorned with copper. His bearded face is weathered by long years in the field, but piercing eyes are still as keen as ever they were, blue as the evening sky and intense. He is broad in the shoulder and powerfully built, battle-hardened.
A burnished hauberk does he wear, the mail-shirt reaching down to his knees, and his longsword girt at his side, the hilt unjeweled but cunningly graven in the likeness of two rearing horses. About his shoulders is flung a cloak of deep red, as the clouds lit on fire by the last light of the sun.
Grimdash's DESC
Towering. A simple word to describe this creature. This Uruk-hai stands of man height, or thereabouts, with sharp features upon his face. Long, black matted hair streams down the back of the uruk and dashes out from beneath his helm. His eyes, peering out from the drooping visor, are a deep red; crimson blood. Covering the majority of the uruk-hai's torso is a suit of metal armour - slightly rusted round the edges and worn in places from extended use. His hands and forearms are covered in metal gauntlets - with tiny ridges and pinpoints atop the knuckles.
His legs are covered with a sheen of metal armour as well, but only down so far as his knees. From there high-rising leather boots reach up to give a bit of protection to his shins. His knees, though, lie unprotected; the lone part of his body that is not covered with some form of armour.
Grim and bearing, the creatures muscular form cuts an imposing swath.
Sigeweald's DESC
Fierce the rider infront of you looks, blue eyes staring through the holes in his helmet, edged golden, covering half his face; a grim face. Blond braids fall down on his back from under his helmet. A beard of blond has grown on his face, making the man look older. A dark green cloak the man wears, falling almost to the ground, with edged stitched of golden. Under the cloak, a tunic of brown and green sits; legs in green, arms in brown. Over the tunic, a chain mail armor is worn, that falls to his knees, with the rings sewn on a leather backing. Gauntlets of leather around his wrists, and about his waist a black leather belt; with the scabbard of a longsword at his left side. A spear stands in his right hand, pointing up.
Beowein's DESC
A man standing roughly six feet and one inch tall. His sand blonde hair descends to the base of his neck, with two small decorative braids running down the length of his neck. His face is clean shaven for the most part except for a patch of rough stubble on his chin. Cloudy gray eyes peer from under his thick eyebrows, scanning his surroundings while at the same time attempting to appear laid back. High cheekbones accent his youthful appearance despite the attempt of a thin scar running down half the length of his right cheek to diminish his appearance, and a few nicks and scratches on his chin. His lips are thin and are often curled in a half-smile lending to a sense of mischievious behavior.
Upon his head lays a studded leather helmet, thick and sturdy it looks as if it has seen better days yet is still obviously well maintained. A ringmail shirt descends his body to about halfway down his legs. Metal shimmering in the sunlight and with only a few rings showing the labors of repair. Scanning the ringmail, a armband of green is visible upon his right bicep, around which is a circle of gleaming silver. He holds in his left hand a shield of studded leather, without a snoff or a nick upon it, it is obviously new. Looking down a sheath is visible, the hilt of a sword wrapped in brown cloth appearing out of the end. Holding the sheath up is a belt of stiff leather, the two ends tied together to form a nicely tied knot in the center.
Ealric's DESC
Tall and somewhat gangly in appearance is this young human, though he looks to be growing into what could potentially become a strong body. Shoulder length, kinky, dirty blonde hair covers his head and is pulled back into a short ponytail with a light brown stip of cloth. Two braids of his hair form a type of circlet round the back of his head and, they too, are braided together. Two bright green eyes sit on eiter side of a narrow nose and below a small forehead. The beginnings of a beard are growing on his young face and cover his chin, upper lips and have lengthed his sideburns some.
Ringmail armour covers his chest and torso as another layer is buckled across his chest with more mail covering his arms as well. A studded leather helm covers the young man's head and ears though it does not look like it would provide more than minimal protection. A cloth tunic in a blend of green and yellow covers the armour on his upper body and is sinched tightly with a belt. The sheath of a longsword is hanging from his side with the weapon left in its scabbard for now and a studded leather shield is slung over the man's back. Around the right wrist of the young man is a braid of brown and flaxen colored hair, his own hair and that of his horse. Strapped-on leather grieves cover his legs and a pair of riding boots come half way up the length of his lower legs.
Aylean's DESC
Tall and slender, chiselled cheekbones, very fine lips and deep black eyes that pierce around her, stands this young woman before you. A pale face set with dark eyes as the curly raven black hair, bounded with a black ribbon in a worked braid, showing up a clean forehead that looks to know no more than twenty winters. Her raiment is entire black: the simple pants, the hard leather boots and the tunic. But the cloak that hangs from her shoulders is green or it was long ago, because now looks old, decolored even, and shows her habit to live and wander outside.
From the black belt and half-hidden by the cloak, a sword is always hanging on the left side, well guarded by an old leather sheath. Apparently, she doesn't wear other jewel or objects of value that a little silver brooch, of rohirric workmanship, to clasp the cloak. Aylean looks severe and distrustful, even grim and proud, but despite the hard features there is a hint of warmth into her very eyes if she thinks you worth it.
Gilken's DESC
Lancing bright eyes of the gray of winter skies, piercing all they behold, and disfiguring them within his twisted mind. Indeed this creature tells the mind that he is of the Human race, but he is a liar. An Arauruk he is, and of the white hand of Isenguard, whose symbol is pressed dripping upon his naked head in white paint. Sharp and jagged his features are, and his deathly skin reveals the protruding bones beneath.
Slightly pointed ears and hooked nose accentuate his sneering grin, the teeth sharp and wicked curving like his half-claws, all much akin to the features of Uruk. He is garbed in a black leather hauberk, and this covered over with a full jacket of dark chain mail, stretching to his mid-forarm. Pulled up over his legs, close-fitting brown leggins are pulled over his pointed black boots and held up by a black leather belt of the make of Gondor -- most likely stolen from the dead.
Ealgar's DESC
A young Rider, pale face peering from beneath pale hair below a metal helm. His blue eyes display the naivety of youth, but his jaw is set with a grim determination.
Elfhelm.'s DESC
A Rohir of sturdy build and impressive height, Elfhelm's posture is proud and framed with broad shoulders. His figure is muscular and well-defined, despite a being a man approaching his middle years.
Braids of flaxen pale woven with silver are pulled back from his temples, piercing eyes of azure hue narrowed beneath thick brows that lead to a distinguished aquiline nose. Crossed lips are edged with a trimmed golden beard flecked with grey. His complexion is tanned and weather beaten, though still bearing a trace of determined youth, his bone structure being both chiselled and precise.
Intricately crafted chain mail adorns his form, close metallic links fitted in granite lustre. The breast plate is likewise darkened silver trailed with bronze studs. A cloak of deep inky purple is worn by the Marshal, clasped at his shoulder by a golden brooch indicating his rank. The hilt of longsword protrudes from the embroidered hem of the regal mantle, its guard forged as the twined heads of a stallion inset with opal clusters. Hung on his worn belt is a horn detailed in ebony. Fine leather straps cross his chest and hold firm a circular shield to his back, where it remains when not in use.
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