The word has gone out and come back into Nínlas, a small community of elves in northwestern Ossirand. A Orc chieftain bearing a banner of a flaming sword leads an army of some hundred thousand or so southwest in the direction of Nargothrond and the coasts of the Falas, as Morgoth continues migrating more and more of the peoples of darkness into what had once and not long ago been a prosperous Elven-dominated region. Obviously, this chieftain is not himself leading armies from the Hells of Iron in the north; Morgoth Himself uses unblazoned sable for his banners, but nobody doubts that this Orc army is moving in response to His instigation. This chieftain has fought with other peoples on the way, of course; the Human kingdoms to the north have set some forces in the warlord’s path, but hardly enough to stop his movement – especially after it became apparent that it was not their lands he was interested in.

Nínlas itself is little more than a hamlet, but set in the lands that dwell under the power of the Light of the Silmaril Reclaimed, and in that light the Elves are resilient and multiply quickly, nearly so as to Men, or so some might have said. Certainly migrants among the humans in the north have failed to wage any effective campaign of displacement among the Elvish inhabitants, and the Elven communities in Ossirand like Nínlas and the larger cities to the south where the Kings dwell have sufficient numbers and wealth to comfortably repel any incursion of any race that attempts to invade the region, and while a community as small as Nínlas could not itself begin to stave off the Orc army, should it turn hither, a host could be mustered that could defeat it, should the need arise, and the inhabitants of the outlying settlements could themselves just flee to more secure castles and holds.

The morning of this day in late spring has been like any other thusfar. Denisens of Nínlas go about their business, most of them fairly quiet. The pathway that opens up into a broad open field north of the village sees few occasional travelers, most of them of Elf-kind, but with a few dwarves and humans and other races, going to and from larger cities to the south or simply going here or there. Many can be seen out on the front porches of their homes, either on platforms in nearby trees or on houses built on the ground, and they work on various crafts. The periodic hammering of nails into canoes can be heard in the back of one relatively large house.

An tavern of sorts open to the air on the south side of the village entertains a few of the travelers from elsewhere, and the smell of freshly baked fruit pies emanates through that area of the village. Just to the south of that is a small wooden temple, the songweaver of which is currently in the back caring for the large Ginko in the garden behind it, and inside the local healer takes inventory of the herbs and other materials that she seldom has to use. High on the second floor rises a small wooden tower housing the village bells, used to make music in festivities or to provide warning if needed. The elder, meanwhile, welcomes the eagle companion of one of the more recent travelers, wishing to show what hospitality the community can for a guest so honored as to be graced with such a creature as a friend.

[This message has been edited by Beren V (edited 06-16-2006 @ 07:34 PM).]

Gorrin looked at the hamlet the road lead to. He had travelled long and hard to get here, and he could see the elves there. He smiled slightly. Who ever Melkor was, the elves could tell him, he just had to ask right. Ohh, he had heard rumors, and whisperings. Melkor the Dark Lord, Melkor the Dark One, Melkor the Dark God. He had heard of the orc army marching towards the elven lands, and of the armies of men. The dwarves where hiding in caves he guessed, fortifying their citadels in order to withstand the coming siege. He knew something dark was coming, something dark. Gorrin thought of Melkor again, and that one day.

It was a peacfull day, yet no birds sounded, no beasts called. A dwarf ran up a mountain, towards a ruin he did not see. When he got to the village, he froze, unmoving. His gaze went over the smoldering ruin of a once lively dwarven town, turned to ash, blood, and bone. The dwarf moved, closing to examine a body. The dwarves eyes saw numerous cuts, probably from a sword, and several bad burns. He moved to another body. This one had simply been almost burned to death, and a single cut across the chest had finished him. The dwarf moved from body to body, building to building. Everywhere he saw destruction, and death. But all the dead bodies where dwarves. It was as if a greater power had sent an army of swords into the town, and then smote it with a fireball. The dwarf left the town, vengeance the only thing on his mind.

OOC: Gorrin is near the temple.

[This message has been edited by Pacifica2 (edited 04-30-2006 @ 00:16 AM).]

IC: Aerandir sat alone in what passed for a tavern in the little town of Nínlas, listening to the idle song floating around the room in grim silence. He had left his mail in his sleeping place, but his sword still hung in its sheath at his side. Ossiriand was so peaceful, it seemed to recall something of Valinor to him; but the darkness had come to Valinor, and it would come here too. His one sword would make little difference, in the end, but he would bear it against that night when it came. If the serene townsfolk objected to a reminder of the horror reigning outside their little forest, the Noldo would find somewhere else to sit.

The songweaver continues his song in the garden, plucking his lute gently as the wind blows through the leaves. Out of the temple steps a young elf, obviously an adolescent by his stature, about as tall as Gorrin, but thin as a willow-wand. He wears a long and plain pale-green robe that contrasts sharply with his dark brown hair. He stands still for a moment, as if to think for a second, and then asks the dwarf "Are you in need of any healing or solace, Master Dwarf? Would you like to come inside?"

The tavern has a few patrons, most of whom got up the previous night. A large party of mixed race - dwarf and human - sits around a table and jokes periodically as they enjoy the Elven hospitality. They speak in Sindarin, most likely because the dwarves do not know Mannish tounges, and Khuzdul is a close secret. From what can be heard, they are a trading bunch, ferrying Dwarven manufactured goods to Human lands and Human or Elven goods back to the Elves. They are the large group; there are a few other elves, sitting around tables, some listening to the songweaver. One pair, apparently a married couple, look more the travelling sort from their cloaks and the axes that hang at their belts, but they say little with their voices; presumably their eyes say more.

Aerandir's grim reverie is broken as an empty goblet is set down on the counter next to him, shortly followed by a bottle of wine. The bartender slides onto a stool on the opposite side of the counter from him. "Is there aught that I can do for you, warrior? It is not often that one who wears the Star of Fëanor visits our land. Perhaps you would like to share your tale over a bottle of wine? I sense in you that it would do you well, for there is much in you that is dark, I deem. You can call me Lairë, if you wish." She sits and relaxes, producing another empty goblet, pours Aerandir's full, and then fills her own.

OOC: Lighthawk?

[This message has been edited by Beren V (edited 06-16-2006 @ 08:12 PM).]

IC: Aerandir gave the bartender a contemptous glare, ignoring the wine she offered him without a glance. He opened his mouth to give her a scathing dismissal, but thought better of it, gaze softening slightly as he looked listlessly away. As much as he enjoyed sitting alone and brooding over his black, all-too-fresh memories, he was not above taking a kind word in the spirit it was offered. He mumbled something apologetic, sliding the proffered glass towards himself without taking a drink. Supposing the maiden actually expected to hear some answer to her question, after a moment, he lifted a finger to tap against the badge on his breast. In case she didn't understand what it meant, he muttered, "I was of the Nargothrondrim. I was there when the golden fire came to Orodreth's halls."

" Thank you, I would.", Gorrin told the elf, and followed it inside. Who was Melkor, who was this person. Suddenly Gorrin blurted out to the elf," Who is Melkor."

OOC: I actually haven't read the Silmirilian, and therefore can't explain who Melkor is.

Gwilithtirn had only learned to fly a few months ago, and his flight muscles still needed a good deal of training before he could fly as well as a fully adult eagle. Right now he could only fly for about an hour before he became fatigued and with Calenhenebiel on his back he could only fly for less then half that time. Calenhenebiel and Gwilithtirn had decided that they wanted to play an active role in the fight against the great enemy, and to do that they needed to improve Gwilithtirn’s flight abilities as fast as possible. They had recently started on a longer trip where they each day flew to a new elven community.
Gwilithtirn greatly enjoyed all the attention he got when arriving to a new place, because until recently he had only known the few elves that lived near Calenhenebiel’s home. Most elves had seen great eagles before, but few had been close to one and even fewer had got the opportunity to speak with one. Calenhenebiel was only happy that Gwilithtirn got all the attention, because that meant that few noticed her unusual eyes, and she was only happy to be rid of the attention she usually got because of her eyes.

When the elder had finished his greetings, Gwilithtirn made a slight bow of his head and said in flawless Sindarin:
”Thank you very much for your warm welcome Elder.”

Then, unsure how to continue Gwilithtirn looked at Calenhenebiel. Calenhenebiel Smiled and said.
We are truly honored by your welcome, but now Gwilithtirn and I would like to have a closer look at the beautiful village you have here…”

They had noticed dwarves and humans in the tavern when they arrived at the village, and Calenhenebiel knew that Gwilithtirn, who had meet very few people that wasn’t elves, was edger to get a closer look…

Lairë recoils with some trepidation as Aerandir turns his withering gaze to her. She takes a step back, the Noldo almost imagining her shaking her head as if to claim innocence for some percieved crime. But then, as he softens, she does as well, and the light and terror of the Noldo's eyes are stilled. She listens quietly to his words. "I am sorry. I should have guessed you meant a pain such as that, and I percieve that I have not the power to heal you, if any east of the Sea can. But you may rest here, if you will, and be welcome, and yet I see that you have your sword, and my heart now tells me that it is not solace you came here for."

Outside the small temple, the adolescent male looked shocked and stunned. "We do not say that name, for He is the Power who brings evil. Come in - my father will tell you of what you ask, but be wary of His name." He beckons Gorrin into the temple. The enter just as the elder - the boy's father - is speaking with a tall female and her companion, a not-yet fully grown giant Eagle.

The elder bows as Calehnenebiel gives her greetings. "It is like any other, but indeed beautiful it is! You are welcome here," he says. He then turns to his son and the dwarf.

There is the momentary distraction of the hoofbeats of a horse, as an Elven rider gallops into sight from the field north of the village. Although he pauses, there is still a hurried look as he resumes riding into the village.

Gwilithtirn and Calenhenebiel had just left the temple when they heard the hoofbeats, and curious at whey anyone would be in such a hurry, they turned towards the rider and waited to se what he would do.
Calenhenebiel also reached out with her power in order to detect the rider’s emotions when he came close enough.

IC: Aerandir took a sip from the wine she'd given him, barely tasting the draught. It was a moment before he replied, voice grating. "There is no such easy balm east or west of the Sea for my hurt. Your heart tells you true, lady. I do not seek healing. I came to Ossiriand in search of revenge." He looked up at Lairë again, trying to judge her reaction.

The rider coming into the town is an Elven man and his horse is light and fleet. He wears light clothing, and has only traveller's cloaks and such behind him, and no armor, but the sword that he carries tells Calanhenebiel that this man is a man of war, most likely a scout. Not pausing, dust flying from the horse's hooves as it gallops into the village, he thunders up the path to the temple, and dismounts. He looks into Calenhenebiel's eyes and nods to her. He has a serious appearance, as if there is urgency to his haste, but the same he does not look as one in panic or whose courage falters.

"Greetings, Lady. Are you the elder of this hamlet?" he asks.

*

Lairë nods slightly and sits back on a stool behind the counter. At length she says "I understand. I do not believe it is my part to deliver revenge upon the Enemy, unless it is do so by being of the people that live and guard the Light of the Dead that Live. If you would seek such revenge, perhaps it is yours to seek their Isle in the river to the south, for it is they that have maimed Him. All we of this people would do is to defy His will to destroy us, for while those among us may be slain, we will not as a people fall as long as the Light shines. But if you need rest, you may stay here, and if you seek warriors to join you, I doubt not that some in this very community would lend their bows. It is the least that we can do. Though I at least am not bent on revenge, or even dedicated to the life of mine self, the Light will not shine here forever, and my kindred must seek means to survive."

”No, I am just a traveller taking a rest in this hamlet.”
Calen said. She couldn’t help feeling slightly honoured, that the elf would think so highly of her.
”The elder is inside the temple”

[This message has been edited by Kris Lighthawk (edited 07-29-2006 @ 05:21 PM).]

IC: Aerandir inclined his head to Lairë as she finished speaking, saying no more himself. Her talk of other warriors in the sheltered vale boded well for his vengeance. All he needed to do was find them and some worthy quest to lead against the Enemy, hopefully to die a glorious death. He had been disillusioned of Fëanor long ago, but the King's death had at least been a worthy one - or so it seemed to Aerandir, now.

Laying a silver coin marked with a star on the counter, the Noldo pushed up to his feet and turned away from Lairë, planning to begin his search for worthy companions in a more likely place than the tavern.

The elf nods to Calenhenebiel. "A rest may be well, but I fear that you will not find it here," he says, and then walks into the temple, after the dwarf. There is some hurried discussion inside for a bit, and then, the sounds of footsteps running up into the tower. At this moment, the elf emerges again and goes to his horse. He turns once more to Calen. "I must hurry to spread the warning, for these hamlets are many. Hear the Elder if you must know more, and fare you well.." He gallops off.

Meanwhile, Lairë stands at the counter and looked carefully at the Noldorin coin. The coins that she is most used to are made of carved and tinted glass, even from those among Nargothrond. It must be a Fëanorian coin, she muses, and slides it into her pouch inside of her dark red bodice, contrasting with her white gown underneath visible underneath.

The Noldo surveys the tavern, and the hamlet beyond. A group of men of several races with the looks of travelers, even warriors, sits around one table, the glasses of wine around them. The hammering of the carpenter making canoes can still be heard in the distance. But the Noldo does not get out from under the eaves of the tavern befure the chimes of the temple bells go off behind him!

One chime, two chimes, then a third and a fourth, the fourth lower in pitch and more menacing, echo through the village. The chimes ring again. To the Sindar, this is an alarm, a signal that the village is in danger. Patrons inside the tavern bolt up from their seats, speaking quietly. The bartender Lairë slides her hand under the counter and pulls out a short, wide-bladed sword, which she unsheathes and vaults over the counter. Out of the houses come more elves, bows and axes in their hands. The elder and his son emerge from the temple, and the village folk begin to gravitate toward the end of the village near the temple. The travellers in the tavern seem slower on the uptake, but are soon heading for the square as well.

When the chimes started Calenhenebiel said to Gwilithtirn:

”It seems like something dangerous are coming this way… perhaps it is a band of orcs. We better see if they can use our help…”

Gwilithtirn was very exited. He had been hunting for himself for some time now and, he and Calen had recently killed a small group of weak goblins, but that had been relative easy, as the goblins hadn’t proved much of a challenge. Other than that, he had not seen any real combat yet and he and he very much wanted to prove himself.

Calenhenebiel disliked combat, he hated killing anything, even when it was evil orcs that only deserved that fate. She was no coward however and would fight when she had to, she just didn’t liked it much.
She could fight pretty well with her staff when she needed to, she was also a descent archer, and some of her powers were useful in combat as well.

[This message has been edited by Kris Lighthawk (edited 07-29-2006 @ 05:57 PM).]

Gorin listened to the chiming of the bells, and wathced as neabry elves grabbed weapons. He folowed them, drawing his bow, and nocking an arrow. Something was happening, that was all he knew.

IC: Aerandir drew his sword, sparing a moment to glance over the blade to note whether it was glowing, and, seeing everyone take out arms and rush for the village square, joined the flow, though not without a wishful glance towards the inn where his mail rested uselessly on his bed.

Aerandir's sword shows perhaps only the hint of a gleam, perhaps blue, or perhaps the more ominous yellow, but it is so faint that the as far as the Noldo might know, he may only be getting too jumpy.

The elves assemble around the front of the temple, where one of the elders - the one who spoke to the mounted messenger, steps forward. "As you have all heard, an army of some hundred thousand orcs and other creatures are travelling southwest around Doriath, making for..." he says, pausing, with an obvious pang of pain in his eyes, "...for what remains of the realm of Nargothrond. A scout has just been in, however. A detatchment of some twenty-thousand has peeled off the main army. We are set in their path." He looks around at the entire village. The citizens say nothing, but it is clear in their eyes that they are all thinking the same thing. "They will be here by nightfall," continues the elder, drawing a breath. "The Kings to the south will be able to call up an army that can defeat this attack, but in the mean time, we will have to flee from their path. The Minas Luin fortress will be able to hold against them, for it is in a river canyon, and a strength already guards it, and they have not the power to break it when we are there. Each of us has the time to take those items we most treasure and most need, but we must not tarry too long; the sooner we leave, the longer we will have to prepare for the battle to come." He bows to his fellow citizens, and then returns to the temple. The other elves also disperse to their homes, purposefully but not hurriedly; Lairë and her family toward the tavern.

One of the other elders, an elven woman who has obviously seen more than her share of situations like this, turns to Calen and Gwilithtirn. "Master eagle, can you bear your friend? Some of us, no doubt, will escape by the river, but you possess the power of flight. Will you come to the fortress, or will you not go thither? No command can be laid upon you by me, of course, but if you would go to the fortress, I would ask that you carry a message for me."

OOC: how far away is the fortress?

IC:
Gwilithtirn looked briefly at Calenhenebiel who responded with a smile and a slight nod.

”Yes lady, I can carry Calen, and we will indeed go to the fortress. We will be honoured to carry a message for you.”

”We would indeed!” Calen said
”Recently Gwilithtirn and I decided that as soon he had reasonably mastered his ability to fly, he and I would start to do anything within out power to fight the Great evil and his minions.
This is as good a time as any to begin that mission!”

“But Gwilithtirn has not yet reached the full strength and stamina of an adult great eagle, so if it is important that your message reach the fortress as fast as possible, I may have an even faster way to get it there.”

IC: Aerandir returned to his room at the tavern, sheathing his sword. So the Sindar would flee, and leave their homes to be burned by the orcs... typical. The war against the Enemy might be hopeless, but at least a death defending something that mattered would be an acceptable ending for his accursed life. The Noldo had had enough of retreat and hiding. Still, he would accompany the refugees as they made for their fortress. If the orcs had outriders on wolves, or worse, they might be harried along the way, and they would need defenders.

The Noldo drew his mail on and buckled it in place, sliding the coif over his head, before stepping outside to wait for the Sindar to gather for their departure.

”I thank you. The fortress is five leagues to the southeast, in the hills. I need you to send the message that the people of Nínlas are coming. We number eighty and three, but that assumes we all arrive. We will be coming along the fastest trail: a sortie to escort us may be needed, for I fear that other forces may come ahead of this army.” The elder speaks to Calen and Gwilithtirn quietly. ”Go with all speed.”

Aerandir needs not to wait for long. A family in the north edge of the village carries three canoes to the nearby river and some families join them, and the others, three score at least, gather at the village square once again. Some are armed with the weapons and armor of warriors, and others are in cloaks and the traditional slit gowns the Sindar are known for. All are armed, most with bows. Next to the Noldo stands one of the elders, a venerable elf who looks fully the Noldo’s equal at armsmanship, but his arms cannot be as great, being not from Valinor. The wife of the elder stands in the center once again. “If the orcs indulge in the folly of burning our homes, the strength of arms that will come from the south will slay them swiftly and with little loss of life to us. But homes can be rebuilt, and all else that is of great value will ride in the boats. We shall return here.” She stands down, and the group begins to move, along a southward path, into the woods, but staying close together, their weapons drawn, even the children carrying spears. But on some of the weapons, as Aerandir moves with them at their brisk pace, he begins to notice a faint, cold gleam.

[This message has been edited by Beren V (edited 08-14-2006 @ 00:43 AM).]

IC: Aerandir scowled faintly at the Elf-maid's words. This force might be repelled, as all the others had before it. A thousand thousands of orcs might be hewn down by the Elves, and Angband would only breed two for each of the fallen to replace them. He remembered the sight of the iron gates that opened on Hell, and how his lord Gwindor and many fierce Nargothrondrim, friends and companions, had passed within, most never to return. Gwindor had come back, but only to bring the Mormegil and final ruin to his home. The mighty armies of the Noldor, Edain, and Casari alike had withered before the black and golden fires that issued from those doors, and it was only a matter of time before the doom came to the Sindar as well. There would be a horde one day that Dior could not repel, and this little hamlet could never be rebuilt. The Noldo hoped he would be long-dead when that day came, watching the children with their spears. Sighing to himself, he pushed the dark musing from his thoughts as the refugees began to move.

Following behind the villagers, at more of a distance to their backs than they kept to each other, Aerandir drew his sword again, watching its gleaming blade closer than his surroundings.

[This message has been edited by Black Hound (edited 08-21-2006 @ 00:30 AM).]

Calenhenebiel responded to the elder:

”If you put that message into writhing, I think I can get it to the fortress even faster than riding on Gwilithtirn. Make 2 letters and make them as light as possible. I believe I can convince a fast bird or two to carry them to the fortress.”

“That will also mean that Gwilithtirn and I can watch your people from the air and possible warn them about approaching enemies, as well as help fight of any such enemies…”

The elder nods quietly to Calen. "It shall be done," she says.

As time passes, there is no mistaking it: despite that the refugees are moving quickly but stealthily, there are orcs drawing ever nearer as the group moves. Musing that one weakness of the Orcs is that they cannot travel on foot as rapidly as do Elves, means that these orcs must have wolfriders moving out before them. It is difficult to tell even with the gleaming Noldorin blade, however, how many there are, or how close. They could be no more than a hundred meters behind the elves, if there are only a handful of them, or they could be substantially more numerous, but farther away. But their prusuit seems uncertain; they have not obviously found the elves themselves yet.

Suddenly, as the villagers of Nínlas round a hilloc in the increasingly hilly terrain, there is some commotion up front, ahead of Aerandir. The Liaquendi villagers pause, and there are voices up ahead. For several heart-pounding seconds, the group begins to come forward into a clearing on the back of the hill: apparently, the populace of another village has met up with the Nínlas villagers. The gleam becomes brighter, the orcs are closer, but still Aerandir knows not whether they number many and are still some distance, or if they number few and are very close (and very stealthy) indeed. Within moments, the now-larger group is moving again, heading for the southeast. In the clearing, the Noldo can now make out in the distance: turrets and battlements atop tall grey or blue bluffs, up a canyon, perhaps five leagues away. Then, suddenly, he hears the sound of a twig breaking and the patter of padded feat in the trees not fifty yards behind them!

Calen, riding Gwilithtirn, has a much clearer view of what is happening. The elder had written the notes in moments, and a mated pair of falcons are now on their way to the fortress, flying faster than the villagers can run. Now, she watches as what she feared: an advance scout force on twenty wargs or so, with a handful of other creatures, these riding horses sweep down the road and through Nínlas, less than a league behind the fleeing refugees. They pause inside of the deserted village, and dismount to go into the houses, the tavern, and the temple, but they come out again quickly. After a few moments of order-giving, they send out detatchments in all directions, three of them moving along the same path that the villagers fled by, the others by different paths. It rapidly becomes apparent, however, that this scouting force is but one of many - and so far, they are not interested in the villages themselves. Slowly, but surely, the pack of three warg riders begins to close in on the fleeing villagers, others probably searching for the people of countless other hamlets in the area, but there probably is a bigger detatchment further to the north still or in the area. Certainly, the main army is a ways off.

IC: Aerandir whirled where he stood, loosening his stance into liquid readiness for battle even as his hands tightened on the hilt of his sword. Whatever approached would have to step over his cold corpse to touch the Sindar, he promised himself.

As Calenhenebiel and Gwilithtirn watched the 3 warg riders was slowly closing up on the villagers. Calen didn’t think that 3 warg riders was much of a threat to the villagers but if they managed to take the elves by surprise they might kill a few of them before being killed or driven of. Calen was not about to let that happen.

”I think it is time to test our strength in battle”

She said to the great eagle

”It is indeed!”

Gwilithtirn answered, clearly edger to prove himself.
Making a fast downward glide he made a big circle to approach the warg riders unseen from behind.
Meanwhile Calen readied her bow, she was quite a good rider, but she wasn’t that used to ride on Gwilithtirn and a longbow wasn’t the best weapon to use from the back of an eagle. But if she waited until the last moment, she believed that she had a good chance of hitting something. In order to have a better chance of hitting, she also drew on her power in order to improve her own dexterity.

”Go for the riders, if we can take them out, I believe the wargs will turn and run”

She told Gwilithtirn as the Great eagle finished his circle and dived at the warg riders from behind.
The attack came at the last moment, because the riders were now only about 50 yards be hind the closest villagers.
Calen fired at the back of one of the rides, but the even at close range her aim was a little off and her arrow pierced the rider’s left arm instead.
Gwilithtirn was doing much better, his talons slashed through the neck of one of the riders with enough force to throw him several yards away from his mount.
The attack was over in seconds and Gwilithtirn started to beat his great wings in order to gain attitude for another dive. Meanwhile Calen shouted:

”Warg riders! Coming from behind!

Hearing a shout, Gorin turned around, just as the first worg rider burst out of the forest behind them. One of the Elves, someone who looked as if he was not part of either village, seemed to be staying put as well. He drew nocked an arrow to his bow, and fired, missing by a small amount. He moved back, and waited for something new to happen, hopefully something that would provide an opening for a well placed arrow.

The wargs burst into the clearing, one riderless but the other two bearing large goblins, one already clutching an arrow protruding from his arm. But the Eagle-riding elf's warning is enough that most of the villagers have already turned and are ready: before the three can get near Aerandir, a withering storm of arrows is loosed upon them, felling all but the one already riderless warg, who turns his tail beween his legs and flees. The third warg, that ran in with the uninjured rider, kicks and snarles but lies on the ground, one arrow in its shoulder, one in its lower jaw, and one in its stomach. The other three creatures appear already dead.

Although there is a cheer of greatfulness to the Eagle overhead, a female voice among the refugees calls "That warg will lead others here, and there will be more of them. We must not be here when they come!" Then the group begins taking a path down from the hill into the trees, out of the clearing.

Gwilithtirn's head is still angled forward as he attempts to gain altitude, but if Calen looks back, she sees the warg galloping back through the forest, the way that it came.

Calenhenebiel did look back and saw the warg disappear into the trees.

”Quickly” she said to Gwilithtirn ”we need to stop that warg!”

But when Gwilithtirn had gained attitude enough to turn, the warg had disappeared between the trees. That was not a problem for Calen however, for her “sense of the living” the warg stood out as a tainted dark flame among the bright lights from the trees and small animals in the woods, so she could easily lead Gwilithtirn in the right direction.
It didn’t take them long to overtake the warg, but the warg was smart enough to stay on areas with heavy vegetation so that Gwilithtirn couldn’t dive at it and Calen couldn’t get a clear shot at it either.

”So he thinks he is smart” Calen said ”but there is more then one way to catch a wolf”

She then channelled her power into her staff and used to gain contact with the trees and bushes around the warg, “awaking” them and “encouraging” them to move and grab any living being around them. The warg tried to avoid the branches that suddenly reached for it, but now the heavy vegetation was suddenly a great disadvantage and if was soon helplessly entangled.

Gwilithtirn landed a little away and let Calen of. She drew her bow and moved towards the warg. Up close the warg became aware that it was facing something more then a normal elf.

”Please mistress let me go” it begged in the langue of the wargs

”I am sorry, but I can’t do that, hold still and I will end this quickly and painless” Calen answered the worg in its own langue.’

The Warg closed its eyes and remained motionless, making it easy for Calen to send an arrow right into its heart.

Calen didn’t feel well when she and Gwilithtirn flew back to the villagers, she hated taking a life, even that of an evil being, and the fact that the warg has been defenceless made it worse, but this was war, and if she has to do anything against the great enemy, she would have to put her feelings aside and take lives whenever it was necessary.

OOC: I don’t think we have a color code for “warg”?

The group - now many dozens - continues taking paths leading slowly to the canyon and the fortress in the distance. The gleam on the Elvish blades is lesser now, and while the elves move quickly, the token dwarf is able to keep up, for though the elves are running, they are not sprinting. The other non-elves, travellers who had been in the inn, seem to have disappeared from sight, although where they went is anybody's guess, but nobody remembers seeing them since they left Nínlas.

The sun has begun to turn west when the group nears the mouth of the canyon, and it is only a league or so more up a steepening slope to where they would be below the blue-grey bluffs. During this time, the gleam on the Noldo's sword is brightening again, although the orcs still seem some ways off. That they, too, are making for this fortress seems likely, and Aerandir does not know what ways of retreat there may be from the table-lands above. Suddenly, he hears the sound of hoofbeats on the path ahead of him!

There is little time to wonder what approaches, although the villagers pause momentarily and await whatever comes. Suddenly, the column of fleeing villagers stops up in front, and spreads out as the others come up into it. Out of the wood come eleven armed riders, elves all of them, clad in green and white tabards that cover what is probably leather plating underneath. One of them, presumably the lieutenant in command, hands his spear to one next to him and slides off of his brown horse and approaches the villagers. His dark brown hair and green eyes are typical of Nandor heritage, but his face bears a crease under his nose and along his cheeks, ageless, but careworn. At first, he seems no differently attired from any of his other riders, until Aerandir notices a thin collar of leaves sewn around his neck into his tabard.

"Good - you are less than two leagues' walk from safety. How many are you?" he asks.

Two elves, one the elder of Nínlas stands forward. ”We should number four and fourty, but we are one of two communities, and some of us have taken the river.” he says.

The second Elven man, presumably the elder from the other hamlet, answers ”We of the other are nine and thirty.”

”What of the Noldo, so I guess from his guise, who bears Fëanor’s emblems? And is the Dwarf also one of your community?” the lieutenant presses.

”They are not, or have not been,” responds the Nínlas elder’s wife. ”But they are alone, so much as I can tell. The Eagle that follows us also bears a guest of ours. Of what others of the kind of Men who were not of our community when the bells rang, I know not whence they have gone.”

The lieutenant nods toward the villagers. ”Let the name of your hamlet be known to the gate-master when you reach the fortress: the road begins in a half-league. Strength will be needed along the wall, as much as can be brought, for the longer our perimeter then with fewer losses we will repel these orcs and their foul allies. Shelter will not be withheld to the Noldo or the Dwarf, although I do find it curious why one of Fëanor’s followers should come to our kind.” He turns back and approaches his horse, as if to ride away, but then turns, as if to listen if any have any further need to speak.

~~

The main force of the Orcs is now marching, slowly but surely, toward the very heart of Ossirand, but they will have to get past the canyons of the rivers before they can get into the heartland. They are, indeed, about twenty thousand, much smaller than the armies that the Elves have defeated in the past, but not without notice or preparation. But, fortunately, the Light of the Dead that Live should provide the strength to defeat them. At this distance, even Gwilithtirn cannot make out the creatures of this army that are not orcs, but the different marching troops that make up this army do appear to contain creatures of different sizes, from roughly elf-sized to slightly larger or down to perhaps half that size.

Before them there are many, many warg-riders, scouting out the area beforehand and catching any villagers that they can find unawares. Their tactics are clear: they move in packs of three, scouting, and when they find a querry, they report back to a larger pack numbering a few tens at the most, who then come and raid the fleeing elves. By the time the citizens of Nínlas joined up with the other village, they were then numerous enough that one of these larger packs would not have been able to wipe out the entire community, but it would still have cost many lives. It will take many lives to repel this Orc army, Calenhenebiel realizes. The Elves of Ossirand are not hidden so deep within their lands that they can hide when armies of orcs or other intruders come their way, unlike the Elves of Doriath, who had been protected by Melian’s Girdle. But that is because there are more of them, enough to populate their borders as well as their heartland: one of the few peoples of Elves thriving, all because of the Silmaril’s light.

But one thing that the orcs are not doing is burning and looting the villages of the elves that have fled. They know that the more of them reach the fortress, and the longer reinforcements from the south are allowed to arrive, the more difficult the fortress will be to take. With the Light, it should be impossible to take, but others who do not understand the Arts, or the powers of Light and Darkness, have tried. These orcs are not the first. But even though it seems clear that Ossirand will defend itself, Calenhenebiel feels a shadow slowly creeping over her heart.