Foothills of the Misties - South of Cloudyhead

The height of these mountains foreshadows the world about your feet in a blanket of ominous shadow, while dense tangled shrubs gather what nourishment they can from the edging cliffs and rocky terrain which mark the foothills. By the light, slowly moving clouds travel up the mountains. Clearly visible are the ridges which scar the mountains. Stained grass in varying shades of sickly green feel coarse to the touch. Trees feel the heat of this summers day, while the humidity about makes travelling sticky and difficult.

A heavy fall of sleet rushes down from the gloomy sky above you. The mid afternoon summer air is cold and fresh.

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A dull and murky day. The Morian encampment grinds ever on, slowly but surely. At the head of one of the supply wagons is Ashghash the Hammerer. Her whip commands respect from a beaten snaga pulling a heavy pack along behind him. "Keep up, maggot!" she yells forcefully, the She-Uruk seemingly in a hurry.

Walking but a few feet from the wagon which Ashghash leads on, Duggermurk looks at all the orcs carrying or pulling heavy loads and then looks at the wagon driven by Ashghash. Walking up with a salue he says, "Hello, I was wondering if you would want another Hammerer? I can start by carrying some of your load since I have not one of my own." Duggermurk says to Ashghash with the sound of hope, not clear if hope for the job or hope that he guessed right at her career.

"Mmm think you got it in you to be an 'ammerer eh?" Ashghash mutters "Oo ever you are you can 'elp carry somethin'..makes me wonder why you 'aven't got somethin' already. Oo are you any'ow? Name?" She cracks her whip again and makes a pitiful snaga screeeeech at terribly high pitch.

"Well I am Duggermurk, of no Tribe and no Career following. I think I have it in me to be a hammerer." he says. Duggermurk looks at the orc over whom the whip is cracked with a grin.

Shimzak idles around, he has gotten quite good with his dagger and has a wide array of "toys" at his disposal, most are simply pieces of wood carved into menacing shapes, but a few have very obvious applications, its amazing what a determined orc can do with some sticks he stole from Durb- err...found on the ground

A darkening of the drizzly sky...a hint of a shadow forming on the treacherous beginnings of the mountain paths. Something draws near from somewhere, an ominous threat hangs in the air.

"So..Duggermurk." Ashghash says and pauses, snapping the long leather whip again in a different direction "Ere..go take that pack from 'im.." she points at the snaga whom she had just whipped "It's 'eavy and will be good practice for you.. Apprentice" she grins toothily, adding "You should join a tribe.." The whip is curled back up into her hand as she glances up, going to curse the sun for the umpteenth time..she frowns and shouts "Get a MOVE on Maggots..Mines are still aways off.." She growls, maybe sensing something amiss.

Puk arrives out of the direction the Orc army is moving into. Having scouted ahead he returns the merry band of beasts to check in with his commanders. After doing so he falls into pace with the rest of the moving camp and keeps more to the outer edge of the mass of Orcs.

Mashug orders a Tetrak to lead his company and strides forward, crossing the horde to see if everything runs smoothly and the King's orders are respected. He approaches the Hammerers' wagons, where a great deal of snagas almost drag themselves forward, carried beyond their true strenghth. Mashug does not bother using whips, and his boot is set on the back of a rather tired snaga, throwing it to the ground. "Faster maggots!" He shouts while crushing the snaga's skull with his heavy boot. "Walk faster or you will end up like this little swine over here!" The Senior Guard kicks the snaga in the head, making it fly a couple of meters to the side and run away in fear. Seeing an idle snaga nearby Mashug points the dropped gear in the ground. "Take that, snaga!" He shouts at Shimzak. "I'll see that all of that reaches it's destiny... if anything misses you'll be the major ingredient in Sog's Surprise!" The Thrakburzum Maluuk grins to himself, happy that all is well, until a shadow passes in the ground. He is alerted, shades his eyes and looks up into the sunny sky, the light hurting his eyes. He sees nothing but moves toward the nearest officer, Ashghash, Battle Axe in hand. "Have you seen that shade, Morghash?" He looks to the sky. "I smell something funny..."

Nodding as another Uruk comes to speak with Ashghash, Duggermurk moves aside. Walking to the snaga, he rips the pack off its back and kicks it in the ribs. Having killed any notion that his taking the snaga's load is a ack of kindness, Duggermurk flings the heavy load onto his back. Slightly hunched with the wait he shifts the bow on his back to limit the disscomfort. overhereing Mashug's warning Duggermurk shrugs and walks on.

Moving along to the wagons Puk takes a look for which one Ashghash is leading. He then moves over to her pushing through marching Orcs before he manages to yell at her, "MAsta Ash!!... Puk getting something to show you..." he grumbles and stumbles over a rock before clearing another mass of Orcs.

"I smell it too!" Ashghash calls to Mashug before throwing the whip in the back of a wagon, trusting that the lesser uruks have gotten the message. Her red eyes swivel this way and that and then focus on Puk for a moment, nodding as he approaches "What is it that I should see?" she asks, flicking her tongue across cracked lips.

Puk huffs slightly till he fully catches up with Ashghash and shows off his new armor to the She-Uruk, "Puk finding other who having too small armor." he huffs a bit more catching his breath, "So Puk trading for this shtuff... Pretty good huh ?" the young uruk grins and shows more of it off to Ashghash.

Shimzak glances up and mutters a quick "yessir" and bustles off to the back of the Hoard, quickly passing messages for the archers and others to watch the skys, bows are knocked and spears are readied, a few lucky orcs raise shields and bucklers, Shimzak himself crouches down and hopes his pack will protect him from whatever Mashug is afraid of so much.

Looking up into the sky Duggermurk cant see a thing in the light. He lossens the pack on his back so that he can through it off quickly but keeps walking. He looks at Ashghash and then at the sky. With his left hand checks to see that he has enough arrows in his quiver.

Ashghash raises her hand, peering at the sky for whatever it is that many of the other uruks have started to look up for "Be wary lads!" She shouts, somethin's not right.." She slides the weapon from her hip and into her grasp--the scimitar looks well used and the blade is stained.

At last convinced that though he can see it something is wrong, Duggermurk throws his pack into the wagon and takes his bow off his back. Sliding an arrow on the string he looks blindly into the sun.

"Whet? Eh?" The sky is awful bright. Awful awful bright. So bright it hurts poor Bograt's eyes (as any light does!) The squat orc covers his beady eyes and casts them skyward. "What you see, eh?"

Mashug is restless now, his gaze inspecting the blue sky, dread filling his black heart. "Run to the king!" He shouts at a nearby snaga. "Tell the king that there is something in the sky, tell him we need more archers in the back!" Then he turns to Ashgash: "Send the wagons and the snaga carriers to the front, my boys will see that the rear is not breached. We must get some arrows in here, i don't like this scent." He hisses, still expecting an attack to come from the ground.

The icy drizzle begins to whip about suddenly, shifting direction rapidly as a chilling gale whips it this way and that, beating it hard into faces and arms. Beyond the clouds, the sunlight wavers, waxing and waning rapidly as it is intermittently eclipsed.

Shimzak attempts to fashion a hood of some rabbit skins he carries, only to have it whipped away and lost in the storm "Ise no liken dis...smells like bird...big birds...lot O em" But thinking this of no consequence Shimzak simply continues on, muttering about the unfairness of his life.

"You 'eard the Maluuk!" Ashghash shouts in a dry voice.. "Snaga and pack carries to the front /now/ any others fall back 'ere and get ready to defend.." The Hammerer's red eyes roam to Bograt and she growls "Something's comin'.." and uses the hooked tip of her weapon to points to the sky in general.

Hearing a call for the archers to go to the rear, Duggermurk runs to a group of other orcs with bows and puts a arrow on his bows string. He looks like he is ready to shoot but apone looking even closer than that one can see he is blinded by the sun.

Mashug caughts a glimps of Forohir as he shades him from the sun, his great wings cleary visible against the clear sky. "Eagles!" Shouts the Thrakburzum Maluuk. "It's the stench of filthy birds! Come boys, those with bows form up! All others form a circle around them and try to hit the flying-maggots when they dive down!" He runs this way and that, organizing a quick defense. "Where are those stinking archers?!"

Something's comming? Bograt is still staring at the sky. His face is lax, half stupid. He carries no shield and as yet has no weapon drawn. "What do you think it could be?" He feels the wind whip at his weathered face. It's ugly. Really ugly. Bograt squints as he continues. "I think the bears might have prayed to their gods and called sky spirits down upon us!" A shadow passes over the ground, crossing over Bograt's own shadow. A lump forms in his throat.

Shimzak heads up to the front, only to fall up to his head into a hole made by the ice, Shimzak quickly covers up with his remaining skins, and hopes someone finds him before he freezes

Pacing through the inclement weather, the expatriate scout Dhygrukh returns from what seems to have been a patrol with a few uruks -- and in a hurry. "Shouts," the Southron mutters to himself as the smaller Morians trail uncomfortably behind.

The Uruk-Hai snarls as he peers up into the sky, eyes shielded with a hefty hand. "Attackers." Dhygrukh calmly but rapidly produces his blade, for all the good it will do.

Ashghash nods, silently, to Bograt--sharing in the chill that the flickering shadow send through him. Ratheer than running aimlessly (as some of the petrified snaga do) she stands stock still, hobnail boots planted firmly on the ground, feet appart. Her head is tilted back so that she can glance at the sky--not that she can actually /see/ much.

Duggermurk has fear in his eyes, his bow swings wildly back infrorth through the air following anything thats shadowy in the sky. He dose not however fire an arrow, and simply dumbly swings the bow with the arrow pulled back to its head scanning the sky with no target.

The clouds themselves begin to rupture under the force of many wings, revealing a host of great shadows. Indeed this is no single Eagle, nor even a pair, but rather a flight of nearly a dozen. The mightiest of these, the vassals of the Northern lords, lead the assault, diving down toward the Morian army with wings folded.

The draft created by mighty wings ruffles the Hammerer's filthy hair and blows the oilcloths on the carts till it flaps and billows like a sil before a gust yet still the she-uruk stands her ground, red eyes widening at the sight and what the ruptured clouds spill forth--Eagles.

AS the regal forms storm from the sky, deadly bolts of righteous lightning, Bograt has no choice but to arm himself - feeble as it may be. While resisting the urge to defecate, his shaking fingers paw at his back. They fumble with the knot securing his bow. The orc cringes as he strings it and frantically scavenges in his quiver for a decent arrow. "Demon bless! Demon bless! Demon bless!" Stark shadows streak across the ground, ill-omens to an ill-bred race.

Mashug stands ground, legs apart, Battle Axe dancing in front of him. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" He shouts at the Uruks. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

One of the advancing Eagles, a dark-brown tinted bird, dips it's wings aerobatically to bring itself into a tight arc over the camp, almost as if it's intention is to flank the left hand side. It's frame grows larger by the second as majestic wings beat to carry it forth, before a mighty screech emenates to indicate it's purpose, and it is not a social visit. The avian's eyes lock onto Uruk after Uruk, a massed rank...ripe for the plucking.

Dhygrukh doesn't react, except to knock the visor on his helmoover his face with a meaty forearm. Bracing behind his shield with blade held cocked to swipe at an attacker, the tall Southron crouches to little more than half his height as he tightens his jaw and prepares for the assault. "Hold," he mutters to the few that stand uncomfortably behind him, looking very much like they now regret the conspicuous company they've chosen.

Forohir, Herald of the North, shrouded in a cloak of red-brown feathers, rides down the thermals of the foothills, sweeping down onto the battlefield with great speed. His massive wings unfurl, flaring him out of the attack-dive, and his talons drop down to seize the first unfortunate orc that comes between them: it is a small goblin, yet its shrieks are loud still, even as it is carried into the air, only to be dashed upon an unyielding boulder.

An orcish voice rings out over the moving column of Uruks. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

The speaker is a tall, snarling orc about man-high, clad in black, ripped robes, from which occasionally blazes pale metal. He bears a hammer in one hand; but even as he speaks, moving closer to one of the great orcish wagons (for cover, presumably), Durbmog puts the hammer away and takes out a small laminated bow. He loops the end of the bowstring into position, tests the string with a sneer, and nocks an arrow.

"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

Several Uruks fire arrows randomly, blindly into the sky. Duggermurk lets the string of his bow, which is already bent to his ear go at the first eagle he spots. Although generaly in the right dirrection non on the ground can be shure if it was not just a waist.

A large golden colored bird circles on the opposite side of the dark-brown one. His great blue eyes glance from uruk ro uruk. He clacks his beak loudly leaving no doubt as to his intentions. He lets a tremedious screech from his wickedly hooked beak. It is the sound of death come on wings and of deep hunger and hatred of the black race that is the spawn of Morgoth.

Ashghash braces herself, lank hair tangling and whipping around her shoulders, blade gripped tightly in trembling hand as she cannot tear her gaze off the rapidly approaching Birds who begin to cause havoc and death amongst the Horde. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" she mutters anxiously to any who might hear her. Her footing adjusts but her grip on the scimitar stays the same. 'Like to see Flame licking at their feathers' she sneers, voice breaking up and fading out then.

A volley of darts...Celegblaith, Vassal of Faradhir, escapes an aerial blow from any of the black-fletched arrows as they sweep like a rain into the air. Black beady eyes lock squarely onto one of the bow-wielders, a sharp glint flashing over them both...before a sharp scream preempts a sharp dive by the avian. Talons outstretch like daggers as they attempt to claw at the beast that is Duggermurk.

Coming into step next to a great, slow-moving wagon, Durbmog throws back his head and -snarls-. Raising his short bow, he bends it fully, taking aim at a great Eagle swooping nearby.

Snap! an arrow whistles towards Celegblaith.

"I can't, I can't .. Ahh!" Bograt finally gets his bow strung, an arrow fitted unskillfully to it - aimed to the sky - left - right - left! A dark silouette demands his entire attention, all of his three dozen mishapen neurons, and he narrows his deepset eyes. "Snack on this!" he says with a lisp as he *twang* releases a misguided missle.

The wind groans as Forohir's wings bend it to his will. Even as his brethren descend to mimic his first attack, seizing up the lighter orcs and dropping them from high heights, the red-brown herald now turns in a tight arc and folds his wings, diving toward Dhygrukh's conspicuous company. He slows not until the final instant, when his wings unfurl and he flares to drop his talons.

Mashug calmly commands his company, his cunning eyes observing the movements of the eagles, waiting. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" He says to the archers. Most of them would unleash their arrows and run for cover if the fierce Maluuk didn't command them. They know that if they run, the Maluuk will hunt them and kill them, and not in a quick, easy way. Mashug notices a brown, great eagle dive down to attack a nearby company. It is Forohir. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Orders the Senior guard, and soon a rain of arrows fly on Forohir's direction.

Duggermurk is tossed a great distance backwards through the air, sending several of the archers around him to the ground. The eagles tallons rip deep into his stomack and black blood covers him and the eagles claws. For the few seconds he is in the air his bow drops to the ground amoung the other orcs. Duggermurk cares not and simply lays motionless on the ground.

Dhygrukh's jaw is tense, but his lip quivers not as the massive avain creature draws near. Talons shriek toward the armored Southron...

In an instant, the large Uruk-Hai makes a move. Releasing the energy contained in his crouch, Dhygrukh half-pivots, half-steps aside and avoids the sharp, rending talons of Forohir. Perhaps the smallest of smiles creases Dhygrukh's face as he works his blade like a cleave, aiming a rapid chopping motion down at the now-vulnerable eagle with his short broadsword.

Mordluin's wings are outstretched to their full expanse of thirty feet, as he banks them dodgeing flying arrows. His dive is incredible steep and fast. He extends his talons as he dives. His fast dive is aimed toward Ashghash. The incredible wind off of his wings blasts the ground like a gail as he extends his talon towards Ashghash for a strike.

Ashghash grimaces, as Forohir dives towards Dhygrukh's position, not all that far away, and then throws herself flat on her face before hastily scrambling back up to her knees just in time for one of the feathered demons, Mordluin, to swoop towards her--the resulting gale making her lean and sway even as she hacks, probably without chance of success, at any part of the great creature that might still be reachable.

Success! The claws of Celegblaith tear gladly into Orc-flesh, rending it easily. But he is not about to get away totally unscathed. As he begins a speedy ascent, an Orcish dart wends its way toward him, displaced air sounding a deadly whistle to warn him. But all too late. Arrow-point whisks across his breast, grazing him underneath his silver breast-feathers. He has been lucky, for the arrow continued on it's way, his flesh remains unpierced.

A short screech, and the avian is continuing with his ascent, looking for more pickings...

Forohir's attack is thwarted, for Dhygrukh's swipe gives him pause, and his talons move instead to deflect the Uruk-Hai's broadsword. He loses no momentum as his great wingtip feathers spread like fingers, grasping the air and pulling him upward again.

Yet a hail of arrows awaits him in the sky, and while the vortices surrounding the avian yank many of the barbs from their course, two clip his right wing, passing straight through but not sticking. A brief screech of pain and surprise slips from the bird's beak, but then silence, and the massive avian banks sharply and turns its red, predatory eyes on the archers' commander, Mashug. The Eagle dives.

Mordluin 's swooping dive misses his intended target, and the scimitar of the cruel beast cits one of his might legs. He lets out a loud screech, it is unclear whether it is a screech of pain or of rage. Either way he beats his mighty wings and ascends into the sky to dive and attack another uruk.

Mashug is not caught unaware as the great creature dives in his direction, he raises his Battle axe and tries to cut the eagle's talons before they crush him.

Bograt's spine is bend, a capital 'C.' He's haggard and twisted, reaching for another arrow - fighting down nerves - unsuccessfully. Again, his wavering fingers reach into the quiver at his hip. He feels the crooked arrows on his fingertips, but it is all he can do to ignore the death figures overhead. Finally, he fits a shaft to his weapon and aims - fires.

Standing painfully up Duggmermurk looks about the haze of frightened orcs. He is stunded and horridle hurt, he fumbles through the crowd randomly looking for his bow. After a few moments he steps on one without seeing it. Lifting his foot he reaches down and picks it up. He looks up dumbly in pain as if he had been hit on the head from some strange figure behind. But he can only wield his bow and is to pained to use it.

Dhygrukh's mouth twists under the cover of his helm, disgust on his face as his thick blade rings unsatisfyingly off of the claws of the eagle Forohir. Even so, he seems to have driven the foe away -- for now. Returning to his crouch, Dhygrukh rotates slowly his head to follow the swarm of figures in the sky as he watches cautiously for another antagonist from above.

"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" roars Durbmog, baring his fangs as he glares up into the early evening sky. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

The Orc King nocks another arrow, pale eyes ablaze. Sighting along the black-fletched goblin-shaft, Durbmog releases the arrow at Mordluin with a cry of, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

Ashghash's face twists into a smile as her blade does catch and is slightly stained by Eagle's blood..emboldened she strides off to get a better position, figuring to stay in the same place would be tempting fate and make her an easier target.

More arrows...still wide of the mark. Celegblaith's brothers in arms dodge and zip this way and that, tearing at Orc flesh as they dive. He too joins them, mighty beak aiming like an arrow towards his intended target. Yet another archer, a short and rather quirky Uruk is the intended recipiant of the slashing claws of the Protector, as they swipe violently upon the zenith of the avian's dive.

Forohir screeches horribly, his cry rending the air and deafening the orcs nearby. Still, he is tentative in his attack, and Mashug's battleaxe wards him away, aborting his strike upon the orc. Better to ascend and try another dive than to be cleaved in half. Soaring high to look upon the battle, the herald's beak cracks open to let out a long scream, followed by a short series of whistles and clicks: "<Eagle> Rend their captains and they shall scatter!"

The hunter's crimson gaze settles then on Durbmog, whose size and volume immediately identifies him as an orc of prominence. And an accursed archer no less. A frigid wind warns of his coming as he dives upon the king.

Mashug misses the great eagle but manages to drive him away from his company, and regains control of the dispersing uruks. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" He shouts. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" He looks up to the sky, ready to defend himself from other attacks.

An arrow sips by Duggermurks arm, but it only cuts the skin lightly on his arm. Becoming more alert with the pinch in the flesh as it were he looks for another target in the sky. He spots an eagle but cannot tell which, so he fires at it in hope.

Darting closer to the slow rolling orc-wagon Durbmog casts his bow to one side with a single decisive motion and draws his hammer. His shield follows, the simple leather cord securing it to his back snapping as he raises it into position.

Halfway through affixing another missle to his weapon, Bograt is hurt - badly. The eagle's claws are made for rending flesh - and that they do! Rings from the orc's armor clink to the groun, bouncing from the rock along with gobs of crimson blood. He cringes, buckles, doubles over and clenches his gut. His bow is tucked under his right arm as he howls in pain.

Mordluin sees Celegblaiths dive squarely hit Bograt. He screechs loudly and follows his brother's dive to attempt to finish off the unfortunate uruk. He banks his wings and extends his talons ready for the strike.

The blood Duggermurk is losing takes him at last, unable to stay upright he falls faintly to the ground after being bumped by a running orc. The blood from his torn middle wets the ground all around him in black.

Slash-hack!! Another blow! Bograt is hurt beyond belief, dropping his bow now. Blanched. He becomes dizzy as his blood pressure drops. Indeed, there is a six-inch wound circumscribing the orc's helmetless head, laying open the scalp like a roadmap. Surely the eagles' eyes will be able to see the miner drop to his knees. They can see the white glints of skull peeking out from his scalpal fascia where the talon has sliced and diced.

No sooner has Durbmog rearmed himself than Forohir sweeps down upon him. The orc ducks closer to the wagon, talons hissing overhead, then launches himself just a fraction of an instant later with a roared battle-cry. He hacks at Forohir -- well, at Forohir's tail -- with the spike-end of his hammer as the Eagle goes flashing past.

Two near misses! Another arrow zips past the right wing of Celegblaith, a sting underneath his feathers registers as the dart skims by him and further into the air, not more than seconds after the Eagle registers a hit on Bograt. Perhaps he has left himself open by remaining so low...but it is too late for a change of tactic, his speed his too great and his altitude is too scant. Dipping his wings gently, he circles effortlessly toward Mashug, his next target.

One by one, the few unfortunate who had accompanied Dhygrukh on his interrupted patrol break position or fall prey to the foes above. Dhygrukh, however, remains in his half crouch, coiled like a clever pugilist as his blade awaits another attack. Not a sound comes from between his cruelly curled lips.

Mashug says in Morian Uruk, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"Fire at the demon boys! Bring him down so that we can chop his filthy head!!"<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

Mordluin's talon's find the flesh of Bograt in his swooping dive. He soars back up into the sky ready for another attack.

Spitting up blood now, Bograt forces himself to feel again. His sight returns, wavering then solid again. He grits his teeth and stands, a deep and bloodstained frown on his lips. Gone is his bow, broken on the ground. He reaches for his mace and bears it in his right hand. He yells hatefully to the sky. "Blasted wind beasts!" he says, sputtering blood and saliva. "Try that again and I'll shatter your bloody beak!"

The red-brown bird's attack is too bold, and he lingers too long within reach of Durbmog's hammer. The spiked end rips several feathers from Forohir's tail, and even as the avian ascends, his flight wavers and wobbles as he adjusts to his aerodynamics. Yet adapt he does, and the injury hinders him not, save perhaps for his pride.

Again, he ascends to survey the battle and choose another foe, and indeed, his sharp eyes find Bograt on his knees, prone. It is not common for such a hunter to choose such easy prey, yet the indignity of his lost tail feathers, and the taunts from Bograt's bloody mouth, draw the Eagle's wrath. With great speed does he sweep down upon Bograt, letting loose a terrible scream of hate to warn of his coming.

Mashug misses the eagle's neck and stumbles forward, completly off balanced, only to see the bird's talons crush his armor and toss him in the air. The Maluuk flies for a great distance and crashes against wagon, unconscious and bleeding abundantly.

A random arrow peels ruffled feathers from the wing of a great eagle as his massive body archs about through the air and turns towards the battle-strewn earth: his piercing crimson gaze paves the path before him. If the near hit was even noticed at all, the avian does not show it, for the tilt of his wings guides him unabated towards a lone target: a crouched and bladed uruk upon the open battle-field. The wing-hunter curls his claws close into his downy, silver chest as he descends swiftly, and then at the last moment throws his wings open to reach their full thirty foot wingspan; his stained and gnarled talons rake through the air as they fall towards the bird's foe...

"Shoot them with arrows," snarls Durbmog to the orcish host. "Let your many arrows blot out the sun!"

He strides away from the wagon, brandishing his hammer above his head as he rallies the orcish warriors. "To me!"

Celegblaith is once again successful in rending Orc-flesh, cuspidate talons doing their intended job as his slash meets the squat frame of the Uruk. The attack of the beast is ill-timed and not a threat to the huge form of the avian, his path clear of his enemy, enabling him to soar yet again.

But he does not dive again instantly. Hovering menacingly in the air, Celegblaith spots out targets from his aerial vantage point, only too aware of incoming black-fletched danger.

Dhygrukh tilts his head up as Ramafaroth descends, teeth showing almost imperceptibly in a cruel grin. A low growl as Dhygrukh calmly watches the decent of the Eagle, then attempts a variation of his earlier move: a quick dart aside and an overhand chop. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" he barks to Durbmog in a tongue still odd even to him as the broadsword falls toward the avian. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

Mordluin lets out a loud screech as Forohir kills his former target. The cry is a congradulatory one, but he does not linger on the sight long and instead banks his wings to the attack again. He dives and grabs and unfortunate orc by the shoulders. His vicious talons piercing the beast's armor and skin alike. He then ascends high in the air where he lets the unfortunate uruk to fall, screaming to his death.

Amidst the chaos and clatter of battle is Rukghash, his blackened armour moving nimbly through the chaotic crowd of orcs. Soon, Rukghash's path diverts and swerves towards the beckon of the king. At a sprint Rukghash arrives near the Gothshaka, his axe held tightly in his hand. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" Rukghash says simply, eyes scanning up to the sky for the diving forms of the Eagles.

Orcish feet have already shredded the wet turf and churned it to mud. Through this mud Durbmog strides, taking wide steps as he moves closer to Dhygrukh. "To me!" he roars. "Archers, to me! Warriors, to me! We'll drive these air-demons off!"

Even as the captains of the orcs battle the knights of the sky, the lesser of each folk continue their strife. Already, one Eagle has fallen to a cloud of arrows, and another lies grounded with foes closing in, its wing broken by a skillful mace strike. Yet for each of these, dozens of the black race have been crushed, rent, tossed, or dropped.

Sometimes one is forced to swallow his words. Sometimes one is forced to swallow his words literally. Bograt is forced to do the latter. Just as he is screaming blasphemous words of hate to the sky, spittering and sputtering from broken lips, Forohir is upon him. At first, the orc narrows his eyes - makes ready to strike. His biceps tense and adrenaline fills his veins. But lo! - It was not to be! A miner is slow to react, muscles used to forced labor and harsh conditions. The eagle's talons strike before Bograt is able to loose his mace. His neck is torn.

Brilliant obsidian blood leaps from Bograt's carotid artery. It squirts ten yards in an arc. Now seven. Now three. Not periodic swellings of blood. Gripping his through, face white like the slopes above Caradhras, Bograt goes first to his knees, then falls on his face. The rest of his vile blood spreads beneath him in a VILE POOL OF ICHOR!

A sudden screech cleaves the air, a cry echoing only pain as the blade of Dhygrukh cuts into the hunter's leg, resulting in a thin stain of blood that forms a coat over his feathers. But the wound will not halt nor even slow the falling eagle, for even if he chose to swoop away at the last moment, his fierce momentum could not be halted now... The screech of pain melds into a shrill shriek of war as his talons close the final distance towards his foe, opening as if to rend his black hide with their might. His crimson eyes blaze, heated with hunter's lust.

A cry rises from the orcish as the evening sun sets, ragged at first and then a great, deafening roar. Orcs stream towards Dhygrukh and Durbmog's position, archers edging nearer wagons and goblin swordsmen and great black spear-bearing guards in red robes and chain-armor banding together, seeking refuge in numbers and in the welcome, slowly-deepening darkness.

A clattering din rises as the orcs begin to bang their weapons on their shields and yell obscenities at the great Eagles.

Mordluin's call of congratulations is met by another scream of victory from the red-brown hunter's beak. Powering his mighty wings up and down, buffeting the orcs below with a freezing gale, Forohir rises once more into the sky, rolling near vertical in order to turn upon new prey.

For a moment, Durbmog is again centered in his gaze, but then another orc catches his eye, and for whatever reason, Forohir's wings shift and tilt to alter his course. They fold, sending him plummeting toward Rukghash, his talons held tightly against his body, but not for long.

Dhygrukh draws back his blade wet with blood, raising it again just in time to bat away the talons of his antagonist. He snarls at the creature in their close quarters, attempting to work himself room for another sword strike if the beast does not take to the air again. Behind his visor, the eyes of Dhyrukh follow the ragtag gathering of the Morians hungrily; he must reach them.

Forohir's wings unfurl, flaring him out of his dive, allowing his talons to drop down even as his momentum swoops him past Rukghash with incredible speed and wind.

The cocky, almost regal-looking Uruk-hai is the focus of Celegblaith's next swoop, a speedily executed drop of the right wing brings him swooping round toward the flank of the beast, hoping to catch him slightly off his guard and drive in where he hopes his armour is weakest. An air-rending screech preempts his dive, talons outstretched to try and tear at Durbmog.

Talons, glimmering with the last bits of the sun catch Rukghash's eye - the orc wheeling about and quickly raising his shield. Stepping to his right as well, Rukghash deflects the Eagle's talons and follows with a strike of his own. His axe sweeps over head in a descending vertical arc - red blade standing juxtapposed with the aashen skin of Rukghash. Swish! The axe slices quickly through the air and for the Eagle.

As Celegblaith sweeps down at him Durbmog lets loose a bellowing war-cry, bringing his hammer up and sidestepping. The weapon glances against the Eagle's talons; as the Eagle passes, Durbmog spins and chops with all his might at Celegblaith's outstretched leg with the blunt end of his war hammer.

Rukghash's axe finds only feathers, shedding a few of Forohir's red-brown pinions so that they land at the orc's feet. No cry or reaction does the ascending avian give--perhaps he does not even notice, save for the changes of the wind against his frame.

Straight up does Forohir fly, until all speed is lost; then, he hovers upon the warm air from the foothills, surveying. He spies Ramafaroth's foe, once his own, and again collapses his wings so that he falls. "Prey!" the Eagle bellows in Westron, "You shall die under the sun!"

Mashug rises slowy, his black head covered in blood. He blinks his eyes, trying to regain focus and defend himself. The Senior Guard stumbles forward, axe in hand, but he sees little.

Molly climbs out of her tent, shaking away the last bits of sleep that constantly plague the she-troll. It doesn't take long for the sounds of fighting to perk the olog up. Snatching up her axe the olog charges into the battle, looking for a target, but alas she looks to the ground for a target.

His dive-attack foiled by the stinging blade, the wing-hunter ascends once again to the skies. The motion is completed in a solitary beat of his silver wings: assailing all those below with a mighty gust of wind. His path takes him high above the foothills to where Ramafaroth finds himself lone in a world of azure. But even here, from heights perhaps on the very edge of the uruk eyes, their every dark feature is made clear in the crimson orbs of the hunter.

From such heights he gains and savours speed for his next attack: for as his eyes alight upon Forohir's foe, Rukghash, he wraps his wings tightly into his body and begins to fall: like a bolt of thunder he closes the distance.

Talons meet hammer...the parry of the Uruk-hai is too much even for the swipe of the giant bird...and he receives a stinging blow on the trailing leg as he prepares to ascend once again. A harsh screech is let off from the beak as the hammer strikes fairly hard, although not quite sharply enough to throw the avian off balance as he climbs. His previous assailant is back on his feet...the job not quite done. After the lack of success in his last attempt, Celegblaith dives towards Mashug once again, determined to put him down for good this time.

The Southron stays low, darting with heavy but agile steps toward the rallied forces of the king. However, his pace is slow -- the Uruk-Hai moves tentatively to avoid leaving his back open to a swooping predator. Head moving side to side as he moves and sword held at ready to swing at menacing eagles, he works his way nearer to the Morian cohort.

The Southron's progress, however, is cut short by the shrieking Forohir. As talons again loom, he tries to dart aside but finds the maneuver less successful as claws shred flesh and damage even the very links of his armor. A grunt as Dhygrukh staggers back, swatting a hand before him as he gasps and hacks black blood.

Seeing a great shadow over him, Mashug growls and rises his axe, now speaking in the Common Tongue: "Come filthy pigeon! Come to me at taste my axe, little bird!" He shouts. "For the Flame!" And swings his black axe.

Seeing Dhygrukh wounded, Durbmog moves closer to the Southron's side, thrusting an orc-archer out of the way and taking up his position next to the wounded Uruk-Hai.

Durbmog raises his hammer, extending his shield so as to afford the Southron cover, should he wish to avail himself of it, and bellows to the darkening heavens: "Come and get it!"

"<Eagle> Troll!" The long, caustic screech echoes across the battlefield, a warning to all of Forohir's brethren. Wishing to lose no momentum from his dive, Forohir abandons the assault on Dhygrukh and turns sharply toward Molly, his wings eliciting a scream from the air as they guide his heavy frame. He descends upon the stone titan, even if it does not yet see him, his talons aimed to rake the beast across the face.

Rukghash bends quickly at the knees to retreive one of the feathers from the ground, scooping it up as he begins to move away through the crowds of orcs. Shift, shake, shimmy. Rukghash nimbly dives through orcs upon orcs, his weapons again at the ready.

A great rush of air does Rukghash feel from above as another Eagle rushes towards him, and again Rukghash uses the same move as before. Sidestepping to the right and raising his shield to block the talons. Clack! Talons hit wood and scrape their indention, but Rukghash follows up with an attack of his own. The axe again rises over his head and falls, with the speed of rushing water, for the Eagle. Swash! The axe leaps through the air searching to remove more than a few feathers from the Eagle.

Mashug'saxe scratches the eagle but is unable to move him from his path. The Maluuk has little time to react and his tossed in the hair again, swirling as he flies to land at the king's feet, unconscious, bloody and almost dead.

The lack of anyone on teh ground to smash brings the she-troll's eyes up. Beside her and orc is struck by a giant bird. The olog reacts quickly, before the bird can take off with her future meal. The great battle is up and about to strike the flying feather ball when a second joins the fray. The olog swings as the bird flies by, missing the large troll somehow, the axe just swung to swat the beast from the air.

Job done. The Uruk that put up such a resistance now sprawls away from the onslaught of his claws, but not before hefting an axe-blade squarely at his breast, hitting home and bringing a slight flesh wound to the silver feathers that adorn his undercarriage. A snarling hiss makes its way forth as might wings beat to carry the bird upwards once more, in time to see his companion become acquainted with a troll-axe.

Dhygrukh spits and clutches at a wound, but notices there is little point -- he has too many slashes and foes yet abound. Moving -- albeit more gingerly -- toward the Morian King, he holds again his blade at ready. "Let us face them," he hacks, black blood dribbling down his jaw. Dhygrukh's blade is aloft, but the end wavers.

Despite a troll's size, its head, that which Forohir had intended to slash, is still a small target, and Molly moves when the Eagle least expects her to. His talons pass cleanly above her shoulder, doing no harm. Yet her axe is quick enough to catch Forohir as already some have, slicing several feathers from his tail. Though now a small trail of blood follows him in his flight.

The Northern Herald turns in a small arc, though not quite so tightly as before, for even the Eagles fatigue of bending the wind against its will. He seeks to finish Dhygrukh, but now finds him protected by the orc king. Still Forohir swoops low, soaring just inches above outstretched spears as he rushes toward Durbmog, his talons dropping down from his body.

Molly ducks her tiny looking head, avoinding any following attacks but they do not come. The she-troll catches on to the way these birds fight quickly. Molly clenches her axe and waits for another bird to dive at her. The axe is ready to interrupt any such manuver as the olog turns about, looking for a bird.

Durbmog cocks his hammer over one shoulder, and at the last moment ducks slightly and turns sideways.

As Forohir hisses overhead, the Orc-captain swings his hammer forward, aiming a massive overhand spike-blow at the eagle's abdomen.

His bitter taste for Orc-flesh satisfied, Celegblaith espies a bolder target...the Olog. Screeching almost manically as he arcs his body downwards in a swoop, the talons of the Protector aim squarely for the stomach of the lumbering war-beast, hoping perhaps to spill the (admittedly impressive) contents of an Olog's belly.

"Your ilk shall taste my wrath, She-troll!" he screams in elegant Westron, mere seconds before he slashes.

Orcs cheer as one of the birds is felled by arrows and swarmed upon once it crashes to the ground. Already the carcass is feasted upon by many, though other Eagles are quick to descend upon them.

Dhygrukh again heaves, almost quailing a bit with the pain of his fresh wound as another strikes. However, the attack is meant for Durbmog, and it finds no flesh. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Dhygrukh draws back his blade and sends it on a horizontal arc aimed across the eagle. A grunt of exertion accompanies the motion as the Southron's wounds are aggravated in the effort.

Molly's ears perk as some bird type speaks in an actual language the olog can understand. The she turns swiftly to face the eagle, her axe lashing out, swung like a baseball bat at the face of the bird. Even such a violent swing does not stop the devil bird's claws from slashing the olog's midsection.

Stained and gnareld talons scrape against the unexpected shield with no little ammount of force; grinding permanent scars into the wood. Once again Ramafaroth's attack is parried, and so he lifts his head and beats his wings, hoping to swoop away from the orc as swiftly as he fell. But the axe is too quick in the coming it seems, and though only a scrape upon his feathers, the blow draws another thin line of fresh blood.

Angered by the wound the great bird beats his wings all the more furiously and thus climbs high. His climb is short lived however. The wing-hunter tilts his wings into the wind and slowly swoops around in a broad arch, coming out with his thick beak pointed in an anle at the orc whom he just left below. "<Eagle> Feel the might of my talons, foul prey!" His voice shrieks on the wind in his native tongue. Ramafaroth flings his massive frame once again at the orc below...

The spike of Durbmog's hammer slices a bloody gash across Forohir's great breast, even as Dhygrukh's sword slices open his shoulder. Unprepared for such cooperation, the Eagle is felled from the sky, its speed carrying it beyond the two Uruk-hai to crash into an unfortunate group of smaller orc folk. Yet the bird is not defeated nor has it lost any of its lethal potency. A quick snap of the red-brown Eagle's beak severs an orc head, and a swipe of its wing sends three others tumbling. Tilting its beak to the sky, it lets loose a short series of harsh squawks: "<Eagle> Our losses are too many! Withdraw to the clouds!"

SLAM! It isn't so much a rending of flesh that injures Rukghash, but pure blunt force against his frame. As the Talashakh is slammed in to by the Eagle's Talons his axe snaps forward reflexively - given added power by the blow, but unguided. SlasH! The axe cuts downward as Rukghash is hurtled back through the air. Miss or hit Rukghash is sent flying, tumbling, hurtling across the ground - coming to a rest a good bit away, and there he lie motionless.

Celegblaith has at least learnt one thing from all this...troll skin is a mighty armour indeed. An exchange of blows between the She-troll and himself leave neither of them particuarly damaged. He turns for another try...before the call from his companion sounds out loud amongst the carnage. Already on his way back to the sky, the Vassal of Faradhir hovers tentatively, ensuring that the remaining birds heed the call and begin their ascents. But Forohir is still on the ground...still vulnerable. Celegblaith does not turn and fly yet...

Durbmog lowers his hammer, turning to Dhygrukh. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" He raises his voice. "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>" he booms, "<UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH>"

'Orcs,' bellows Durbmog, pointing his hammer at Forohir, 'Break its wings!'

Molly snarls as the eagle breaks away from his attack. "You not fight fair!" The she-olog looks to the sky, hoping one will come down and fight, an olog fight. "Not fly away! You fight reall fight, or you too scared of girl?" The olog lets the last part of her taunt out with a below, trying to goad an eagle into fighting.

Dhygrukh nods, breathing heavy as he leaks black fluid but with verve in his eyes. After taking but a moment to seek the might for it, the Uruk-Hai charges alongside his happenstance ally toward the eagle Forohir. His blade raised, the Southron finds strength to let fly a dull war cry as his paces take him toward Forohir.

At Durbmog's order, a new flood of orcs rushes toward Forohir. The dust around him swirls as he summons the wind, and it begins to fill his wings, lifting him. Yet a heavy orc leaps upon his left wing, and then another grabs his tail.

Forohir beats his wings hard, flinging the first orc away, and he turns his head about to snap his beak at the one grasping his tail. The orc loses his hand, though the fingers still grip the bird's feathers tightly. Again, Forohir tries to ascend, but orcs still harry him.

Durbmog, unwounded, matches Dhygrukh's pace towards Forohir, his shield extended to guard the Southron Uruk-Hai.

The sight of the oncoming Uruk toward Forohir prompts Celegblaith into further action. With a mighty battle cry emenating from his lungs, the avian descends once again to protect his kin, his razor-like claws aiming for the head of Dhygrukh.

Durbmog's eyes blaze with fury as Celegblaith strikes Dhygrukh. The Orc King roars wordless rage, swinging his hammer at Celegblaith in a great overhand blow.

Dhygrukh's eyes are unseen behind his visor, but the injured Southron offers the briefest of nods to acknowledge the Morian King's offer of aid as they run down the eagle together.

However, lust for battle has its drawbacks. Unseen by Dhygrukh, a looming eagle's talon's lash full on his helm, ringing hard off of think metal and tearing the veil of protection hanging over the Isendrim's neck. Caught unawares, and hard, he stumbles to a knee. Dazed, he shakes a great helmed head to catch his senses as he swipes blindly back at his aggressor.

Molly snorts as no eagles come to attack her. They seem to be avoind the troll and only going for the orcs. The olog is not one to worry too much if some orcs die, for that is one of the main food sources for trolls. Molly then turns and heads back to her tent and some more rest.

A shrill cry of triumph assails the air as Ramafaroth the hunter's dive strikes true, tossing an orc many strides away. He pays this foe no more heed though, for the calls of Forhir reach him, and his eyes turn to see him in need. Low he soars towards his fellow eagle, only the powerful pumping of his wings keeps him above the earth, and it is that pumping that paves his path through the clusters of uruk.

Within several moments the hunter reaches his target and falls upon the many orcs that harry Forohir. His first attack is a mighty beat of his wings, the wind tossing several from their feet. He then peels another assailant off of the eagle and crushes him within unbending talons, stainging them with the life of yet another foe...

Celegblaith is made to pay quite heavily for the defence of his brethren, the blows raining down upon him as he makes contact with the Orc behind the shield, managing to dip in over the top in order to make contact. WHAM! A hammer cracks down on his back, knocking him off balance and leaving him fully open to the blind but agressive attack from his original foe, opening a large rent in his left wing. He has taken enough knocks for today...beating his wings, albeit more grudgingly this time, he ascends to the skies once again.

Forohir screeches mournfully as Celegblaith is harmed in his defense, but his crimson eyes still flash with pride, for his brothers are mighty and brave. One final orc charges him, bone-breaking hammer held high, but Forohir lunges forward, driving his beak into the orc's sternum, cracking armor and bone with a gruesome crunch. The fierce avian withdraws his beak, drenched in black blood, even as his wings again drive the wind into the ground and propel him upward, alongside his savior Ramafaroth. Again, he cries to his brethren, "<Eagle> Away to the skies!"

"Fly, fly away, as fast as you can, you overgrown pigeons," Durbmog calls jeeringly skywards, stepping towards Dhygrukh and raising his shield. In a lower voice, he rasps, "Behind my shield, Southron."

Dhygrukh staggers; his bell has been rung by the recent attack. Helmet askew but still on his head, the Southron grunts an unintelligible affirmative of some sort to Durbmog as he reels toward the relative protection. Now bent by exertion and two bad wounds, he now looks less a Uruk-Hai of the South than a beaten mining snaga. The short broadsword, no longer aloft, is now extended out before him in an effort to ward away attacks more than to launch his own.

Durbmog brandishes his hammer, motioning for a final wave of arrows at the fleeing Eagles with a contemptuous snort.

"Had enough, have you?" he bellows. "Scared of us, are you? Faugh! Fly home to your guano-strewn lairs, sky-demons, or I'll use your feathers to stuff cots!"

The broken and blood-laden corpse of the orc still clutched within his claws, Ramafaroth heeds the calls and takes to the skies, barely evading arrows that trim his tail-feathers. One last cry resounds from his beak, as if a departing screech to the uruk forces. Then the eagle climbs on the lingering warm currents of air and circles back above, high above, the black hordes: where he finally lets the corpse fall into their midst. A parting gift. Dipping to the left to follow his comrades, now nothing more than a mere shadow above the world as he soars on the high-roads, Ramafaroth turns swiflty into the wind, ruffling his wind-swept feathers. Thus the wing-hunter departs, out of sight into the clouds.

Already many of the windborne warriors have disappeared beyond the clouds, but any who still lingered now ascend, the great host letting loose one last storm of wind upon the army below. And yet, aside from the flapping of their wings, they are silent as they return to their eyries. Many orcs lay dead on the field, yet some Eagles as well. Who can say which side was victorious? For while many more of Durbmog's force were slain, the vassals of Gwaihir are precious and do not multiply at great speed.

And Durbmog gazes up insolently into the heavens. Thrusting his war hammer through his belt-loop with a flourish, the Orcish lord extends his hand and casually makes an obscene thrusting gesture in the general quarter of the departing Eagles.

"We showed them, boys," he sneers, turning back to the orcish band about him. "Well! What are you waiting for? Skin the ones we brought down and heap high the wagons with bird-meat and with golden feathers! Let's show the boys back home the kind of prey /warriors/ hunt."

Dhygrukh falls to a knee roughly as the swarm of foes depart, now-lopsided helm comically bowed as more black blood is expectorated from under the visor. A low growl rumbles, interrupted by a cough and more blood. "I have shamed the battlefield." With no small effort, he casts his blade before him. "Let my punishment be quick." The words, though labored, are almost apathetic. Dhygrukh awkwardly knocks off his helm, allowing his bowed head and the back of his presented neck to be exposed.

There, among the masses of orcs that populate the battlefield, does Rukghash rise slowly. The orc shakes his head a few times, dislodging pieces of dirt and med - though his intent is otherwise. At the roar of the Orcs to Durbmog's last order, Rukghash's eyes lift up - glazed and unfocused. "Skai!" The Orc curses, looking skyward and quickly moving back into the throng of orcs.

Even as Rukghash moves the work ordered by Durbmog is taking place. Feathers are piled, meat is stripped, and the talons are taken. Carts, empty ones and those already carrying items, quickly begin to overflow with the bounty of the battle.

Durbmog snorts, sidling towards Dhygrukh and extending a hand towards the scruff of the Isengarder's neck, clearly meaning to pull the Southron to his feet. "It's not every day an orc tangles with the likes of those. Good work, Southron. You've dealt some wounds they won't be forgetting quickly. Here's your punishment, if you want to call it that, and it won't be quick: get yourself ready for the next time we go up against those overgrown squawkers." He raises his voice, moving to clap Dhygrukh on the shoulder -- and none too gently. "We'll bring oone down next time, you and I."

Dhygrukh stands slowly, and quite unsteadily at that. He nods at Durbmog, but his eyes appear almost resentful he has been forced to live in the shame of defeat. Dhygrukh nods, but says nothing. Either too pround or too disciplined to wipe his dripping blood, the Southron limps toward camp.

"We'll smash 'em, Southron. Keep your head up."

Surveying the wreckage, Durbmog grunts. Bending down, he scoops up several blood-slick Eagle feathers, grins. "This is what armies are for," pontificates the King. "-- no matter what it takes, we win."