gondolin_noble | (no subject)

(no subject)

The air is crisp and clean, with the dryness that comes with elevation. There are a few tall trees - mostly pines, lean and wind-beaten. The rest are low-growing shrubs, growing thickly in patches between outcroppings of rough granite. These are the empty lands just north of the Misty Mountains, and in the caves here, orcs and a few uruk-hai still live.

The pair emerge between two pine trees, one young and hale, the other burnt and and tilted sideways to form a rough and very tall doorway. The sky is the dark blue of the late-afternoon, and white fluffy clouds cluster around the distant peaks. They are downwind of the small hunting party - several humans, mingled with the sweet smoke of their pipes, and the scents of two others which vaguely resemble Glorfindel's scent.
"Now, wait a moment..." He pauses, crouching to scoop up a handful of dirt. "You are not nearly filthy enough to pass as a human."

Yes. He's enjoying this.

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Glorfindel is now very much pretending he doesn't know this crazy man beside him. Sallyn and one of the other younger rangers laugh and trade rude comments about the fifth 'really' flexible posture - mostly about it's advantages if you want to be gelded.

Gralfor tells the youngsters to settle down, but he sounds like he doesn't mind that much, so long as they keep their voices down. Any man that stretches like that should best be prepared for the comments that go with it.

Spoon doesn't mind. He chatters something in yautja to himself and continues his regular routine. It'll have him warmed up and ready to fight for as long as the fighting takes. He's only got one worry, but seriously doubts that the enemy has silver weapons so it's not that much of a worry.

The sun sinks slowly to the east, and as the shadows deepen, the mood of the men becomes more sober, despite Spoon's antics. The sleepers are roused, weapons are checked, packs are stored away in cracks between rocks used for generations for such a purpose. Glorfindel doesn't seem any more concerned than he did back in Milliways, but then, he has been through worse battles than the one that is likely to come.

Eventually one (or both) of the twins whistles, and the men rise.
"There is movement from the caves. Stay with me in this fight, so you do not get lost in the melee." Glorfindel orders in hushed tones before rising to speak with one of the twins (possibly Elladan).

Spoon unfolds as easily as he folded up, and stays near Glorfindel. At least for the time being, he'll do that. Spoon isn't concerned either. The beasties may be strong, they should be strong, but Spoon is...well, he's Kou'te-bpe.

Cutie-beep or not, Glorfindel intends on bringing a person back to Milliways, not a body. The two elves hold a brief conference, and then with a quick hand gesture Glorfindel motions the men to move out. The lone twin bounds up into the trees again - they go their own way, and will not be ordered on hunts like this. Glorfindel leads the men down a deer-track, moving cautiously in the fading light.

It's evident now, where it wasn't before, that the blond elf seems to glow faintly in the darkening shadow.

Eventually they come to the edge of a low ridge, beyond which is another clearing, this one by a the mouth of a rocky cave. There are bones scattered around the entrance - most are animal.

A few are very obviously not.

The reek is horrific, and in the shadows of the cave's mouth, there are three squat figures lurking, dressed in ragged scraps of hide.

Spoon really wishes, at this point, that he had his own helmet and his own life-support systems. Ew. Ew, ew, ew. Must not...paw at...face.

He's pawing at his face. Silently, but it's going to take a while for his nose to adjust to the reek.

Also? The glowing is screwing with his night vision.

Glorfindel would suggest that Spoon does not want to see these creatures. They look as foul, or fouler, than they smell.

Wearing elf-skin tends to create that impression, yes.

Slowly the clearing fills with the twisted creatures as the light begins to fail, the orcs pouring out of their cave dens for a night of hunting. This particular group has been watched for weeks, and the watchers (save Spoon) already know what numbers they will be up against. The orcs make a noisy, restless group, crankily getting into squabbles and wandering around the clearing, waiting for it to be fully dark. Glorfindel and a few of the men ready their bows.

"Stay here," Glorfindel murmurs in a voice just barely audible, even across the short distance between them, "Until the order is given to attack in force."

There is the twitter of a bird from a tree nearby, and suddenly the archers of the group spring into action, letting fly a small storm of arrows into the clearing. With the creatures so closely packed together, the clearing has become a killing field.

Sight doesn't attack the senses quite as directly as smell does. He can look at any number of disgusting things without wanting to claw his eyes out, his nose is much more sensitive.

He waits, though, as ordered. There will be fighting soon enough. Part of his brain is yowling about facing the enemy with its own weaponry, but he smashes that down with a reminder that he's not in Christine's universe right now.

The orcs, unprepared for a fight, howl and scream and die as the onslaught of arrows continues. A few manage to fire back, and those rangers without bows flatten to the ground, gesturing for Spoon to do the same. The arrows flying back are thick and black, with cruel barbs on their heads. Most likely they are poisoned. When the archers exhaust their store of arrows, they draw swords, the ringing of their blades as clear as bells over the cacophony down below.
"Now, Spoon, Now!" Glorfindel sings out just before the small troop charges over the ridgeline and into the clearing, smashing into the closest of the orcs with all the force of an avalanche.

Fast and loud. Fast and loud. "M-di h'chak, m-di h'dlak!" is the howl as he dives in with the rest of the people in the party. Spoon isn't as old as the elves and rangers, he's not as versed in the ways of the orcs, but he is by God neither unexperienced nor weak.

He dances through battle, he always does, even when poisoned weapons find chinks in the elven armor and draw blood. It won't slow him down enough to matter. The crazy little Man is willing to take blows to keep others from feeling them.

The men are silent and methodical, dealing with each new threat with studied efficiency. The twins are howling fiends, all quicksilver grace and boundless rage. Glorfindel is a vindictive force of nature, fighting with the talent of ages of training and war.

That, combined with the crazy little man who seems to neither feel nor be hampered by the blows rained upon him, and the orcs do not stand a chance. The piles of the dead grow, and thus far, not one of men or elves has been added to their number.

Sallyn and two of his young friends get separated from the group, forming a small knot as they stand back-to-back, fighting with swords and wickedly long and sharp knives in an attempt to save their own skins.

Spoon moves that way with the determination of a werewolf with his dander up. Even if only temporarily, even if only for this night, these men are pack. Spoon loves his adopted culture, he adores it, but wolves are pack animals and meant to hunt in teams. This is more natural.

He lost a sword somewhere in the melee, and so for a moment it looks like he's going to punch an orc in the back. Wristblades are retractable, the ends of them come out on the other side of the monster's chest.

There are two screams - one from the orc as it dies, writhing on the blades, the other from Sallyn, who's opponent just grew spikes from its chest. When he sees it is Spoon, he throws the werewolf a quick salute with his sword, and lunges at another orc, halving him from chest to navel.

Up in the heights, the noise of the battle has attracted the attention of a pair of stone trolls. Being bellicose creatures by nature, they can never resist putting a foot in, and it doesn't ever seem to matter which side they are hurting.

So suddenly, there is a rain of heavy boulders that come crashing down from the mountains.

One of the boulders moos all the way down:

Evidently there's some truth to the loss of 'Spoon the Farmer's cow. Now it's really really dead, having crushed two orcs upon landing.

"FUCKIN' COWS!" Spoon is screaming now, somewhat hysterically, "FUCKIN' BOVINE CONSPIRACY! EVEN THE FUCKIN'...WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT WAS THAT FUCKIN' THREW A FUCKIN' COW IS IN ON THE FUCKIN' CONSPIRACY!"

At least hysteria doesn't make him fight any less well. If anything he's more brutal at this point, trying to make sure that the cows (yes, the dead cows) can't call in reinforcements (somehow) to kill one of the temporary-pack.

And he keeps right on ranting in a combination of English and yautja the entire time, too.

The three younger rangers (and a few of the orcs) stare at Spoon as he screeches.

"Wow," Says one of Sallyn's friends in Sindarian, "He was really attached to that cow, wasn't he?" Sallyn nods in dumb agreement, then decapitates an orc that was going to take advantage of their distraction to gut them. The fight resumes with renewed fury, the cow getting trampled underfoot, along with the dead orcs.

The ranks of orcs are rapidly thinning, seeing as many were caught only lightly armed, and it is a younger bunch than some of the rougher gangs higher in the mountains.

There's a scream from the knot of young men, and one of Sallyn's friends falls back, clutching at his shoulder. His companions shove him between them and fight on, calling for help at the top of their lungs. Glorfindel immediately checks and turns, cutting his way towards them through the intervening orcs.

Spoon is not a healer. Spoon is really not a healer, so he falls into a guarding position while Glorfindel gets to the wounded man. This doesn't mean he stops ranting about cows, though. It's a thing. They wouldn't understand.

An orc dives in close, then staggers back with bleeding furrows across its face, four of them, and a bit of cheekbone missing. The screaming madman presses his advantage with wristblades and bloody hand.

The older men slowly rally to the side of the younger, but Glorfindel gets there first, driving his sword to the hilt through the chest of the last orc who opposes him. After kicking the dead orc off his blade, he kneels beside the fallen man, checking him over quickly.

The injured orc howls, despite its mangled face, and charges the short madman who has caused him pain. His sword, a hulk of blackened metal that is almost more battering ram than sword, arcs towards Spoon with deadly intent.

Spoon howls back, and his howl is at least as impressive as that of the orc. He doesn't fully shift shape, the elven armor won't pop off as conveniently as his own specially made suit will, but he certainly grows the claws to match the club that the orc swings.

The orc is disarmed rapidly, Spoon retracting his wristblades at the same time, and the werewolf in mostly-man-form indulges himself by punching with the fullness of his strength through the chest-cavity of his prey.

...yeah, not so much human here.

Luckily, his companions are still engaged in the fight, and do not notice his... um. Werewolfness.

The orc doesn't notice at all. This is because he is dead.

Glorfindel forces the wounded young man to drink a foul-tasting mixture of water and the common poison antidote, occasionally lashing out when the few remaining orcs get too close.

Eventually, one by one, the fighters run out of opponents, leaning on their swords to catch their breaths and survey the damage.

Spoon keeps in both victory howl and victory roar by sheer willpower. The last orc is the one he's going to claim as trophy...now he's just got to figure out how to carry the skull past the rangers et. all.

While thinking he starts taking stock of his wounds. He did get cut, quite a few times. The poison is retarding the healing somewhat, but it still heals at a rate visible to the naked eye. If nothing else he's going to have some interesting holes in his armor. Bloody holes.

He will be able to do it quite easily - the twins have claimed a head apiece, and look to be gathering more trophies. It is further sign of their obsession, which has not abated over these long centuries.

Glorfindel looks to Spoon first, notes the healing gashes, and hurries to his side, taking off his cloak and slinging it around Spoon's shoulders. He is not quite inventive enough to come up with a story to cover that.

That works. Spoon accepts the cloak and kneels down to cut the head off of his trophy before standing up to fetch his lost and discarded weapons. Quietly Spoon says,

"So I've noticed." Glorfindel replies dryly as he walks alongside, searching for lost arrows. They are interrupted when Sallyn, leaving his friend's side for a moment, trots over.

In the finest tradition of his people, he bows to the bloodied werewolf.
"My thanks, sir, for defending the life of my friend."

Spoon smiles at Glorfindel wryly, then bows back at the ranger awkwardly, "It's what you do." he says, with some discomfort, "You don't need to thank me."

"Truly, you are a rarity among these northern men." Sallyn smiles, then dashes off when his name is called.
"The Dunadain have been treated with disdain and suspicion for centuries by the common folk here in the North - it is what Sallyn has known all his life, though that attitude is changing now that the king has returned." Glorfindel explains, crouching to retrieve a few of his arrows - one embedded in the eye of an orc, two more buried in the chest of another.