gondolin_noble | (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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"There will be no fight if they suspect you of being other than I claim you are, and there is no safe place to wash for two days march. Now, stop looking quite so much like an elf at court, or go home." Even he and the twins have become relatively grubby from days of travel, though they've still managed to keep much cleaner than their human counterparts. Sometimes Glorfindel thinks the Dunadain have an inbred aversion to soap and razors.

Spoon whines, but allows the elf to grub him up. Not whine as in object more, but whine as in the exact sound of a miserable canine. As much as Ace hates showers, Spoon hates not being clean.

It's holdover from years in a cell without the option of showers.

To be fair, he doesn't get Spoon as dirty as he really ought - just enough to lend an air of truth to his fantastical tale. He studies the effect, and shakes his head.
"It is well the twins are already too occupied with the upcoming battle to question much - they would see through this flimsy excuse in a heartbeat." But it's the best he can do with the limited time and resources he has, so it will have to do. "Come along."

He turns and heads off towards the camp, nearly completely silent. No leaves crunch under his feet, no gravel grates, no twigs snap. There are reasons elves excel in hunting orc. He pauses and whistles, mimicking the song of a bird more commonly found farther south, and the sound is repeated from within a small hollow just ahead. Glorfindel then leads the way down into the hollow.

There are six men in clothing similar to Spoon's in various stages of repose, leaning against their packs in a rough semi-circle. All are tall and dark-haired, with keen bright grey eyes and well-worn and well-cared-for gear. The only sign or decoration on them is a single silver star, many-rayed, that pins each of their cloaks. Most are smoking with long-stemmed pipes, and one appears to be asleep, wrapped in his dark cloak.

All of those awake give the pair inquisitive stares.

Spoon is very good at moving silently as well. The fact that he's not human helps quite a bit. He moves with the air of someone who belongs exactly where he is.

He's yautja and there is a hunt to occur. The minor details of species, lack of his own armor, and confusion of the Unblooded are nearly meaningless. He does belong where he is.

If Glorfindel were the facepalming type, he would do so. Spoon is not making this easy for him. Casually he steps on Spoon's foot and leans heavily on it before whistling again.

Two silent shadows drop out of the trees, and as they emerge into the clearing, they appear as mirror images - both with dark hair and grey eyes, they are obviously the much fairer kin of the men. The pointed ears and the way they move declare them to be elves. Their gear is identical, as is their expressions.

These are the twin sons of Elrond Halfelven - Elladan and Elrohir. Glorfindel launches into a rapidfire explanation in Sinadrain which both elves and men follow easily, going on about this lost hunter he found, who claims his homestead was destroyed by a band of orcs, and who is now on a mission of vengence, since his wife, three children, cow, and little puppy dog were all slaughtered.

Yes, Glorfindel might be laying it down a bit thick. Luckily, neither of the twins seems inclined to protest the addition.

Spoon is Spoon. Christine has developed a Spoon-sense that warns her Spoon is in the process of doing something stupid. He's also got no clue what Glorfindel is saying, and is alright with that. Just point the nice fuzzy at the not-so-nice things and he'll happily bathe in their blood.

Then find a stream and wash off obsessively.

Evidently the group comes to some decision, because the twins nod (almost simultaneously) and in a few efficient movements bound back up into the trees. The men relax again, two settling back to catch a quick nap, the others scooting over to share some of the shelter the earth bank provides.
"They have accepted you, Spoon, and you may stay with us - it is best to stick together when hunting orc, rather than going our separate ways." He explains in the common language, taking a spot against the earth bank and waving to the ground near him, to invite Spoon to sit.
"We must wait until dusk to begin - they will not be abroad until then, it is but an hour hence." He goes on, and then introduces the group of men, from the eldest - a grim-faced and greying Gralfor - to the youngest - a cheerful and quick Sallyn who shoots Spoon a wave and a friendly smile.

Not a one of them is under a century old.

Spoon is, but Spoon isn't going to say a damn thing. Puppy from one throat is enough. He nods and smiles as the circumstances require, then settles down to stretch. Better to be limber when the time comes.

...This armor is really, really easy to stretch in.

It is. Glorfindel didn't want his unusual charge to end up dead (which would lead to some very awkward conversations), so he gave him the stuff he usually reserves for his own people - light and well-crafted, it has served for centuries.

Glorfindel catches an apple tossed from Sallyn and munches, waiting for the sun to go down. None of the men seem overly inclined to talk, and the twins, usually the verbose ones of the group, are up in their watchposts, thinking of the coming fight.

This is the boring part of fighting, really.

Really (http://www.bellydancersofcolor.com/images/HOTEPP~11111.jpg), really (http://www.themindfulbody.ca/images/YC_Level3b.jpg), really (http://www.yogadharma.co.uk/graphics/8.gif) easy to stretch in. Spoon distracts himself and ends up twisting into positions that are humanly possible. If you're really (http://www.totaltravel.com.au/photos/govindas-yoga-and/advbigger.jpg), really (http://www.yogadharma.co.uk/graphics/brian_cooper.jpg) limber. This comment has too many "really (http://yoga108.org/images/photos/18.jpg)"s in it, but they all count.

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Profile

gondolin_noble

May 2016

S	M	T	W	T	F	S
1	2	3	4	5	6	7
8	9	10	11	12	13	14
15	16	17	18	19	20	21
22	23	24	25	26	27	28
29	30	31

Page Summary

gondolin-noble.livejournal.com - (no subject)

Style Credit

Base style: Abstractia by chiming
Theme: Deep Forest by nornoriel

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags

Page generated Jun. 15th, 2025 08:05 pm