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.

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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.

"People," Spoon says with a small shrug, "tend not to accept what they don't understand. As is obvious by the fact that you've got me cloaked rather than try to explain me." His own weapons are easy to find, they're all very distinctively not of this world.

"They are still wary, and rightfully so. They and their kind have been hunted for generations, by human and creature alike." Glorfindel knows it is not ideal, but it is what is, and thus, the reality that must be dealt with.
"Have you found all of your weapons?"

"I'm not saying it's wrong." Spoon says, "I'm just saying it's normal. I've got everything." Including his head. It'll look good next to the monkey skull.

Glorfindel seems saddened by the taking of trophies. He still remembers seeing an army of orcs marching towards him, the body of a former friend being used as a banner.

But he doesn't argue. He has lost that fight to the twins often enough. He will know it is time to sail when they stop taking trophies of any kind.

"Then let us see about getting you home." He knows the twins will not miss him for a few minutes, and the rangers are more concerned about their injured man. He angles off towards the small stand of trees they emerged from some hours ago.

The sorrow gets into Spoon's nose, and he peers over at Glorfindel. There is a faint silence and he says, "These trophies? The more of them I get, the stranger and more exotic, the better I'm able to equip the young girls who keep my people safe. I'm buying their weapons with status gained from trophies."

"If I could," Says Glorfindel, studying the distant stars as he walks, hearing their song, "I would never fight again. The day that there are no enemies to take trophies from will be the best day of my life."

He does not condemn Spoon for his choices. He only wishes such choices were not necessary.

There's a twist to Spoon's lips that says he understands...but he also knows that the particulars of his curse mean that he fights or he eats a silver bullet. If there was no more legitimate prey he'd go after something.

It wouldn't be a curse if the benefits outweighed the drawbacks.

Glorfindel is silent for a few moments, then begins one of the many songs to Elbereth as he wanders through the rough terrain, not leaving any sign of his passing. Despite his relaxed attitude, it is not long before they can see the two trees again, forming their rough doorway back to the bar.

Spoon follows calmly enough. He's silent while the elf sings, and relaxes a bit when they get back to the doorway.

It'll be good to get into his own clothing again. As comfortable as the elven armor is, he can't shift shape in it. That's rather more horrible than he expected.

"Here is where we must part ways, Puppy. I need to keep an eye on the young ranger while we journey back to Imladris, and we will need to start back immediately. I hope the experience lived up to expectation?" He asks, giving Spoon a bright smile.

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