~ Dangerous Shadows ~ (Open)

[hades]

Yes, the stone walls seemed to go on forever and ever! Many things seemed hopeless now, and it was this feeling that Ginger kept pushing away. She didn’t like feeling hopeless, even though her experience with these dark creatures was extremely limited, she couldn’t help but want the experience that she had lucked out on her entire life. Skidding to a halt, she listened above the screeching of the Orcs and noticed that Casswyn had stopped. Spinning around she saw the Rohirrim standing in the darkness. At first, Ginger didn’t understand what was going on, and then it slapped her in the face. Oh no please don’t this… she thought, almost desperately. But it was pointless, so she waited patiently for the inevitable verdict. In the mean time, Ginger wondered what she could give Casswyn to better her odds against the wretched beasts, and the elf that was attempting to hold back the Orcs. The same thought that went through Casswyn’s thoughts, though she knew not, their hunter must have wanted the prize himself.

Snapping out of her wandering thoughts at the sound of her name, she waited, although she already knew. How could one not? Her heart sank as Casswyn, sounding so calm, told her to go on and she would try to catch up if she could. Approaching the rider, Ginger pulled her longest knife from her side. “Take this.” Placing the blade in Casswyn’s hand and closing her fingers over it, “It will be light, made by the Elves someone once told me.” If that wasn’t a hint to the rider about her past, then Ginger didn’t know what would be, “May it serve you well.” If there was anything else that she could have told Casswyn it was lost as the sound of an escaped Orc came down the hall. It’s ugly dark shape was easy to spot. It wasn’t more than a couple of seconds before Ginger had an arrow to her bow and only a couple more seconds before she loosed it, sending is strait at the oncoming orc. With one last look at Casswyn, Ginger sprinted off down the tunnel, tightly gripping her bow and praying that whatever was at the end of it she could handle. If she had been thinking, she would have stayed behind with Casswyn instead of running strait into the danger they were trying to escape.

Nickering greeted the tufts that served Dénor as ears. Flying in the direction it came from, Dénor hoped it was another rider, perhaps one that could be of use! But how would he get across his message!? This was going to be a lot harder than the owl had in mind. Hopes crushed as it was only Uvaer. Never the less, Dénor approached quickly and silently, landing on a nearby rock in an attempt be level with the horse. His orange eyes pierced the darkness, hard to miss in the light of the snow. He let out an urgent hoot, trying to gain the mares attention. How would he communicate what he desired?

[Cindralic]

Four orcs squared off with Cindralic in the middle of the tunnel as several crawl over him on the ceiling and several slunk around him towards the women. Cindralic smirked, his smile was twisted, his thoughts were dark, darker than the very skin of the orcs. The first orc came at him, thrusting his sword at Cindralic. Cindralic parried, sidestepped and took his hand and brought it on the orcs weapon wielding hand, pulling it up as he sliced through the chest of the creature, letting it crumple onto the ground. Cindralic stared at the next two, his eyes were eager and his blood lust was great. Cindralic brought his weapon horizontally in front of him to block another strike, letting the orc’s mangled blade fall off his as he stepped to the side, cutting into the second orc’s spine. He spun to dispatch the third orc and the fourth orc was then set to face him alone in the darkness. It charged, his blade held high above its head. Cindralic ducked down, moving towards the orc, letting the creature then flip over his body and onto the ground only have Cindralic’s blade longed in its scrotum. Cindralic cut upwards and snickered as four more orcs came towards him. Cindralic raised himself from his kneeling position and stared them down, his cold cruel eyes matching theirs. “Remember your master beasts.” He uttered, the harsh tongue of the Mordorian language piercing their bones. They shrunk back into the shadows a bit which allowed for Cindralic to turn and begin to pursue the two women. In that moment he saw the elf woman dash down the hallway, the woman standing alone to face him a hoard of orcs on their way towards her. Cindralic moved towards her. His movements were slow on purpose. He had seen them survive the wargs but orcs were another thing entirely. They had weapons other than teeth and claws and they fought differently. Would she be able to hold her ground until Cindralic reach her? Would she be able to stall the enemy from reaching the she-elf?

Garthen stood, his face was set, his eyes piercing into the darkness. He could easily hear the commotion of the caves as the sound echoes through the corridors. His great sword was held in hand, but only in one. Garthern’s evilness was only matched or outmatched by his strength. Garthen looked into the shadows as the fire from his torch danced on the walls, revealing very little after the first bend. Garthen knew this was where they had to come out. This was where, if the women made it this far, would have to face him. Garthen turned and looked at the fast number of orcs that waited eagerly behind him. Garthen snarled at them, flexing, showing them to back off. There was no need to communicate with such creatures. They would not understand. Garthen waited, watching, looking down the blade of his sword as he waited. He ran his tongue over the tip, letting it cut him as it was razor sharp, enjoying the taste of blood in his mouth. It didn’t matter if it was human, orc or elf blood, the taste alone gave him a lust for it and made him fight harder and stronger. He didn’t figure to need it against such a meager foe, but he would not let his guard down enough to think he couldn’t be hurt. He swallowed, letting the warm blood fill his throat before going back to watching the shadows dance on the cave walls.

[cassiopeia]

The young Rohirrim was glad when Ginger did not try to persuade her to change her mind. It would waste valuable seconds and time was truly of the essence now. Still, Casswyn could not help but blink at Ginger's words. Someone had told her... that her knife was made by Elves? Before Casswyn had a chance to truly consider the implications behind this statement, there came an awful Orc cry. Casswyn's green eyes, having adjusted to the darkness the best they could, darted to where the sound was coming from. They were still deeply flawed, that was certain, but when the leading Orc charged them she was able to decipher it as a shadowy shape slightly darker than the perpetual gloom of the cave. This heartened Casswyn, she would not go into this fight entirely blind! Ginger took the beast down in one fluid motion, nocking an arrow to her bow and leasing it in mere seconds. Then the moment had passed and the Elf was gone, leaving behind her knife which was still clutched tight in Casswyn's hand.

“Thank you,” Casswyn murmured, though Ginger would not hear her, “And good luck.” The rider was deeply grateful for, and touched by, the gift. She hoped that, by some kind fortune, she might yet have an opportunity to thank the Elf face-to-face.

Swallowing the last of her fear, caging it and forcing it deep inside where it would not distract her, Casswyn turned and strode back in the direction they had come. In her right hand, she clutched her faithful sword, holding it aloft and ready to swing, and, in her left, she gripped the long knife - a gift from one Casswyn was honoured to call a friend. If this proved her final fight she would go down well-armed and with her head held high. The racket of the Orcs growing louder and louder and Casswyn was grateful for their noise, it gave away their positions where their shadowy figures did not.

The first two Orcs went down easily as Casswyn swung her sword and cleaved the head of one from its body and then plunged the Elven knife into the throat of the other as it surged forward, so close that Casswyn felt its hot, foul breath on her face. The fact that the hunter had slashed and hacked at the Orcs meant that they came in an unsteady stream, giving Casswyn time to recover and cut down the creatures one by one, or in small groups, as they came at her. With each arc she swung her sword she cleaved into the flesh of the abhorrent creatures and, when another would rush to attack her in the following moment of weakness, she would slam the Elven knife into their skull or throat. The method was effective and Casswyn could not say how many Orcs she slayed in this way or how much time had passed. To her, it seemed a hellish eternity.

Of course, it did not always go smoothly. One Orc slammed its body into Casswyn, throwing her hard against the wall of the cavern. In the darkness they grappled, Casswyn relying on the Elven blade in this close combat. She was small and slight, and it was with great effort and struggle that she was eventually able to drive the knife into the Orc's gut, stabbing in a frenzy until the creature slumped against her. Yet another gave the Rohirrim a particularly difficult time, parrying off her swings with its own twisted blade, the metallic sound ringing through the cave and making Casswyn's ears hurt. Casswyn was running out of time, growing desperate, for if they came all at once she would surely be overwhelmed - she could not waste time in dispatching them! And yet... no more seemed to come.

The last Orc cackled in the darkness, darting this way and that, and for a moment Casswyn lost sight of him. She could not hear him either, for the echoes in the cave covered the hoarse sound of his breathing. Then, suddenly, a sharp pain stung her side as he thrust his wretched blade forward and grazed her ribs. Casswyn cried out in surprise and hurt, swinging her blade desperately. Some good fortune was given to her as the blade found its mark, running through the abdomen of the Orc. It fell to the ground and then... then there was nothing. The first run of Orcs had been finished. And Casswyn... Casswyn was finished too.

Slick with sweat, bruised, battered and bleeding (the wound on her arm had reopened in the skirmish) the young Rohirrim fell to her knees, weapons still clutched tight. A sound of quiet footsteps up ahead reached her ears but she could not, in this moment, bring herself to rise to her feet. A warm, wet feeling was spreading down her left side where the last blasted Orc had clipped her. The further blood loss weakened her and, even with her grip on her weapons, Casswyn was able to detect the tremor she had developed in her fingers. These were not mortal wounds but they would be debilitating until she had time to rest and time to treat the injuries. The soft footsteps had halted. Surely it was no Orc, an Orc would be noisy and quick to gloat. But if it was not an Orc then it could only be the hunter.

Gazing into the darkness where she supposed the hunter stood, Casswyn struggled back on to her feet (she refused to die on her knees) and spoke what she thought must surely be her final words. “I am Casswyn Láidir of Rohan,” she began, her voice surprisingly steady despite being tainted with pain, “I am the only living daughter of the late Fastred and Heruwyn,” and if she died now she would surely be welcomed by them both, and her sister too - this thought strengthened Casswyn and gave her courage, “I do not wish to fight, I do not wish to die, but I accept that there are things beyond my control. I have lived a mostly good life and, for that, I am grateful.”

If he wished to fight her, she would try to defend herself. There was little or no hope of victory but it might buy yet more time for Ginger. Casswyn closed her eyes a moment, recalling the Elf's fair face. Wherever she might be now, Casswyn prayed that it was a better place than where she was.

~

Uvaer stood in the falling snow, sighing and shifting her weight restlessly but otherwise making no effort to move. The silent beat of owl wings did not register with her and she only became alerted to Dénor's presence when he hooted. Snorting and lifting her head, Uvaer's ears pricked up inquiringly. It was a bird, an owl, and the mare recognised it as the animal companion of her mistress's friend – he was alone now too. Uvaer walked over and peered at the owl, curious.

[hades]

Well, he had no idea how he was going to do this. So, he gave it his best shot. Once he had the horse’s attention he began thusly:

Bring his wings forward he ducked his head to represent darkness and the cave. The next thing he did was straighten up and giving himself an evil look – to represent the dark elf – and he strutted about in a circle giving his best evil chortle. Then, he fluffed himself up and his expression changed to one of sheer fear, and waddled about as fast as his stubby legs would let him – this represented the their masters fleeing from the evil one. Then Dénor stretched his wings wide and imitated the dark one chasing after them, waddling about in an egotistical manor (which of course, is so not this owl’s way at all).

When he finished the scene he hoped the beast would be smart enough to understand what was going on. Facing Uvaer, he twitched his head in the direction of the mountain in which their masters were currently trapped. They must help! They must get them out! If not, they would be doomed to die a terrible death. Dénor, always figuring himself the hero type, wanted to save his master from death and destruction!! Yet, if he could not communicate this the best way he figured how then all was doomed.

Her breathing was heavy, her steps were light and her sense of direction wasn’t the best. Though she could see well in the dark, it didn’t keep back the feeling that them being separated was the best plan in the whole of Middle-Earth. She felt alone, lost and at a terrible risk of losing her own life. The last thing she thought about was the ugly, bedraggled man who had been on the white warg. Such an unfortunate soul to have been brought up the way he must have! His face scared and bleeding and yet not caring an inch for anything that happened to him so long as his master was safe! Oh, the horror he must have seen. The end result to all this thinking was that of sorrow for poor wicked soul!

These thoughts and keeping her eyes on the ground had only just begun to prove how silly she was. Ginger hadn’t been paying attention; she now wished that she had. She had just collided with something, something big for she found herself on the cave floor, astonished and surprised. Then she saw them. The feet, the knees, the chest… “Woah… ugly…” were her first words, abrupt and said without thinking, which came out of her mouth when she beheld Garthen in the torch light. “I feel sorry for your mother… having to behold a face like that every day of her life. I… I bet you… weren’t a happy child…” she slid back on the nasty floor of the cave, rambling on and on about nothing and saying strange and unrelated things. “...Lettuce must wilt at the very stench of your presence. Apple trees keel over when you walk by; rain cannot… wash… away…th-th…” Panic filled Ginger and the only thing she could think to do was to keep sliding backwards away from Garthen.

[Cindralic]

Injured prey just wasn’t as much fun. Here was this Rohan woman, defeated, bleeding, her body was weak, her strength was depleted and yet she stood willing to fight him. Cindralic sneered at her. There were none of those pointless emotions about her courage or her resilience. She had put herself in a losing situation and what was dumber was that she had done it on purpose. She sounded confident, her voice wasn’t as shaky as he had thought but her words were more than indication that she wasn’t expecting to win. She could more than likely barely seen him, if at all, in the blackness whereas Cindralic was not hindered at all. Cindralic thought about just letting the orcs get the best of her. They surely would in time. Cindralic said nothing as she gave her little speech. She had spoken in his general location but silently, before she was even finished with her words he had worked his way around her so that he was behind her. She was talking to nothing, saying how grateful she was for her life. Cindralic rolled his eyes as such a foolish gesture. No one was grateful for life. There were very few things in life worth being thankful. She would have had none of them. Cindralic could so easily sink his blade into his spine, severing every nerve, tendon and organ that was essential to keeping her alive. He would push the sword all the way through her body. She wouldn’t even see the blade protruding from him because of how black the blade was and how dark the caverns were but she would feel it, grasp at it for those last few moments, those last few breaths as every bit of life would leave her. Finally she would bring her hand to the blade, feeling it, the shock, the terror, the cold sweat of death would creep over her as she would feel her own warm blood flowing from her, taking away her very soul. Still, Cindralic knew that he would need a tipping point for the elf. This woman would need to be kept alive. With a swift movement, Cindralic cut down towards her legs, going for the back of her thighs. She would be cut to her knees, bowing before him in pain. It was much more fitting that way.


Garthen watched the woman running, not seeming to pay attention. Garthen titled his head, bring his sword away from his body as she ran straight into him. He didn’t move. He was a solid wall of mass and muscle. He looked down at her as she started to back away from him as best she could, crawling away like a crap. Garthen spit the blood from his mouth in her general location before raising his great sword. He knew that he was going to need to keep her alive and in piece but he didn’t mind scaring her beyond words. She had some daggers but he doubted, unless she struck his head, that she would hurt him. His armor was thick all over his body and he had parts of metal seemingly molded to his form. Garthen lowered the sword, bringing it to her neck, he smirked before tossing it aside. The metal made a loud clanking sound on the cave floor, well out of reach of both of them. Ginger probably wouldn’t even be able to lift it should she get ahold of it. Garthen didn’t need his sword for this one, not when he saw the fear in her eyes. Garthen took off his belt a great whip, rocks attached to the end of four pieces of rope. He smirked as he cracked it in the air, the sound ringing in caverns. The next crack came down towards Ginger’s legs and another almost immediately towards her waist.