Chapter 13: Dunlending Skirmish (Part 1 of 3)
John Stark's boots crunched against the brittle grass of Rohan's sprawling plains, each step grinding dust into the creases of his leather soles, the faint taste of dry earth lingering on his tongue like forgotten ash. The vastness of the landscape pressed against him, a sea of ochre and fading green rolling toward a horizon that seemed to mock his smallness, the sky above a pale, washed-out gray that offered no comfort. His horse snorted beneath him, its muscles rippling as he rode low, the saddle's leather creaking under his weight, the rhythm of hooves a steady drumbeat against the silence. The Please Kill Me System pulsed in his skull, a low, grating vibration like a loose wire sparking in his brain, warning of danger he couldn't share with the three scouts riding at his flanks, their shadows long and jagged in the dawn's frail light. His scarred fingers tightened on the reins, his thumb rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous tic that betrayed the secret he buried deep, the system's hum a constant, unyielding pressure.
He pulled his horse to a stop, the beast's breath steaming in the chill air, and dismounted with a grunt, his knees jarring as they hit the hard-packed earth. Crouching low, he ran his fingers over a patch of trampled grass, the blades sharp and brittle, slicing faintly against his calloused skin. Hoofprints scarred the ground—shallow, uneven marks from the shaggy ponies of the Dunlendings, their edges baked hard by the unrelenting sun. A faint, acrid scent of smoke curled into his nostrils, sharp and unwelcome, like the ghost of a fire long extinguished. The system flared, a red overlay slashing across his vision like a glitch in a cracked screen:
[Danger. Pack too large. Turn back.]
His heart lurched, a cold spike of adrenaline flooding his chest, but he pressed his knuckles against his temples, masking the alert as a moment of strain, his breath catching in his throat. "Great. Another death trap. What's the Vegas odds on surviving this one?" His voice, when he spoke, was rough, forced steady through gritted teeth.
"Too many tracks," he said, glancing at the scouts, their faces taut, eyes sharp with focus. "This isn't a raid for livestock. They're building something bigger."
[Stealth Mastery: Lv. 4. Sneaky, almost. Threat Level: Moderate/High. Camp size hints at Saruman's influence. Don't trip over your own ego, Stark.]
"Like sneaking through a bad stealth game with the difficulty cranked to nightmare," he muttered under his breath, the anachronistic quip a private rebellion against the dread twisting his gut, his thumb rubbing his neck again as if to quiet the system's hum.
He crept up a low ridge, his body moving with a fluid, almost unnatural grace, the Stealth Mastery guiding his steps like a second instinct, the grass whispering against his boots, soft as a sigh. Below, in a sheltered dell, lay the Dunlending camp—forty warriors, maybe more, their crude wooden stakes driven deep into the earth, tribal banners flapping like tattered sails in the wind. Torches cast flickering shadows, their light glinting off the honed edges of axes and spears, the camp's disciplined sprawl a silent scream of Saruman's influence. His pulse hammered, each beat a countdown to chaos, his eyes tracing the lines of tents, the stacks of weapons, the hulking forms of warriors moving with purpose. This isn't banditry. This is a damn war camp. He backed away, the earth yielding under his boots, the knowledge a cold, heavy stone in his chest, his hand brushing his sword hilt as he fought the urge to charge in, reckless and stupid.
He signaled the scouts to retreat, a sharp flick of his wrist, silent but urgent, and they followed without question, their horses' hooves muffled by the grass as they slipped into a copse of stunted, wind-twisted trees. The smoke's scent clung to him now, a tangible enemy that coated his throat, sharp and bitter. Duty burned in his chest, a fire hotter than the urge to fight, though his fingers twitched toward his sword, his neck itching fiercely as he rubbed it again. Report to Edoras. Don't be a hero. Not yet.
Torvin, a grizzled Rohirrim scout with a face carved by scars, rode at the group's flank, his eyes scanning the scrub brush with the keen focus of a hawk. His weathered hands gripped the reins, his knuckles white, the air around him thick with the weight of years spent surviving. The silence shattered as the Dunlendings struck—an ambush, axes flashing like crescent moons in the half-light, their guttural shouts splitting the dawn like thunder. The air filled with the splinter of wood, the clash of steel, the iron tang of blood that stung John's nose, sharp and metallic. Torvin parried an axe, his arm jarring, his teeth gritted against the impact, but John fought like a storm, his blade a silver blur, drawing the enemy's focus as he danced through the chaos, his movements too precise, too perfect.
A massive Dunlending warrior loomed, his spiked war-axe swinging with bone-crushing force, the air whistling with its arc. Torvin braced, his shield raised, but John lunged, shoving a young scout aside, his body moving before his mind caught up. The axe cleaved through leather and bone, a sickening crunch as pain exploded in John's chest, a white-hot wave that drowned his senses. Darkness swallowed him, the ground rushing up to meet his broken body, the system's hum the last thing he heard.
[Death: +2 Agility. Soul Wear: 45%. Dunlending bait? That's you. Scout's awe ties to reputation. Maybe don't make yourself a target next time, hero.]
He respawned in a thicket, thorns snagging his cloak, the cold shock of Soul Wear clawing at his bones, a numbing ache that made his skin feel too tight, his breath ragged as he scrambled up. "Forty-five percent. Cutting it close, you digital sadist." He masked his return as a stumble, clutching his side as if winded, his thumb rubbing his neck to hide the tremble. Torvin stared at the empty patch of earth where John had fallen, his sword faltering, then snapped his gaze to John, now upright, rejoining the fight as if he'd merely tripped. Unnatural, Torvin thought, slicing through a Dunlending shield, his mind reeling at the impossible, his heart pounding with a mix of awe and fear.
John's return sparked a fire in the scouts, their blades flashing with desperate courage, their shouts rising over the chaos, hoarse and defiant. The Dunlendings faltered, their line breaking, retreating to their camp in a chaotic scramble, leaving their dead strewn across the blood-soaked earth, the air thick with the stench of iron and sweat. John leaned against his horse, his body trembling, the Soul Wear a hollow ache that made his bones feel brittle, his neck itching as he rubbed it again, the system's hum a relentless anchor.
He forced his gaze across the rocky terrain, the HUD glowing in his mind, its crystalline matrix plotting choke points and force vectors with surgical precision. The narrow pass ahead was a jagged scar in the earth, its walls steep and unforgiving, a natural bottleneck that whispered opportunity. "We can break them here. Funnel and flank." He wiped sweat from his brow, hiding the system's glow as he studied the terrain, his voice cutting through the scouts' murmurs, steady despite the exhaustion clawing at his chest.
"We can't hit them head-on," he said, pointing to the pass, his hand steady though his neck itched furiously. "Funnel them through the south. Torvin, take three men to the ridge. Strike their flank when they commit."
[Rallying Call: Lv. 4. Lead, don't bleed. Tactics Hint: Utilize the narrow pass; funnel and flank. Not bad for a guy who's died twice today.]
Torvin nodded, his scarred face unreadable but his eyes sharp with grudging respect, the weight of John's command settling over the group like a mantle. "Tactics? I'm no Sun Tzu, just grinding for the next level," John muttered, his anachronistic humor a secret shield, his thumb rubbing his neck as the scouts moved into position, their silhouettes fading into the dawn's gray haze. The Dunlending fires glowed orange on the horizon, a promise of battle before the sun rose, and John stood firm, the weight of his secret heavier than the fight ahead, the system's hum a steady pulse in the gathering storm.
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