**I DO NOT OWN LORD OF THE RINGS, OR RELATED PROPERTY OF THE TOLKIEN ESTATE!**
Drikold Fargenlof lifted his snout from the grass, as the noise from the south boomed ever louder from the passage through the White Mountains. His goatish ears lifted diagonally, and he let aloud a low neigh whilst the noise of war progressed. These truly were the deepest of dark days, and the Gruffling used his Field Flatten Gaze to focus on the southwest path.
Gruffling vision was almost as good as an Elf's, but, alas, it was Middle-earth's most open secret. The Noldor of Lorien dared not deal in alliances with such creatures, as their definition of lowly, as Grufflings. They were much too busy prioritizing sending its full population further west, as an ensemble of Woses, Southernmost Beornings, Algraig, and Korinlaks were keeping busy in their native near-north of Gondor.
Grufflings lived closest to the White Mountains, their province negating any tall groves of trees, like Druadan Forest's. It was just the creatures, and their glades of wheat, in what they called Rubengot. Despite Elvish and subsequent Men's belief, they were civilized, retained small mound-based towns, and had a tall castle built from emigrated stone into the northeastern base of the White Mountains, called the Or-Thier by the more mutually cooperative Elves of Mirkwood, who only ventured south these days to trade with the Beornings in small encampments.
As a point-man, Drikold was tasked with keeping the remaining Uruk-hai at bay, at the behest of Chieftain Wubi. They turned their attention to going down Enedwaith, and were chaotically in pursuit of the Rohirrim.
And it was the Rohirrim precisely whom Drikold heard, heading through Druadan to the South Kingdom. While Grufflings knew little of the larger scope of what looked like allied conflict, they answered without question to the axe's calling, on the grounds that the Darkness was bad for the bartering of things. The most they knew was of the Wizard Saruman betraying the Council in Rivendell, and they had no serious quarrel like Dunland.
But whatever was going on in Gondor, the Grufflings doubted a folk as high and mighty as them would need their help like they did need Rohan's. As much as they failed to understand the relevance – due to the historical animosity between Middle Folk and Numenorians – they felt melancholy. The Dark One's dominion had corroded the souls of all.
The goat-headed man sternly lifted a wide, pointed ear backward. The Rohirric chants had since transitioned to the growling of the Uruks up the plains. It was time to fight.
Chieftain Wubi unsheathed his greatsword, and let out a war cry of a mighty neigh. His companions followed.
"Alas! It be thy finest hour," He started. "We shall cleave these savages serving no master at hand. Whatever thine pillage becometh of the aristocratic swines to the south, let us show them that the hearts of Middle Men and Middle Creatures be true in the utmost heat of battle!"
Drikold grinned as Bannerman – and Drikold's longtime friend - Erfgon, sounded the Lowling Instrument. The Grufflings raced into battle, their hooves loudly treading the dirt and their third arms sticking out their chests jousting their shields or daggers outward.
The Goat Men and the Uruks gorily clashed at a boulder-clustered plain, northernmost of the edges of the Woses' domain. The Orcs attempted an intimidation of their foes with the waist down cut off corpse of an adolescent woman, no older than 17. Wubi took a stab to his right shoulder as he struck his axe to the corpse bearer's abdomen, shattering the dark chestplate above.
The Chieftain started sawing his blade into the opponent. A last growl was let out as the Orc fell with his dark grey hued organs spilled out, his right sectioned chestplate remnant flying into the bare head of one of his own troops as he cut the hand off a Gruffling.
Boulders in the area were moss covered and large enough to aid ample cover for both sides. Through it all, the squat, glistening eyes of the Woses peaked through the bushes across.
Lo! Arrows from the cover of Druadan filled the gaps of the stone-surrounded bloodletting, killing an additional 4 Uruks. It appeared they needed to refill their quivers when, in a harder to spot back area of the jagged maze of boulders, an Orc took to using his bare hands to beat the life out of a Gruffling named Ichwir.
The beast-man spat out a large tooth upon the seventeenth blow, while his right eye was blackened with a bruise based below a small bone of his harder-than-any-Man's cranium, popping out of his brow. He grinned with blood seeping from his beastly, bearded maw, and taunted the Orc: "If thou art to fell me, then impress me in doing so, Devotee of the White Hand!"
The Uruk laughed, hard enough for the surviving Grufflings to come dashing to Ichwir's aid, albeit not with time on their side. "Ha! You can count on that. And your companions shan't live to see the bulk of S-"
At that instant, a Wose arrow pierced through the Orc's slab of a head. He growled as he knelt, eventually plumping to the grass.
The fight ended in a narrow victory for the Grufflings, with the Woses support ensuring it. Six of them fell, with Ichwir critically wounded and being healed by the subsequently arrived Drudain.
Ghan-Buri-Ghan, lord of the Druadan domain, scratched his hairy, bare buttocks as he approached Wubi, nodding in acknowledgement of the eminence of worsening raids to come.
"The Rohirrim have been granted access through our woods," The short, feral man started, "Because a dire shadow beyond our comprehension dwells in the south. I call for us to forge an alliance to keep the bastards out of our steps of evergreen!
"The darkness craving what is left of Gondor has been alleged to be of a most occult origins even the Riders have not any legendary ties to. If their forces were assailed by this foe of incalculable numbers, Gondor, alas, would be out of their High Man charm before it even succumbs to desolation. They would be in a position where they'd reinforce the North with some single dozen guards of deprived morale."
"We have had word months ago from a posse of Dunedain that the enemy is after something, but they refused to disclaim what. They are still good Men, and not xenophobic Elf thralls as their kith down the land are.
"Lo! We must make haste and hunt the leftover Orcs pouring here from Isengard. It's here or an undisclosed area northwest they seek to ruin. Saruman is out of the question.
"Our focus must not be fixated on whatever travesty lies south! We will best aid them by guarding our border. There is something you must see to in turn, Wubi, son of Werkus!"
The Chieftain nodded his beastly head. "Aye," he said broodingly.
The Wose lord's black eyes widened, for but a moment. "Excellent! We as the Middlefolk must unite. There is booming that can be heard from the Anduin, northeast of here. The Noldor, self-concerned and hypocrites as they initially seemed, have left Lorien for the Grey Havens, leaving behind a most valuable series of caches across their gold wood.
"You and your company must head there and find anything enchanted the Elves left. It's the last effort we have of any idea of victory.
"We will gladly keep Ichwir to recover, along with two others of your kith. The three of them are underway to venture west, call for aid from the Algraig and the Southern Cairn Skinchangers.
"When your deed is completed in Lorien, I will send word to Bree to take up arms. It must be you and you alone to that realm."
Wubi grimaced. "I fear not death. And I shan't think my men do, either."
He turned his gaze to the further north, then back at Ghan. "I shall take my leave now."
The Chieftain let out a bellowing neigh, and out from the mellow yellow glades of home came his steed, Stenburden. A fuzzy, greyish brown giant jacktinger, his sloped head was bestowed with a bronze helm, which complimented the animal's light yellow mane and brown stripes.
Wubi smiled at Ghan-Buri, and vice versa. As the former turned to hop on his mount, the Woodwose halted him, saying in his native tongue that he had an honor among all trinkets for him.
From a noble's satchel, the Druedain pulled out a palm sized, spiky wooden ball with a still, big leaf poking upward. He tossed it to the Chieftain to catch, and he did.
Wubi noticed the trinket stinging as it pinched into his clawed hand's palm. He grunted in discomfort as it broke apart in jagged twigs and impaled through the greyish brown hued hide of his open grasp.
Wubi grunted louder from the feel of the branches entering his hand, seeping in a visible, neon green glow once underneath the flesh. Then came the formation of rough birch over his limb…or from the magic to the skin itself. For any Man, Elf, Dwarf, or miscellaneous being lacking a high pain tolerance, it would be unbearable. But this was no such person.
The Gruffling groaned and opened his eyes at the searing pain's peaking climax. His eyes widened as he saw what his apparent new arm was: A gauntlet.
It had Droogish writings along the left side and glowing, magical orbs of different hues of green sticking out from both ends, from his wrist to his elbow. It was magnificent!
Wubi smiled at the forest lord. "What craft beyond crafts is this?"
Ghan-Buri cackled. "'Tis is the work of the finest our alchemists and shamans, in collaboration since the growing of the shadow! It is the Gauntlet of Birchmorph!
"You will see in time what power it bestows on you. I have already blessed the Rohirrim with the Binds of Droog and Calenardhon. So this is the next finest thing I can gift, before the ashes of war swallow us all. Farewell, comrade!"
The Chieftain murred beastly in approval and thanked Ghan-Buri-Ghan as he tapped Stenburden at his thick sides and rode thereafter to the former Haven of Lady Galadriel.
