Dûrvagor didn’t have a problem fighting. His moves were swift and agile with his sword. Without his sword he was a maladroit. He couldn’t throw a knife or arch, but with a sword, he was practically invincible.
When the orcs retreated he checked himself for any sort of cut or wound for poison. The only injury he found was a cut on his finger he had gotten when sliding his sword back into its scabbard. His hand had slipped and the blade cut his finger. The ranger wiped it on his tunic and went to put on his jerkin and pull on his boots.
When the cry came he had been sleeping, just having finished with his watch and had to fight in his pants and untucked tunic with his hair down and around his face. Now he pulled his light brown hair into a ponytail, tying it with a strip of leather and laced up the front of his jerkin. His boots over his arm, he walked towards the fire to see how everyone else was doing.
"Islist! Isilist!" shouted Rinoas, running back to the camp from wherever he had been. "Islist, a strange bird of prey, black as the night, is circling above us."
“You don’t say?” said Dûrvagor mockingly, following him over to Islist. Rinoas shot him a threatening look and the ranger backed out of ear shot, packing his things. They were sure to leave after the attack. The further they were from Dol Guldor, the better. Then suddenly a thought hit him. The horses!!
[ June 13, 2003: Message edited by: maikafanawen ]
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"They call this war a cloud over the land. But they made the weather and then they stand in the rain and say, 'Sh*t, it's raining!'" -- Ruby, Cold Mountain
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