[ArwenBaggins]

It was unnaturally hard for Eirian to climb the tree with his injured wrist. Reaching a branch with some help from Elrohir, Eirian lay against the trunk of the tree and ripped the end of his blue shirt. Wrapping it around his wrist tightly, he tucked the end into the top and held it as straight as possible. "Bloody trolls!" he muttered barely audibly, getting a slight smile from Arathorn.

He looked up, his right hand on his left wrist, scanning the horizon. It was dark, and although he hated the stench already rising from the dead trolls, Eirian thought it was wise to stay here for the night and not risk another attack when trying to find the Road. I wish the stupid things would hurry up and come... I need some rest... he thought to himself, trying to keep sleep and pain from overcoming him.

Wiping the blackened sword on his tunic, it left a long smear. He watched the others cleaning their weapons as well- swords, bows, and Hanindur even had a knife. He could tell everyone was restless, waiting for the second wave of trolls to come; waiting was hard, for a fighter most off all. That was all that they could do, however, was wait.