[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Narvi was quiet. With bowstring drawn to his ear, his mind raced back to the end of the Third Age, during their battle in Dale. He smiled, knowing his advantage. He had done very well then, and this situation exactly matched that one before the gates of Erebor. Except...

Except this time they were the intruders. If the laws apply here, their death would only be right.

Snap out of it, soldier! That kind of thinking would get you killed.

Just then, the door burst open, and he fired. His arrow hit someone on the arm, forcing that man to drop his weapon. The attackers were too quick. Using a bow at this close range would surely bring the risk of friendly fire. He dropped the bow and drew his axe. All thought dropped out of his mind, save survival. He stood his ground, waiting for someone to approach him.

He was too fast. The man he wounded suddenly appeared in front of him, clutching a spear in his left hand. Narvi eluded the thrust, but not the punch. The man's blood stained his corslet as his hand connected with the Dwarf's stomach. Narvi dropped his axe, and fell to his knees. The man cried in his native tongue. A harsh tongue, a strange tongue, but the thought conveyed was not so strange. He felt the thought himself once. Die, stranger!

He rolled to left, the spearhead barely missing his neck, but hitting his right thigh. With his axe out of reach, his only weapon now was the arrows. He grabbed one and stabbed the man in the heart.

He had no time to pity the fallen. He staggered to his knees, and limped towards his axe.