[Lalwendë]

Lost for words when the tall Elf captain challenged him about the state of the goods, Tarn had simply stood and stared at him as though he had not quite heard what he said. It was one of the worst things he could have done; the captain was instantly suspicious and Tarn noticed his hand move towards the sword at his side. Standing as still as he could, his thoughts were confused by the realisation that he had made an error in not speaking to the captain. A chill ran down his spine as he stood motionless, frantically trying to think about what he ought to do now. The captain had taken the measure of him and had not been fooled.

From somewhere above, came the voice of Marreth and suddenly Corsairs were swarming around and the Elves, alert, were drawing weapons. The ringing of steel as it was drawn by seemingly every hand, was loud and Tarn realised he had only his knife. He lifted his hand, reaching for the inside pocket of his coat. But before he could pull out the blade, the tip of a sword was pointed at his chest, preventing Tarn’s hand from getting anywhere near his pockets.

A feeling of panic quickly gave way to rage and Tarn glared at the Elf who clearly intended to kill him. His look was one of defiance and he ducked quickly sideways, With a thrust of his forearm as he moved, he knocked the blade away and squared himself up, to run or to fight. The sudden movement knocked the scarf from his face, and it hung about his chin limply. The Elf came towards him in a rush, anger boiling in his face. Tarn made ready to fight and drew back his powerful arm, ready to knock the sense from this Elf.

Before he could move any further, he heard a cracking noise as though his skull was splitting open. Burning pain spread through his head and he reeled backwards, blood pouring into the back of his throat. He bent double, retching, and spat it out on the deck. Instinctively, he reached up his hand and he felt the mess on his face and knew his nose had been broken again.

Pain and anger came together and the vision of the elf in front of him seemed red. Whether the vision was coloured with blood or with rage, Tarn could not have said, for he was entirely gripped with the need to hurt this Elf, who seemed to be coming in with another swing at him. Stepping back again, to give himself the room to recover, Tarn saw that the Elf was relentless, moving towards him again, filled with the same anger which he himself was feeling. He knew an opponent filled with the same fury could be dangerous, whatever their size.

Coughing with the suffocating blood which was pouring into his mouth, Tarn suddenly turned and ran up the steps to the foredeck. This only tricked the elf for a moment, but it gave Tarn enough time to draw the scarf back around his face. He needed to stop the blood flow and soak it up as he was now choking badly. With the blood soaking into the cloth, he could now breathe at least. He got to the top of the steps, steadying himself on the hand rail. But instead of carrying on forwards, as the Elf expected, he stopped. Twisting round, he let out a great roar and launched his foot at the pursuing Elf. The kick was fierce, meeting the Elf full in the stomach. He doubled up and fell down backwards with a groan. Tarn’s kick had been so forceful that when his foot met no further resistance, it continued forwards for a moment, and he stumbled onto the deck himself.