[Firefoot]

Firefoot's post

Thorvel reached into his quiver and found to his dismay that he was now using his last arrow. After this, all he would have left would be his knife, which truthfully was not the best weapon for a full-out battle. Sighing, he notched the arrow to his bowstring and drew it back, carefully selecting a target. He was just about to loose it at an Orc coming up the slope at him when a sharp pain seared through his leg. He reflexively released his firm hold on the bow and the arrow went wild, shooting harmlessly off to the left. He dropped to his knees. He found that a black-feathered Orc arrow had pierced his thigh. He yanked it out, wincing at the pain. Almost immediately blood began to flow out of the open wound, darkening his breeches. He did not know a lot about healing, but he knew if he did not stop the bleeding he would die of blood loss. He hurriedly tore a strip of cloth off the bottom of his tunic and tied it tightly just above the wound. The blood began to flow less rapidly, nearly stopping. It was a hasty tourniquet, and Thorvel knew that while it would not work for long, but he hoped it would last at least until the battle finished.

He pushed himself painfully to his feet, trying not to put to much weight on his injured leg. He realized that the Orc he had previously sighted was almost upon him, and quickly drew his knife. The foul creature approached, and Thorvel was ready. He parried the Orc’s attacks, not as easily or as agilely as he normally would have, but that was to be expected. He got in at a close range so as to render his opponent’s sword unwieldy, skillfully stabbing and blocking its offences. He feinted a downwards attack to catch the Orc off balance, then thrust up into its throat. Black blood spurted out, and Thorvel drew his knife out of it as it toppled to the ground.

Thorvel realized that while he had fought the Orc, the two had actually worked their way down the slope so that he was now on the very fringe of the Orc encampment. Nearby Orcs seemed to swarm toward him, and for quite some time he had little rest, flowing from one adversary to the next. His thigh began to throb, and he began to falter in his attacks, killing with less precision and ease and receiving cuts with greater frequency. But even as his body began to fail, a spark in his eyes gleamed the brighter with intensity and hatred. He was not ready to die yet, not while there were still Orcs around. Death comes, willing or unwilling, danced a thought in the back of his head. He shoved it away, and fought on. He now fought with the fervor of a cornered dog, hopeless but not giving an inch unless forced.

Finally though, the pain was becoming unbearable, and blood loss was making him weak. Even as he gave a death stroke to one Orc it gave a counter stroke in return. Thorvel collapsed to the ground. Death would not be long now, and he was ready to give in to it when he noticed Lómarandil nearby. He seemed not to be in current combat and looking around for a new foe to attack. Thorvel felt incredible guilt pressing down on him for the way he had treated the younger elf.

“Lómarandil,” he called, his voice shaking slightly. “Come here.” The elf turned at the sound of his name, and knelt down beside Thorvel. Thorvel could not read his expression.

“I... I’m sorry,” said Thorvel slowly. Breathing was becoming painful. “You did not deserve my treatment of you. I hope you can forgive me.” Lómarandil nodded thoughtfully. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” said Thorvel. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest. His eyes closed briefly. “Would you... would you tell the Captain... it was... an honor to be in his scout troop.” Lómarandil nodded again. “You don’t know what this means to me...” said Thorvel, the sentence dying to a whisper at the end. He closed his eyes again. Even as he could feel the darkness enveloping him, he heard as if from afar the battle cries of fair voices. In vague thoughts he made out that support must have come unlooked for from Lorien. He felt peace, now, peace and hope, and he knew that the Shadow would not conquer. Then he felt and heard no more.

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Hama of the Riddermark's post

Lomarandil stood slowly up from Thorvel's side. Anger coursed through his blood in an unstoppable rage as he looked at Thorvel's body. A lump rose in his throat, and tears began to trickle down his cheeks. Drawing his two razor sharp nine inch knives, he ran screaming at the orc force. Anger cloduing his judgement. Calenvasa saw this and cired out to him to stop, but Lomarandil didn't hear. He spun again and again, twirled his knives with awesome precision, killing every orc that came withing three feet of him.

Slowly he weakened though. His attacks slowed, and an easterling managed to penetrate his defences and stab him in the abdomen. lomarandil ripped the knife out and pushed it into the eaterling's throat, but the pain was too great. Slowly, almost poetically, he fell to his knees. Another easterling came up behind him. Lomarandil heard the swish of the blade, he felt it pieces his lung and exit through his chest. He cired out hatred for them.

The Easterling captain just laughed, and pulled his sword out. Lomarandil fell onto his hands, blood slowly pooling around him. As he tried to push himself to his feet he felt a hand grab hold of his hair and jerk it upwards. He was face to face with the easterling, lomarandil saw his arm raise, then he closed his eyes. He felt the pain in his neck only for a moment when it was severed. His mind raced away as soon as he died. Searching for Thorvel. "Lomarandil, over here." he heard Thorvel's voice say and he turned smiling, finding himself in a far green country, under a swift sunrise...