Ori
With a bellow, Ori aimed his fist into the nearest elf’s stomach, but, with a remarkable twist of his body, Ori found himself pummeling thin air, and stumbled forward. The elf laughed and danced away with a taunting lilt, drawing an arrow from his quiver. Swiftly he shot it, and it whistled by Ori’s ear. “You call that a shot!” Ori shouted. “It appears your marksmanship has been highly overrated!”
“I missed, you oaf, on purpose!”
“Hah! Just like my fist missed your stomach’s acquaintance!” Ori shouted, redoubling his attack.
“Don’t trip upon your lengthy beard!” the elf said, grappling with Ori.
Ori, with a roar, swung a hook that hit the elf square in the jaw, which sent him sprawling through the underbrush and knocking him on unconscious. “Better tripping over a beard than awaking with a headache,” he murmured. He rubbed his fist with satisfaction and glanced about him quickly. Nali, it appeared, was flailing his fists at three elves who were doing a good job beating him. With a growl, Ori charged into their midst, wondering how they were going to get out of this frying pan.
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