Board Thread:Character Discussion Board/@comment-26863727-20151125023610/@comment-26444332-20151129181641

And... Here you go! -- Farnin stumbled back, the Orc-blade missing him by inches. He backpedaled away from the viciously swinging sword as quickly as he could, trying to bring his mace to bear in the confined space, only to stumble and trip over another orc's body. His hammer went flying from his grasp, somewhere out of sight. The Orc ran up to him, and Farnin thought on where he was now that he was going to die.

It had been a normal day on the patrols in between the realm of Thranduil and the reaches of the influence of Erebor. Farnin had taken a group out and lost his way, a common occurrence in the Long Marshes. He had come up on the Forest River and decided to head West, hoping to find the hall of Thranduil and ask for shelter before finding his way back to the Mountain.

But as he had come up to the ancient wall over the Forest River that marked the Eastern entrance to the Woodland Realm he had been ambushed by a pack of Orcs, several hundred strong. Though mighty his Dwarves were, there were still only three of them all told, and the other two had been slain as they fought back-to-back. Now it was only he, and not for very long it seemed.

Farnin blinked as the blade descended, hoping that the Orc would make it quick. And with a hiss and a yelp the Orc fell to one side, an arrow sticking out of a chink in the creature's ragged breastplate. He turned his head to track the arrow's flight path so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash looking for the archer.

When he saw her, he was amazed. For out of nowhere Itallië had come to his aid. He watched breathlessly as she caught up another arrow from the quiver at her belt and fired from full draw in the space of a heartbeat, to have the dart's point end inside an orc's throat. She then used her bow to slam an Orc into the river, drawing one of her daggers in the same fluid motion and slicing another foul creature's head off.

As the entire Orc-pack came for her, a single horn sounded. An Elven-horn. Arrows began to fly every which way as a company of Wood-elven scouts, led by a familiar face, joined the fray. Faenor, Rhîwrûth his ancient bow drawn for the first time that anyone could remember, was showing the Wood-elves, Farnin, and Itallië what archery was really all about.

(No, truly. I've yet to use my bow in an RP. Which is rather funny, as my character is perhaps the best archer in Middle-earth. And before there are cries that that's OP, he's had eons to perfect his skill. It would be odd if he wasn't the best.)

Faenor swung his bow around, catching an Orc in the 'S' curve of the bow's limb and pulled it towards him as he drew a dagger, efficiently cutting the foul creature's throat. With well-practiced hand he drew and nocked two arrows, firing them to land in two separate orcs as they rushed for the fallen Dwarf. With a grunt of effort he ducked under a swinging Orc-sword and shot another one ahead of him as he came up, turning and drawing his dagger once more to cut down the one attacking him.

With a roar so hate-filled it could have been the cry of a Nazgûl Edacnik dropped out of the sky in Dragon-form, bearing Imrahil Elven-fair and Glosur into the fray. For what purpose he was carrying them on that particular route they still will not reveal to this day. Also teleporting into the battle at a opportune time was the ever-venerable Eureka with Aronarr caught up by the scruff of his neck like some stuffed plaything, distracting the denizens of Dôl Guldur for a moment.

That moment proved to be fatal for many, as Faenor began to fire arrows so quickly that his hand was a blur and his quiver seemed to empty itself of its own accord. With twenty down in less than five seconds and many already dead by the the Orcs got the hint, and began to retreat. The Wood-elves, Itallië, and Faenor pursued them from the field even as Edacnik, Imrahil, and Glosur took to the skies once more. With a slightly bemused look Eureka too left, and soon it was as if the battle never happened.

Farnin got up unsteadily to a quiet and tranquil scenery, save for of course the dead orcs everywhere and the arrows sticking out of almost all of them. He looked up at the sky and then to the West, silently thanking Aulë for such an act of providence that all of those people could have been there at one time. He searched for his hammer for nearly an hour, finally recovering it from under a pile of dead orcs with white-fletched stylized rose-stem arrows sticking out of them, marking them as Faenor's kills. He moved down the path, to sanctuary.

--

Faenor and Itallië ran among the twisted leafless branches of the Mirk-oak trees around them, the Wood-elven company of archers following close behind. Below and quickly coming up were the dregs of the orcs, and what appeared to be a small relief force. Wordlessly Itallië looked at Faenor, and he nodded grimly, neither needing to speak to know the other's intent. Both drew arrows from their quivers.

The first arrows landed in the centre of the replenished pack, killing off the captains and scattering the others, only to herd them back in as the Wood-elves formed a killing line around the area. Faenor drew Ringil, and in an act the likes of which had never been seen and ne'er shall be, proffered it to Itallië. He himself drew Aeglos, the twin blades both glowing with a pale and icy light.

They both jumped into the center of the pack, leaping down from the trees and into the fray. They were instantly surrounded, but then the orcs were shown why the two Elder beings had taken such a risk. Faenor and Itallië fought back-to-back, in a deadly dance of mind and steel where to misstep was rewarded with death. Never had two people before fought with such grace and might, their fury kindled and channeled into their swords. Not a single Orc escaped the two warriors, for their skill was unparalleled.

Itallië handed back Ringil when all was said and done, though she did accept Faenor's offer of a sword to complement her weaponry. After the manner of the swords of Thranduil it was made, a blight to the Darkness and a beacon of hope for the Free Peoples. For Faenor yet remembered the enchantments the smiths of Gondolin had used, and forged into the blade a spell of revealing and binding even as it was taken from the fires, so that it burned with a fell light when the servants of the Enemy were close, whether Orc or Nazgûl.

Taking it up Itallië called it Hesinerë in her heart, which signifies Coldsteel in the tongue of the Vanyar and Ñoldor of Valinor. She called it thus for the blade's edges were always icy, and they shone with light not unlike that of the snow. It is said that part of the smith's Feä was put into his work, and Faenor never made another blade like that ever after. But she and the Sindar openly called it Rhîwcrist, which means the Winter's Sword, for the Grey-elves spoke not the Quenya of Aman and did not suffer it to be heard as their king commanded long ago.

--

Final kill count (in order of appearance):

Farnin: 34

The Orcs: 2

Itallië: 339

Faenor: 361

The Wood-elves: 69

Edacnik: 24

Imrahil: 19

Glosur: 14

Eureka: 23

Aronarr: 12

Total numbers:

Orcs: 897

Wood-elves: 30

Heroes(characters): 8