Thread: Dude X Imogen

Imogen said Elowen perched on a slim branch and gazed at the distant horizon. A soft wind grazed her cheek and swept through her ebon hair. It carried the scent of rain perhaps a week until it reached the forest of Sylvari. Elowen turned from the view and placed a slender hand on the silvery bole of the tree she scaled. She loosed a gentle whistle that flew with the wind to the ears of her brethren. The rest of her sentry consisted of two Elven males Gindolin and Elidyr. They had worked together for only a short time by Elvish standards and still had much to learn of one another. Yet they understood their duty when welcoming humans into their forest. Their assent unspoken, the two elves divided Gindolin sliding down the tree to Elowens left and the Elidyr leaping away to her right. They would continue to patrol the borders of Sylvari while Elowen greeted the small caravan that would enter their borders to trade. Elowen as well as the other elves were still apprehensive about opening their wards to traders. Sylvari had been well shielded by their ancestors with magic that Elowens generation had lost. Elowen felt a pit in her stomach an instinctual dread as she verged onto the travelers path and strolled toward the small river that divided the Elven forest from the plains. Then she sensed something else a wrench in her stomach, a warning in the back of her mind. Their borders had been breached without the blessing of their kind. And Elowen sensed a malicious presence thundering along the forest floor before it faded, leaving her scaling a tree and leaping madly for the borderline. She knew Gindolin and Elidyr would do the same but she was much closer and would reach the unknown threat first. She came to a stop on wide tree limb and caught her breath at the gore below. Blood. Her far-seeing eyes discerned an astonishing amount of death and grief just beyond the river that isolated Sylvari. The canvas concealing the goods the traders hoped to sell sagged heavily with the weight of blood seeping from the fallen guards and slaughtered innocent. Elowen could easily follow the butchers trail a large band of orcs whose numbers dwindled in the pursuit of a man. Elowens lithe body tensed, prepared to spring in defense of the man who now backed against the very tree she stood in. She knew it would be wise to hesitate. Her brethren would not readily interfere on the mans behalf. Though obviously wounded, his dark clothing and unkempt appearance were unflattering and spoke of weeks in the wilderness. However, her conscious would not rest easy after witnessing the orcs slaughter and the humans foolish contest. Although Elves live much longer than other mortals, they also value the sanctity of life. With the odor of blood assaulting her sensitive smell, Elowen leaped. She landed lightly, her knees bending to absorb the impact and propel her forward. Her long knife appeared from the sheath at her lower back and beheaded the Orc as he spoke. A flicker of recognition and subsequent fear of the elf caused the Orc horde to pause. Then, emboldened by sheer number, they renewed their assault. Elowen turned to the man in that brief moment and called out to him, Fight! Click to expand... Ready to accept death, Thoril raised his sword with his left hand, his right arm broken by the mace blow he took earlier. He than saw a blur as the elf jumped down to his aid, gutting the threatening orc. He momentarily was astonished at the sight of her, and the fact that an elf would so readily aid a human, until she yelled out at him to fight He charged in, disemboweling another orc, pivoting around grasping his sword as best he could with his both hands to cleave another orc's skull in half. He charged to the elf ranger's aid, lunging in and running through the savage as he was about to bring his axe down on her. He unfortunately was stuck in the orc, as the orc pulled his blade in and slashed at his lower jaw. Thoril growled and pulled his blade out, knowing that if he survived this he would have a savage scar for the rest of his life unless the elves blessed him with their legendary healing, which was an unlikely gift for someone not of their kind. His usually precise and methodical swordsmanship became sloppy as he began to bleed out and tire. He soon was flailing his sword desperately with his left arm, struggling to parry blows and cut his foes down. After about a 15 minute battle all the assailants were either dead or fleeing. Thoril panted heavily feeling weak T-thank you he said, panting heavily, trying to hold himself up with his sword, but to no avail. He lost a lot of blood. He soon dropped to his knees and fell to the ground as everything turned black.