Thread: Lord of the wolves (Alvis Alendran x anjalikkeoliver2905)

It was not a good thing to die far from home. It hadn't been his idea really, this undertaking. The sensible thing would have been to keep moving, find other groups of his people, but that hadn't been an option. Blood had been spilt on his home soil, and the band responsible had turned tail when a more concerted effort to repel them had been managed. Left to their own devices, they might rally help, return to wipe out the newfound concentrations of people. They had to be put down. And so a ranger was sent to see them off. One man against a pack of twenty, these were not odds that a man would face head on. But his people were skilled in the use of the bow, and the forest were his home. One by one, he stalked them as they moved away from his home land, one by one he slew them, whittling their numbers down. They rounded on him only twice, trying to turn the tables on him, but each time they blundered inot carefully laid snares and traps, bringing more of them to an untimely end. Soon the hunt would be over, and the last of them would be fallen, and the ranger could turn back to the north. He was down to the last of his arrows, and had no time to stop to craft more. So he played for time, preparing for his final assault, intending to purge the orcs once and for all up close, with fire and glory. This was perhaps not the best of plans that he could have hatched. As he came from the trees into the clearing hte last of hte orcs had been camping within, he found himself facing not the broken few survivors of the band he'd been hunting, but those same orcs now joined by a larger band of orcs, these bearing the size and look of those that came down from Gundabar. The orcs gave a roar and charged. There was the option of running, trying to lose them int he trees, but he knew that in the end, they would have him this time. Too many of them, and too close, he'd only wear himself out trying to escape. And that left attack. His sword was already free in his hand, and he met the charge head on. leangin aside a swung blade, his sword flicked up, meeting hte gap int he armour between shoulder and arm, and with a hard pull, the blade laid open the artery that was there. The orc yowled, an ungodly sound that would have made him wince if he hadn't been running on pure adrenaline. He parried a blow, swatting it aside only to sweep his blade back to take the throat of his attacker. He had to keep moving, to stay still, plant his feet, was to let hismelf die. Skirmishing across the clearing, he fought with all he had, reserves that he hadn't known he possessed, finding a new height to his skills, slaying five more when the band backed away from him. A orc that had to be the leader of this band stepped forward, larger than the others, adn in their society, more often than not, might made right. Not sparing a moment longer, he threw himself at hte orc. Sparks flew in the night air from the course weapon of his foe, faced with his finely honed sword, prodiced in times long past in the forges of Arnor beofre that kingdom fell, when his people were a proud race, not a broken people running through the bones of their ancient glory. The world thought that the blood of Numenor was spent, but here and now, this ranger put that thought to rest. Weapons moved in a blur, and a widely swung blow left him an opening, his sword raked along his foe, ripping a wound that would have slain a man outright. But his foe was not a man, and while such a wound told, it did not slay. The crude sword of the orc slashed along the ranger, parting cloth and flesh, staggering him away. Blood was in the air now, the orcs roaring in pleasure at the sight of it. The mob swept in at hte site, bloodlust replacing their respect of the challenge to their leader. He took the head from one with a desperate slash of his sword, but then hands were on his arms, pushing him to his knees. Their leader came on, slow, leasuirely, speaking of the end of his life. He spat at the orc, a last act of defiance. And then the orc went down under a mass of fangs and fur. A wolf, quite the largest he'd seen in a long time, taking the orc down. Never one to question a fortunate turn in a battle, the ranger drew a fighting knife and stabbed it through the foot of one of his captors. Teh screech of pain ended as he slammed the knife into it's throat. Seizing his fallen sword, he heaved himself back to his feet, swinging it in a wide arc to buy him space, driving the enemy back. He took stock of the situation. he was only a few feet away from the wolf, sparing it a glance, giving a nod to it. Whatever drove the beast on, he would honour it's aid and courage.