A silver brooch lies tramped into the dirt, it lies within an abnormally large footprint. The wind is still and the dead lies piled upon each other, the blood that runs on the ground is diluted by the rain. The sky had opened up and devoured the countryside. The only thing that is heard other than the beating rain is the screech of a dying horse.
I stare at the approaching monstrous orc with a bloodied mace planted firmly in hand its eyes radiated the hatred it bore against me. The panic penetrates my very being as I lie on my back as I attempt to drag myself away from the creature and find something of use within the dirt; a rock, a twig, a sword. I carry no cloak for it was ripped of me, the dirt, mud and water has crawled into my garments though this is nothing that I care about or feel as I am realizing my own mortality and am about to draw my final breath. My curls are dripping with water and slicked to my forehead; two curls have managed to cloud my eyes. After I use my mud covered hand to see more clearly I see it standing over me, hammer over its head; staring into my eyes with a foul grin. My body goes numb as I close my eyes; a strange feeling of being at peace with my impending doom fills my head. A loud thump is heard; did I die a noble death?
A Ranger travels the fields of the northern Bree-lands, spear in his hand, a sword hanging from his waist and a bow strapped on his back. He feels the early chills of winter as he walks his path amongst trees and hedges, alone. There are no individually visible clouds in the sky; only a thick layer of white. The Traveler walks his way without interruptions, from Bree to the Hengstacer farm. He knows that if one does travel further north than the farm he puts himself at risk of encountering orcs that have surpassed the span of Trestlebridge. Yet the Ranger carries on. Before long night falls and the rain with it, the Ranger decides to set up camp on a high point to shield himself from the rain and whatever lurks within the shadow of twilight.
Before the Wanderer turns in for slumber an eerie feeling flows through him; he decides to take one last look before turning in. That is when he sees it; like orange dots painted by the flick of a brush heading towards the caravan encampment. By the time Luithrandir is close enough to hear the slaughter he is out of breath, the massacre he witnesses is unbearable. An unarmed caravan had been raided by orcs, shielded by the thicket he remains unseen by the raiders. The Ranger prepares himself by dropping any unnecessary equipment that he carries, as well as disrobing his cloak. The monsoon of rain makes silences his arrows as he makes his way around the encampment, killing stray orcs wandering the remains of the camp. Dead men and women litter the ground, their supplies spread across the grove. The Ranger continues to reduce the orcs numbers for a while; unseen. Not before long the creatures catch his scent. By the time Luithrandir had run out of arrows and were fighting with his sword.
The Ranger is beaten and bloodied, the only thing keeping him standing is his will to live. Only three orcs remain; two come charging. He thrusts his spear into the first; the second one is unarmed but lands a fist in Luithrandir's face, he falls to the ground and wrestles with the orc until He manages to get on top. Luithrandir beats the orc senseless, his knuckles bloodied and bruised; he falls to his back in exhaustion. It is now that he notices the monstrous orc pacing towards him with a bloody hammer. Luithrandir attempts to drag himself away from the orc, yet he can't stand to fight him. The only thing keeping him in the senses is the adrenaline. The grasps for something to use against his foe; yet he finds nothing. He wipes his face with his dirt covered hand, the orc is now standing over him with the mace over head. Luithrandir closes his eyes in relief, "Did I die a noble death?" he thinks to himself as the sound of a thump rings in his ears. He opens his eyes for just a second and sees a beautiful face of a woman standing before him; is this his greet of death he thinks to himself before everything goes black. He wakes up days later, still in the encampment; he is sitting up straight, leaning against a crate it's content unknown. His bruises remains and he can feel his wounds still; yet he is bandaged. His eyes are blinded by the sun.
A soft voice angelic voice calls him, "You are awake, you died a noble death." He looks over at the woman with herbs in her hand.
"You are not dead, you saved me."
