The call for any able bodied man who can bear arms was put out a few months ago now, though now had come the moment the meagre training had been building up to. Ulfvidr was not the richest of people, despite the fact his father was a merchant, there certainly was not enough coin to be spending on armour or posh swords, and so he marched in his usual tunic with a simple leather breastplate pulled over his front to act as some protection. In his hand was just a fishing spear and at his hip just his usual knife.
His first encounter with an enemy went surprisingly in his favour due to the stout hearted dwarf that he found himself besides. Countless times had he ended the life of a fish, or a rabbit, or a lynx though to take the life of a man was much different. Animals did not scream and writhe in pain as men do, though soon the adrenaline of fighting for his own life overtook the acidic sick feeling in the back of his throat, and he had to fight on.
Though it was not long, his next target in fact, where he received a club blow to his side which knocked the air from him and a punch to the face that made his vision blurry though luckily once again the dwarf at his side saved him, and dragged him to his feet to face his next foe. This one was certainly a warrior, and the evil gleam in his eye showed he had no intention on sparing the inexperienced Barding. He thrust his spear forth, though the Easterling had much stronger armour than he and it only scratched him, and with an exotic flourish from his opponent, Ulfvidr found himself on the floor in the mud.
It was cold against his sweaty skin and he was thankful to be able to regain his breath, however it soon escaped from him as a searing pain burned up in his shoulder, his eyes shot open as he hissed out in pain. Above him stood his foe, his wicked sword pushed down into arm and a faint grin on his lips. Breathless and with blurred eyes, Ulfvidr clutched for his knife at his hip and stabbed blindly, managing to scratch against his enemies legs and make him step back with his sword. The Barding took his chance to roll to the side, getting a face full of thick mud mixed with blood, though as he tried to push himself up the strength of his injured arm failed him, trembling as he groaned out. Another sharp burn spread across his back and shoulder as the Easterling slashed at his back, not deeply though enough to cause him to fall down again.
A gurgled growl was heard, though it was not from the Dalish man, instead his attacker now stood with an arrow through his neck, falling down and taking a few moments to finally pass. His breathing was heavy and ragged now as a fair figure helped him to his feet, though he could not hear what he asked, all he saw was the bright blonde locks and the intense fairness that radiated from this Elf of the Woodland Realm, though his saviour could not spare much time for Ulfvidr as he had to get back to fighting again.
His hands shook as he struggled to grip his spear again, and his feet weren’t going as he wanted them too as if he had drank a keg of Dorwinion wine. Down the slope he stumbled, towards a red and gold clad man and a broad wooden shield on his arm. Determination was just as strong as pain and Ulfvidr made for him, coming close to the man! Though the last he saw was him raise his shield up towards him, before everything went black.
He did not know how he got here, but now he lay near the main gates to the sieged mountain of Erebor, his shirt was taken from him and two women were about him. The sleeves on their dresses were darkened with blood, and despite how blurred everything was he could tell they felt sick - perhaps it was their first time healing, for one was not much older than him.
His face was a state. Dirty blonde hair was brown with mud and was tangled behind his head, his eye was black and so swollen he struggled to see out of it. His lip was torn from the blunt impact, and dried blood from both this and his nose was in his beard. His chest was not much better, with a bloodied bandage tied around his arm to stop the blood flow, though it had dried over his bruised and battered torso. He lay primarily on his side, while the healers were dealing with the wound on his back that still trickled small bits of blood as they cleansed it. His head rolled back and forth in pain, and he whimpered and heaved as their fingers worked.
Around him on other beds lay men in similar ways, though through his fading sight did he manage to catch a curious glimpse of a young woman, dragging a young girl away from the bloodied sight of his treatment bed. A sharp knick of pain as they began to suture the wound however once again knocked him flat and his head sank down.
A couple days passed until he fully awoke, and learned of the events that transpired. The King was dead, of both the Dwarves and the Men, and new ones had taken their place. And he himself would survive, with new scars and worst of all, a disturbed sleeping position.
