Vandallan had staged outside of the fortress of the Sorcerer, and before him was an army of slaves and Dourhands. Yet they fell to the ground in rot. He pushed on with the stealth team and covered the backs of Ahmo, Ahmrun, Nethrida and the sort.
Until he was plagued by visions, of Orcs and Goblins climbing the tower that he stood before, and as their forms flickered from foe to friend. At the last minute he shot off to the side of Ahmo, just barely missing her. His vision cleared, but this was not before he was met with a ghostly visage. Something so dark and terrible, that no man nor elf should have to see in his life time.
An ancient King, or rather what was once one. Vandallan felt cold all around him, and before he could react he had a morgul blade thrust into his midriff. He swung valiantly at the thing, but not before he was stabbed once more. The others at the tower had retrieved the item, and they were to sail to Duillond and then to the sea to drop it into the abyss. Yet it had appeared that they would not make it thus far. They had stopped, and though Vandallan struggled and writhed in agony he persevered. His screams rung out into the sky, deafening those around him. They were upon the shores of Duillond, and he saw his friends struggle before him. A Dwarf who was sulking in defeat that he'd been found out stood before him.
Hawk so adamantly struck his ring bearing hand off and the Dwarf stood before them all, in disbelief. Yet Addiela returned Vandallan's pendant, a gift from his mother, and with the rest of his strength he knocked an arrow, and lodged it into the Dwarves head for good measure. Soon after he'd collapse, to be taken to a healer. Soon to Rivendell he was bound, to heal and replenish.
Vandallan the Mutt of Mirkwood would be forever plagued by such wounds.
Morgul wounds.
