In the night she had approached the camp, soft footfalls against the grass drowned out by the incessant chirping of the crickets. There, amongst the trees, lay a disturbance caused by the intrusion of evil upon their resting places. Long ago had the birds halted their songs, and the rays of the Silver Flower glittered against the dew laid by the clouds, a beauty to behold were it not for the dark stain of the Orcish presence nearby. Their axes had bitten the trees deep and the fires snapped fiercely, their warm glows heating the surrounding enemies. She begrudged the Orcs for their heat from the gusts of wind that unsettled the grass of the hills and brought bitter cold to her fingers, their numbness very noticeable as she clutched the smoothened wood of the bow, cradled across her arm. Faelhîth, she named it, a token of mercy to those who would otherwise lack it. It was obvious then, that she, believing herself a bringer of justice, would use it upon the foul creatures in the trees. For a moment, it seemed she would do so, raising it aloft and placing a fisted hand upon three arrows, which she bent into the string with a sense of alacrity. However, one of the Orcs stood up. He motioned to his other fellow in a tongue so dark that the Elf bow-man winced, and delayed taking the shot. From the motions and angry gestures, the Orc looked as if he had bade the Orc to come over, which he did so slowly, and with grunts. A slight smirk therefore crossed the silent hunter's face, for she had grasped the weakness for what it was worth, and steadied her bow.
The last look had shown five or so Orc-kin, followed by the harsh figures of two men which she dismissed as Dunlending hillsmen. Of course, she had toiled at laying traps towards her position, which left their flanking position rather the opposite. Instead, they would come to a killing ground, as the follies of the Dunlendings lacked intelligence from earlier encounters. The first arrow was loosed, taking the first Orc in the neck with a loud thud, followed by the harsh cries of his fellows. He fell backward with the spraying of coloured mist in the air. The other Orcs had only advanced a little way as the next shower fell. The whistling arrows penetrated shoulder and shield, but they did not tarry for long to pull out the shafts, instead barking deep and gutteral as they carrid on. It was then that the hillmen found the traps, their loud cries shattering a new level of noise as their ankles were clasped and then torn, the traps cast-iron teeth biting deep and shattering bone. Then as if all of a sudden, the first Orc was upon her. It threw itself forward, and with the duel of blades meeting the Bowman felt great strength fall upon her, battling for ground on the tricky slope of the hill. The blades suddenly slid apart with a hiss, and the Orc faltered for but a second, the momentum of the sword carrying it fowards onto the awaiting point of Mîrmegil, the unstained blade of the bowman. It then slid off with ease, but the sword lowered, awaiting the next enemy to rush forwards against its now sullied blade. The woman drew back up the hill, the barking Orcs in pursuit, eager to spit the enemy on their poisoned blades, but could not advance without great difficulty, fearing not only the bite of traps but navigating the cracked rock face around the hill. They went this way and that, splitting up in the midst of the rush, and at that point in time the biting arrow-heads returned, tearing through the undergrowth and striking one of the wounded pursuing Orcs in the side, bringing it finally down to a crawl as its voice died away.
But when the last Orc came crashing against the bowman, she stumbled and was thrown backwards against hard bark, where she regained her composure slowly. It advanced on her then, vile and wicked were its teeth, its sword raised high waiting to strike. Though it did not do so, for the sharp point of a sword ripped through its chest, sending it toppling to the ground. Then, revealed to her eyes was Maedhras, or that was what she went by, and what she came to be known as. She strode closer, and thereupon gave a hand to the bowman, and together they fought back against the remaining Dunlendings, who fell after they clashed blades for a short period of time. The high parries of the enemies were clearly practiced, and a few times the bowman had to repay the favour of stopping a blow to Maedhras' unarmoured back. After the bodies were collected and placed together in the still camp of the deceased Orcs and their fellows, there was little space for burial. So it came to be that they carried the bodies towards the nearest clearing, setting them out in one pile and at last giving them fire, which burnt freely at their dead flesh until they were dispelled from the forests. It was only then that bright morning came, and the two quietly shared words at the turning of grass to cobbled road. There they exchanged names, for the debt of gratitude was owed to one another. The bowman was Iorniel, not a hunter of great renown nor a noteable Elf, but that was her name and she gave it with honesty. In turn, her saviour spoke her name, and for a while they conversed. Iorniel had learnt that the Orcs were a straggling party, and that some had gone already southwards to deliver messages and resupply. It was clear then, that she would follow them, and deliver forthwith a blow that would send them reeling back into darkness, where they would not return from for a long while. For now, however, the time lengthened and the two parted ways, but not for the last time. It was the start of a friendship that all cherish. From there, Iorniel travelled south, and with time she cleaned her weaponry and armour and fell silent, tracking the passage of the enemies to their next location, where she would strike and make her name strike fear in the hearts of the enemy.
