“Hold the bloody line!!” The shout originated from a distinctly female voice, despite being hoarse from trying to overcome the combined sounds of the forces of nature and combat. Angmar forces had poured into the valley upon having been alarmed by scouts who had investigated the earlier disturbances. It didn’t take long for those forces to amass and face the army of the Free People head on at the pass. It would take long for Angmarian reinforcements to arrive, and the infantry group knew this, their numbers could easily have conquered Saurons henchmen stationed at the mouth of the pass. But this was just the entrance to Angmar. Larger troops were awaiting further inland, but it would take time for them to reach the pass. For now, they had the upper hand. And that was all they needed. After all, the goal was not to conquer Sauron there; it was to cripple him as best they could.
“Don’t you dare pass the shield wall, Moore, or so help me, I will serve you up as the General’s bitch, in a frilly pink dress!” The Woman barked, a vicious-looking axe being swung savagely over the rim of a large, ornate tower-shield, followed by the distinct, sickening sound of bone and soft tissue being shattered and consequently splattered. To all intents and purposes, her demands were met. Though the Men would joke amongst themselves, away from the battle field, each one of them had to begrudgingly admit, they would not like to come face to face with the unit leader, known as Erinwyn. She possessed a nasty disposition when it came to being treated differently on grounds of being a Woman, and though some had tried, for a myriad of reasons ranging from a sense of pity, to a sense of masculinity, they had backed away when either faced with the lady’s wrath themselves, or having heard from brothers-in-arms of the tenacity and temper the Woman possessed.
The Man addressed as ‘Moore’ quickly backed away, mumbling something about his enthusiasm getting the better of him. “And it is THAT which could get us all…” The Woman started, pausing for another swing of her axe, to reign death from over the top of the towershield upon a more or less unsuspecting Angmarian. “… Killed. Stop taking it so damn personal, you idiot!” Came the reply. The Woman’s breath was labored, her expression grim and determined as she peered systematically over the rim of her shield to estimate the proximity of the next enemy.
It had been almost forty-five minutes, and Erinwyn had switched only once. She knew she drove herself to extremes in these situations; A combination of pride, stubbornness and sheer bloody-mindedness. Almost as if she had to prove something massively important to either herself, or the world around her. In actual fact, it was something akin to a maternal instinct, as though she would rather fall herself, than having any of her unit fall. And from sheer exhaustion, that moment was inevitably drawing nearer, when suddenly…
On her right shoulder, a metal-plated hand descended. “Oi,…” She growled, recognizing both the voice, and disagreeing with the form of address. She didn’t look back, though, she didn’t need to. “Get yourself a moment to breathe, will you, we can’t have you keel over on us. Please.” The latter word was added with a hint of desperation from the voice’s owner.
There was a moment of hesitation, as she once more swung the axe overhead, the sharp blade hit home, splitting the skull of an angry Angmarian nearly in two, as though it were a fresh melon. A spray of blood, bone fragments and brain arched over and across the shield and its bearer – not to mention the unsuspecting bystander trying to convince her to take a moment to gather her strength. A short, singular nod confirmed that she would take the advice. The nickname ‘Boyscout’ was the only audible word muttered.
‘Boyscout’, otherwise known as Adaron, maneuvered his way beside her, his shield firmly held in place, bracing himself for the inevitable show of force the enemy would lavish upon him at thinking the change of shift would mean a chance to break through. As if on cue, Erinwyn backed away to her left side, where the rock face started, and started to edge her way back to a safer distance. But not before an Angmarian soldier decided to have his chance for glory.
Two swords whirled through the air, cutting down one swordsman who was unfortunately not fast enough coming out of the fight he was engaged in. The Man was hit savagely in the arm, causing a deep flesh wound, despite his armour. He cried out in pain and crumpled to the ground, causing Erinwyn to spin on her heel, bringing her shield up protectively. Alas, she was too late. The tip of one of the swords impacted her on her left cheek, causing an angry gash. The axe, lovingly named Bertha by its owner, was brought up to rain vengeance upon her assailant, but much to her own surprise, and that of her assailant, he gurgled, a thin rivet of blood exiting from the right corner of the man’s mouth. His knees started to buckle and gave way to reveal the Gondorian named Adaron, grim and mercilessly withdrawing his blade from the Angmarian’s back. The blade glistened with a dark, sticky liquid in the night. There was a singular moment, where the two allowed their respective gazes to meet. Hers one of gratitude, his one of acknowledgement. “Get that seen to.” He stated gruffly, and then quickly returned to his station.
Only then did she realize a warm liquid slowly dripping down her left cheek. Erinwyn raised her gloved left hand gingerly to her cheek, wincing slightly as she touched the gash. An eyebrow, the right one to be precise, was raised as she withdrew the hand and gazed upon the glistening fingertips of her index and middle finger. “Bollocks.” She muttered. It should probably be said, that the Woman was never one for fancy clothes and immaculate exteriors, unlike most Women her age, she rarely, if ever, wore a dress. And she certainly never wore any berryjuice on her lips to draw more attention to them, or pinched her cheeks to obtain a rosier look. Nor was she the kind to willingly go out in search of a Man to settle down with.
But a scar, in the face, no less, was something entirely different altogether. It marked her. Worse still, it meant she hadn’t paid attention enough on the field of battle.
