Robbery

Ikenvul grunts as his back slams against the wall. He sputters and coughs. One punch would mean nothing, while numerous have taken him out of any fighting position. Once more, after many, many times of holding his hands up in defense, he protests to the smaller folk whom corner him, holding knives and threatening to skewer him should he fight back, “Lads...can’t we talk?” Another cough escapes him, “I don’t have anything else.”

The sun had just set when Arra led the small band of hooded and masked figures through the Bree-Fields. Just ahead the dirt path met a small wooden bridge which went over the stream which flanked a nearby farmhouse. The windows were bright. "Someone's home," Arra said from beneath her hideous mask, carved into the shape of an orc's face. Some might call it an improvement.