battle

It was a cruel night – dark and cold, empty of emotion yet corrupted, and it stabbed Nenusidh’s warm heart like a knife. The land was giving the ranger a message – a rather bitter message at that, that there cannot be mercy. The moon was neither bold nor strong enough to best the cruel skies, and the stars were too few and much covered. The land was covered in darkness, yet despite so, there was a fragment of light within the ranger.

Dawn  was rising grey in the eastern sky. Yorva stood on watch atop a crumbled wall, cloak wrapped tightly around to keep out the sharp wind blowing across the dead fields. Her thoughts were on a wander, beyond the river, among the woods, through the gates into the midst of home. While Goatbeard lay resting in the tent below she allowed the resolute callous mask to fall and shadows of sorrow, terror and guilt flushed her eyes, made her tremble. She gripped hard the javelin used as she stood motionless as a prop to rest her weight on.

Meadwine and Meadowyn had before fought among the ranks, on foot. And the wars brought them to the lands further East, to Gondor. There the two fought side by side in many  battles and they were a fearsome two, potent soldiers upon the front.

Angelnarth wiped the black colored blood off one of his swords. He looked up to the sky. It was dark, barely around noon, but still, dark. A storm was coming.

He spasmodically turned to his left. He heard something. More of them were on his tracks.He dropped the blood stained cloth on the ground, and picked up his swords once again. He waited...he could not see them with his damaged eyesight, but he could hear them. Marching and yelling and clanking their weapons like the orcs do before they attack.