orcs

Coward

Angrinc sat, and the fruits of his labour were scattered about him.  He glanced toward his mailed gauntlets, soaked in blood and gore, shaking in terror even now that the danger had passed.  He could feel the pounding of his heart, each fierce beat both a welcome relief and cruel reminder of the terror he had felt scarce minutes before.

You’re nothing but a coward

The elf swatted a branch out of the way as the trudged down the dirt road. No horse, no companion, no nothing. Only herself. She approached a run down looking town. Shabby wood buildings, sloppy dirt and mud roads... Pathetic. Then again, what was to be expected from these pitiful humans. Humans had no standards compared to her kind. The elves would compare this icky, depressed village to orc architecture!

I am sitting among my friends Copper and Nelendor, along with my Papa and Father. A lot is going on, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed, so I sit a bit off, and listen to their talk. I find writing poems helps me to calm, so here we go...

Poem 1:

Year 2518 of Third Age, autumn

Clear voices rose and fell in the starlit air. One rose above the others. It was singing in the fair elven-tongue.

In gwidh ristennin, i fae narchannen
I Calar Ithil ed ardhon gwannen
Calad veleg, ethuiannen. 
 

Everything ends.

Treasure hunters delving into the necropolis of Tyrn Gorthad were held to be disreputable and base for pilfering ancient tombs of grave goods. But, Laicamiril reflected as she picked her way over a flying bridge over an unplumbable chasm, how was this any different than anyone who trespassed in Hadhodrond? The place was a colossal tomb.

Written here is a lay accounting one fateful eve upon the fields of Fornost. It was on this night that Nimrond a Gelebaladh came upon a hound who had been captured by a cruel band of orcs. 
 

She stands on the precipice. She stands upon the point of no return. The wind whips through her hair, catching her braided locks in its wild grasp and pulling threads and strands of her hair loose. The skirt of her tunic flaps wildly in front of her as she stares down the sheer drop. A sense of nausea overcomes her, and she stands upright once more so she does not have to see the bottom.

The messenger approached the small house set upon the rolling hills of prairie south of the Misty Mountains and west of Rohan. The foundations were set deep in the earth and the walls were hewn of rough stone. The roof was made of wooden logs and straw thatch. As she drew closer up the hill she could see through the sunlight that it was burnt. Smoke marks scored the stone where the roof had touched the walls. The birds ceased their noise and the wind no longer whispered through her ears.