Chapter 3: The Elf
Since childhood a strange longing had lived in the heart of the Elf. He'd always enjoyed the hunt a little too much, always been a little too eager to fight on the front lines. What he saw as honing his skills and proving his worth in battle, others had seen merely as bloodlust. Elves were considered people of peace and a thirst for warfare was frowned upon. Of course Elves were skilled in combat but they should not feel the need to seek it out. Everyone knew the tragic stories of Faenor and his sons. But despite all that the Elf loved it. He lived for the thrill of battle and the chance to prove his skill.
He was also possessed of a curiosity and thirst for knowledge inherent in most of his race, but his fancies strayed towards the macabre and that too was unacceptable. Dark tales of loathsome creatures were what had set him on this path. One question too many and he was no longer welcome in the halls of his people. Tolerated, but not welcome, and so he had departed. Set off to find the answers for himself.
He travelled through the ever-darkening Greenwood, Mirkwood as his brethren now called it. The Elf did not find it so bad as his kin, in a way its twisted boughs and rusty leaves called to him, we aren't what we should be either, they said. An errant breeze ran through them, tickling the leaves, he tilted his head up to share in their laughter as they danced upon the ends of their twigs.
A sudden snap and it was no longer a merry sound but a mocking one. The trees were laughing at him, not with him, and from an unseen foe a black arrow sailed past his head. They could laugh all they liked, this was what he'd come here for. The Elf seized a silver arrow from his quiver and sent it flying in the direction of the threat. His aim was true, striking the attacking Orc in the shoulder. The enemy lurched forward, and others came with him, drawing black swords, and sharp battle axes from their belts. The Elf felled two more with arrows, waiting until the others were almost within range before he drew his thirsty knives and sated their craving with the black blood of these vile creatures. He sliced and jabbed, his knives finding their marks, carving through thick hides as he dodged counter blows, almost dancing to the sound of clashing metal.
These orcs fought well, unlike others he'd fought in the raiding parties that wandered in from the mountains occasionally. This troop was trained and relatively disciplined. Soldier after soldier fell, but still more came. The Elf's desire to prove his superiority urged him on to best every opponent that came towards him, but slowly, frustratingly, he was being overcome.
In a moment of slowed time and ringing silence he caught sight of the first Orc he'd wounded through the chaos. The Orc snapped the arrow off and reached over his shoulder to wrench the remainder of the shaft out of his own flesh. Fleetingly his eyes connected with the red of rubies before his attention was suddenly drawn back to the fray as another orc swung a fierce axe towards him, forcing him to duck if he wished to avoid losing his head. Caught off guard he was struck by a heavy blow from behind, which knocked him to his knees, and caused him to lose his grip on one of his knives. But one remained and he tightened his hold on it, lunging forward and taking out the nearest orc leg he could see. Large hands clamped around his arm, disabling the last weapon he held. Soon others joined it, and he was rendered immobile, his knees pressing into the forest floor as rough hands gripped his shoulders.
"Don't you know these woods are dangerous maggot?" a leering orc taunted, leaning in close to his face, baring its putrid teeth in imitation of a smile. Of course he knew that, it was why he'd come here.
"The question is do you?" He wrenched forward and sunk his teeth into the rotten flesh of his tormentor's cheek, tearing a stinking piece away. He spat the foul lump out in disgust as the orc fell back with a howl. Scraping laughter sounded around him, but his satisfaction was momentary as a heavy boot collided brutally with his belly, knocking the air from his lungs. He gasped to fill them once more, still determined to fight on. Even as he struggled against his captors, a savage blade loomed. If it was his fate to die this day, never let it be said that he did not fight on until the very end.