A/N: This is purely the work of me, Firevibe; Figment had nothing to do with it. Flame me, but don't hate her. *Disclaimer* I have nothing of value, including the wonderful characters of J.R.R.
This is my solo attempt, as mentioned before. This is my first, but unlike some people I can take critisism. And, unlike most, I use spell-check. Keep in mind that I realize parts are not correct to the canon, and I claim some artistic license. That being said, read on!
Sinking into blackness...sharp pain in her chest and left arm... Elves...Elves never die...too intense...too much pain...heart beat slowly stopping...breathing a laborious effort...too much blood being lost...Elves never die...Elves never die...if I was an Elf...if I was an Elf...let me die...
The man was obviously an inferior in the hierarchy of this army, but he was pulled up in front of the warlord and was scared silly about it. He shifted his weight constantly, wondering if he would get out of this tent with all his limbs remaining. The war-lord was notorious for lopping off an ear or an arm if something displeased him. The guard behind him prodded him none too gently with his spear. He winced as he felt steel slice through his shirt and bury about a fourth of an inch in his back, then drew out.
"Get on with it, forager. Tell the war-lord your story." Would he be able to discern the truth? No, it was impossible. He was the only man alive from that botched mission. Nervously, his voice shaking, he began to speak.
"Master, the raiding party has come to grief..." The warlord was a powerfully built man, and he looked like a child's nightmare: cruel, dark eyes, formidably muscled, a deep voice like the firey pits of a volcano. The forager was terrified.
"I know that, fool. Get on with it!" He hurriedly did as he was bid.
"Through some black sorcery, the Elves knew we were coming today, and they were lying in wait for us as we passed through. There was an army of them, my lord! They jumped on us without so much as a turned leaf to tell that they were there. We fought as best we could, but the battle was hopeless. I alone escaped to tell the tale, sir." The warlord smiled as if he were truly amused.
"An army, you say?" He nodded until his neck hurt.
"At least, sire. Three score and a half, unless I miss my guess. The party was no more than a score and five." The warlord nodded sympathetically.
"Twenty and four of my men slain by Elven warriors!" his voice hardened suddenly, if iron could be said to harden. "Tell me true, forager, which gave you the greater challenge, the dying girl or the short one in the tree?" The scout's eyes widened with shock. There was no way he could have known...with a start of shock, he realized that there was a man standing next to him. How long had he been there? He hadn't heard a single sound...
"Met my spy, then? I have him follow all my parties to take care of anyone who tries to desert. He tells me all." Panic began to set in. This could not bode well for him. He was right, dead right, when he saw the contempt warring with rage on the war-lord's face.
"Two Elfin girls," he spat, "And they vanquished the lot of you." Firelight flickered in the scout's eyes, making the naked fear in them even more desperate.
"We killed one!" he drew his knife, shaking off the guard that sensed danger to the war-lord. "This is Elf blood on my blade, I tell you true." If he thought this would help his case, he was wildly mistaken.
"Twenty and five men jump on one preteen Elven girl. By my fathers! Your bravery must know no bounds! What proof do you have that she's dead? Did you stand over her until she breathed her last? Do you have a head to show me? Did you strike the fatal blow and watch her life-blood spill on the ground? I want proof, forager!" How could he have stayed? That other girl might have been short, for an Elf, but she fought like a demon, and shot her bow even better. Ten men dead before they could pinpoint her! And then she jumped on Metwick and stabbed out like crazy. As he thought of it, the almost-fatal slash on his chest throbbed in memory. Besides, they got the taller one at least six blows; even to an immortal Elf, that number would be fatal. The tall one was dead, and her friend had to be wounded. There was no pity in the man; the Elf girls couldn't have been more than thirteen or so by human standards, but if they were stupid enough to fight them, they deserved to die. And die they did. He waved the blood-stained knife in the flickering light.
"I have the blood on my blade!" As soon as he said that, he knew it was not enough. The warlord smiled and beckoned to his guards.
"My sword, if you please." He had no room for blundering in his army.
This is my solo attempt, as mentioned before. This is my first, but unlike some people I can take critisism. And, unlike most, I use spell-check. Keep in mind that I realize parts are not correct to the canon, and I claim some artistic license. That being said, read on!
Sinking into blackness...sharp pain in her chest and left arm... Elves...Elves never die...too intense...too much pain...heart beat slowly stopping...breathing a laborious effort...too much blood being lost...Elves never die...Elves never die...if I was an Elf...if I was an Elf...let me die...
The man was obviously an inferior in the hierarchy of this army, but he was pulled up in front of the warlord and was scared silly about it. He shifted his weight constantly, wondering if he would get out of this tent with all his limbs remaining. The war-lord was notorious for lopping off an ear or an arm if something displeased him. The guard behind him prodded him none too gently with his spear. He winced as he felt steel slice through his shirt and bury about a fourth of an inch in his back, then drew out.
"Get on with it, forager. Tell the war-lord your story." Would he be able to discern the truth? No, it was impossible. He was the only man alive from that botched mission. Nervously, his voice shaking, he began to speak.
"Master, the raiding party has come to grief..." The warlord was a powerfully built man, and he looked like a child's nightmare: cruel, dark eyes, formidably muscled, a deep voice like the firey pits of a volcano. The forager was terrified.
"I know that, fool. Get on with it!" He hurriedly did as he was bid.
"Through some black sorcery, the Elves knew we were coming today, and they were lying in wait for us as we passed through. There was an army of them, my lord! They jumped on us without so much as a turned leaf to tell that they were there. We fought as best we could, but the battle was hopeless. I alone escaped to tell the tale, sir." The warlord smiled as if he were truly amused.
"An army, you say?" He nodded until his neck hurt.
"At least, sire. Three score and a half, unless I miss my guess. The party was no more than a score and five." The warlord nodded sympathetically.
"Twenty and four of my men slain by Elven warriors!" his voice hardened suddenly, if iron could be said to harden. "Tell me true, forager, which gave you the greater challenge, the dying girl or the short one in the tree?" The scout's eyes widened with shock. There was no way he could have known...with a start of shock, he realized that there was a man standing next to him. How long had he been there? He hadn't heard a single sound...
"Met my spy, then? I have him follow all my parties to take care of anyone who tries to desert. He tells me all." Panic began to set in. This could not bode well for him. He was right, dead right, when he saw the contempt warring with rage on the war-lord's face.
"Two Elfin girls," he spat, "And they vanquished the lot of you." Firelight flickered in the scout's eyes, making the naked fear in them even more desperate.
"We killed one!" he drew his knife, shaking off the guard that sensed danger to the war-lord. "This is Elf blood on my blade, I tell you true." If he thought this would help his case, he was wildly mistaken.
"Twenty and five men jump on one preteen Elven girl. By my fathers! Your bravery must know no bounds! What proof do you have that she's dead? Did you stand over her until she breathed her last? Do you have a head to show me? Did you strike the fatal blow and watch her life-blood spill on the ground? I want proof, forager!" How could he have stayed? That other girl might have been short, for an Elf, but she fought like a demon, and shot her bow even better. Ten men dead before they could pinpoint her! And then she jumped on Metwick and stabbed out like crazy. As he thought of it, the almost-fatal slash on his chest throbbed in memory. Besides, they got the taller one at least six blows; even to an immortal Elf, that number would be fatal. The tall one was dead, and her friend had to be wounded. There was no pity in the man; the Elf girls couldn't have been more than thirteen or so by human standards, but if they were stupid enough to fight them, they deserved to die. And die they did. He waved the blood-stained knife in the flickering light.
"I have the blood on my blade!" As soon as he said that, he knew it was not enough. The warlord smiled and beckoned to his guards.
"My sword, if you please." He had no room for blundering in his army.