Talion has barely climbed down the Wraith's Tower when he is spotted. "Man Swine!" A gray-skinned, hunched back orc with far too many piercings runs around a group of bushes, grinning viciously. "So we missed a Ranger at the Black Gate, eh? Fortune has it we can now correct that mistake." As soon as he says we, three more companions around the corner as well, equally as ugly. They carry with them a hodgepodge of poorly crafted weapons. Even from this distance, Talion can see (with astonishing detail & clarity) the blades are jaggedly serrated and the hilts are loosely secured.
"Surrender now, Ranger, and we'll let you be our slave!" snickers one of the newcomers. He has sickly yellow skin, is missing a nose and possesses obviously deformed hooked legs. Nonetheless, he seems willing and able to fight, and their weapons, while poor in quality, are sharpened.
It would only take one mistake to see me dead, and I am out numbered 4 to 1… Talion muses grimly as he unsheathes his broadsword Urfael. "Not a chance, orc." He points his sword in challenge at them, voice filled with hollow bravado. "Soon you'll be missing a lot more than a single Ranger. Perhaps an arm, a leg or even your head." Talion would show them no weakness.
They let out disjointed, barking and nasally laughter. "C'mon, boyz! Let's show this pinkskin his place, under our heels!" They surge forward.
Talion curses under his breath. Apparently, he is not as intimidating as he hoped. He falls into a well-practiced fighting stance, light on his feet and shoulder width apart. His grip is firm and steady on the hilt of his sword. They are only halfway to him when suddenly the world around Talion dims to familiar grey hues, and the orcs run in apparent slow motion. Without seeing him, Talion hears the Wraith's voice. Worry not, Ranger, he soothes. These are simple orcs, and I am all the backup you would ever need in fighting such filth. As if on cue, Talion feels what he can only compare to a heightened surge of adrenaline. When the world returns to color, Talion is ready for them.
The leader makes it to him first, raising his axe in a downward swing and yelling out his warcry. Talion doesn't waste a moment. He sidesteps the strike and swings out his sword underneath the orc's guard. It cuts through the orc's unprotected belly, spilling its liquid and gushing contents out at the foot of the Ivory Tower (as Talion has mentally dubbed the structure). The orc makes a gurgling sound of pain and disbelief as he drops his axe. Moving his hands to his stomach, he stumbles off to the bushes to die.
Having new respect for their prey after witnessing their leader downed so easily, the remaining three slow their charge. Talion himself doesn't take any pride out of his easy victory. He knows the real challenge starts now, when the others know to take him seriously. Sure enough, the three of them spread out, attempting to surround the human. Talion doesn't allow it, keeping his back firmly to the tower and refusing to be intimidated when they close in.
The Ranger is the first to truly act, swinging out his sword in wide, quick arcs to ward away the nearest. The yellow-skinned orc, carrying two jagged daggers, pathetically scrambles back when met with the fury & longer reach of the broadsword.
Unfortunately, the remaining two orcs are just smart enough to see this as their cue, and rush in together- one from the front, and one from the right. Instead of addressing them, Talion presses his advantage to the left. Dashing towards the deformed creature and jutting his sword out in an all-or-nothing maneuver, he is more than fast enough to impale his sword right through the jugular of the orc, before the thought of deflecting the attack with his blades could even cross his mind. Talion immediately drops into a long roll, and not a moment too soon. He feels the disturbed air from a moving blade just above his head. Mid-roll, he yanks his sword from it's shallow purchase in the orc corpse, and turns to face his remaining enemies.
One is already upon him, thrusting furiously and quickly with his sword. Talion parries every single one. Immediately after, he slams his own blade against the attacker's with all the force he can muster. The enemy's poorly fastened blade comes free of its loose hilt with a loud snap. Talion only has a moment to see the comically open maw and fear beginning to surface in the orc's yellow eyes, before he cleaves the creature's head clean off its shoulders.
The Ranger takes a small step back to avoid the black blood that spurts out, and his gaze snaps towards the remaining enemy. Having seen the brutal deaths to befall his compatriots, the orc promptly turns heel and runs off- screaming at the top of his lungs all the while. Talion winces at the noise. Afraid the sound would attract more orcs, he gives chase. His strides are long and swift. It takes only a few brief seconds to catch up, and in that time, Talion swears his feet hardly brush against the ground. Seizing his chance, he lashes out with his sword, but the orc glances back at the last nanosecond. He throws himself off the ledge of the hill they are on, barely avoiding the blade.
Talion jumps down after his fleeing opponent. He knows how to roll upon landing to disperse the impact of the fall throughout his body. The orc, however, does not. His leg bones, already weak from malnutrition, snaps under the strain. He gives out a pained cry. Scrambling, he turns onto his back and sits up, holding out his short sword and small, wooden shield. Talion effortlessly bats the sword away. The orc now holds his small shield in a death grip that trembles uncontrollably. The pitiful sight gives Talion pause, now that the immediate danger is passed. The orc isn't even screaming. Only simpering, quiet cries break free from parched lips.
Perhaps… He muses to himself. I have given the evil of orcs too much credit. Thinking it unnecessarily cruel to make the orc wait for the inevitable death blow, he stomps down on the shield and readies his sword.
Wait! Talion freezes in mid swing, startled. He had almost forgotten the new presence of the wraith in the heat of it all.
"What is it…?" Talion asks carefully. The orc tries to crawl away, but Talion simply follows him at a leisure pace.
This is a perfect opportunity to try out one of your new powers, and, if we are lucky, gather some valuable intel meanwhile. Talion sees flashes of half formed images, and he gathers what the wraith wants him to do.
Hesitantly, he complies. Kneeling next to the cowering creature, he lays his left hand against its temple. Nothing happens at first. Then, a presence rises up from Talion. The hairs on his arms stand on end; a cool silver radiates around him, as though forming a second skin. His mouth opens unbidden. "SUBMIT YOUR MIND." The Wraith's voice pours from Talion in place of his own.
Then, it feels like Talion is falling into something none-to-pleasant. Something skittish, slimy and fragile, with a disgusting stench. The Ranger struggles to put to words what he is experiencing as the wraith firmly directs his attention to what they are searching for- information of the sorcerer, pried forcibly from the orc's mind. "THE SORCERER, ORC. WHO IS HE?" The Wraith demands through Talion's body. He sends memories to the orc, flashes of a blackly clad armored figure with orange, fiery eyes.
"T-the Black Hand! The big boss! One of the Dark Lord's most trusted lieutenants!" The orc sputters, his spittle flying everywhere. Talion grimaces, but holds firm. Something about the title that stirs his most recent, fragmented memories. Yes, he's almost certain that is right! He is not sure how the bond between he and the wraith works, but he does what he can to send emotions of assurance and eager anticipation, urging him to continue.
There is a pause, and Talion wonders if the wraith received his wordless message. "AND WHERE IS HE?" The wraith eventually speaks up in that commanding tone.
"I don't know! Please, please… but, I know who might. I had a slave, a ranger too, me thinks. Pinkskin swore he fought the Black Hand himself. Sold him to Captain Gimüb the Slaver for a barrel of grog a day ago. That's all I know!"
"VERY WELL." The wraith releases his hold on the orc, and Talion regains control. Without waiting, he swings down his sword, ending the orc's life cleanly. He watches as that unnatural light drains from the orc's eyes, until nothing remains. On the side of his face, it appears as though a blue handprint has melted into his skin.
Talion steps back. Only now does he take the time to process all that just occurred. He sucks in a shuddering breath, trying to forget the feeling of the orc's mind. It was definitely inhuman. Inelven too, he supposes. He is starting to recognize the mind of the elven wraith. Unlike the power, the mind seems distant, as though he has to squint to notice it. It is carefully guarded- but it is there. Cool and collected. Calculating and prideful. Confident and determined.
That presence seems to shift towards him in idle curiosity, having noticed Talion's awareness and interest. Talion quickly retreats from the mental presence, grounding himself in the physical. He is outside, in Mordor. Blackened hills with rare patches of greenery. The setting sun is covered by stringy gray clouds, which move sluggishly across the sky. Small groups of different sized orks roam the distant landscape.
And here he stands, whole and healthy. More than healthy, in truth. Shouldn't the adrenaline have ended by now? Where is the exhaustion? He feels strong, senses heightened and stamina overflowing. It is almost intoxicating.
"What is this feeling…?" he mutters aloud.
This is but a taste of what is to come. We have taken our first steps in becoming something More than Wraith and Man, and that will be our enemies' undoing.
At mention of enemies, Talion again looks to the recently deceased orc.
They do not deserve your sympathy, Talion.
"It is not sympathy," Talion corrects. "Pity, at most." He flicks orc blood off the tip of his sword. "It is in their nature to be like this. They are only abused, violent animals, and we will put them down as such."