DAIN, OTHIN, A SPIDER AND A GIRL
Middle Earth, original Thorin and Wren, Timeline#1
Dain, son of Thorin, having just reached his battle age five years ago, moves with fluidity and caution, his swift lunge and thrust deadly, his father's Elven blade clasped to his back. While his younger brother is all force and roar, Dain's combat is highly influenced by that of his mentor, Elvenking Thranduil. Having spent the last two years in Mirkwood Dain adopted the low glides and side steps of the Lord of Wooden Realm, which combined with his father's fullbody swirl, blade moving in a loop around each shoulder, with a forceful spin of the wrist, create the terrifying, unstoppable sequence of swording moves.
Othin, the youngest of Thorin's sons, buries his battle axe into the ugly head of yet another Great Spider.
"You fight like a girl!" He yells to his brother and roars with laughter, blue eyes hiding behind black lashes, short and thick.
"I consider that a compliment," Dain steps from behind a tree, wiping the blood of another spider from the wide curved blade.
Another spider drops from the top of the tree, its furry body swollen with more repulsive bloodthirsty varmints hiding inside. An Elven arrow pierces its thick skull, and it emits a screeching noise. Dain pushes his brother away from it, and sliding on the wet grass on the bottom of the misty forest, he drops on his back. Moving on inertia, in full control of his lunge, he stretches his arm, Orcrist chopping the hairy jointy legs of the monster. It collapses on the ground, some of the extremities still twitching.
"I'm not a sack of potatoes, you abanbund!" Othin yells and gets up.
"You are welcome," Dain's low melodic voice is full of sarcasm.
"For what, you brainless dharg? You took away my fun!"
Dain smirks and lifts his face. He is slender for a Dwarf, thick red hair, narrow face, extraordinary green eyes, at the moment glinting with amusement and restrained passion. High above on the branch he sees a lithe silhouette of an Elven maiden. He bows, a low gracious bow, a small smile on his lips. Othin pulls a twig out of his ebony mane.
"You and your nith can go on without me. The spiders are boring!" Othin is grumbling in Khuzdul and walks away.
Dain smiles and stretches his arms up. A svelte body slides in his hands and a pair of elegant arms slides around his neck.
"Morning, kurdu," he looks into the blue eyes of Meltoriel, her pink lips an irresistible magnet. He leans in, and his thick long lashes flutter.
"Morning, aur," the Silvan Elf slides her delicate fingers into his strands, and for a while they are quiet and very, very busy.