Lone-Lands.
The stench of blood and fear hangs in the air, but it is the appeasing fear of these creatures that stirs in him the brutal anger that boils inside. The thought flits across his mind. He realise the irony of it all. From behind him the huge axe swoops down. Glancing back, he jumps forward, he's been expecting it. Ducking as the edge pass over his head, while with one of his curved daggers he slashes in a wide arch behind him, head held low, connecting against the ripped, filthy leggings of the abomination. The feel of the dagger sinking with ecstatic pleasure into the flesh, causing the familiar, yet half guilty delight of vengeful satisfaction. The euphoria that he feels with the kill frightens him, has been doing so for a long while now already.
The orc’s axe swings in a desperate swoop above his head. His knees sinks to the ground while the weight of the axe carries his arms wide, exposing his front. Just for second the elf affords himself a satisfied smirk. He swings other blade around and plunges deep into the soft, giving flesh of its neck, leaving the blade embedded. With his life seeping out, the orc's dirty hand grabs for Sear's neck. Fingers, powerfully grips his throat. The vile filth of the orc’s talons makes him cringe. This is cutting it to close, the elf thinks as he pulls back his blade. The orc falls forward, letting his grip on him slowly loosen and slide down his darken leathers, the blood leaving a black smear.
He has been coming here often - Practicing - he told himself. But he knew better than that. He wanted to kill. The anger, hatred that he harbors inside him for these filth, these vile abominations. How he hated them. He despise them with his very being, it feels sometimes as if in him a monster awakens to demand an audience. Even just the sight, just the thought of them causes himself to wrench with disgust. No, he didn’t want to kill, he wanted to slaughter. The body of the orc falls down lifeless down in front of him, the blood that pours freely out of it’s neck stains the ground a puddle of crimson void, an abyss, in the night. Next to it lies another, on the battlements there's a few as well, with arrows through their hearts and skulls. This was a good night in some ways. At least his rage has been stilled tonight. He bends down and inspects he orc’s arm, turning it around, he sees what he was looking for. A hand painted in white stands out an in unholy contrast against the dark, gruesome skin of the defiled.
The thoughts of death and life is best kept out of mind. Cleaning his blades against the rags on the creatures back, he does his best as to turn his thoughts away. Yet they intrude so easily when he faced this. Sheathing his daggers, he walks away. There was a few fires scattered around the camp. It was in these old Rohadur forts that the orcs have been making their camp in. So close to Bree. So close to those that he so desperately wants to protect. Dour thoughts of an onslaught has been plaguing him for a while now. Ever Since Boengarn mentioned that they would be attacking their camps, had he been thinking about it.
His horse, old and grangy, watches the elf walk slowly closer. He is nearing his journey’s end now, Sear knows. But how can he let Leaf go. this was all that he had? All that makes any sense to him now. For some reason Leaf has been an anchor since he came to Bree. Lifting the old, sturdy flap of one of the two saddlebags that hangs on either side of his horse, the elf takes out a bundle of cloth before he produces a carrot from within. Leaf's eyes have been following his every move. The deep black eye of his horse, pleading, asking, begs the elf to hand over the carrot. It's snout shaking its head against his chest, he nudges Zarg impatiently to stop his teasing. "What will I do without you?" he chuckles, the ancient words of his tongue, the Sindar, rings lightly in the air.
With his rage stilled. The want for spilled orcish blood, sated. He makes his way to Hookworth. To his home. To the Knights of Eriador. He should stop these nightly visits to the Lone-Lands. He knows that the others wouldn't understand, and he does not expect them to, either. It's that just his rage and anger builds up in him, when he thinks of what these brutal, heartless monsters has caused and done to his people, these people. How many have they not slain? How many women and children have they not killed? The anger surges inside him again as he thinks about it. In some ways he can control it. It's just when he needs time alone, when he comes here in hunt of them, that he feels festering hatred rise like bile in his thought, The only way to get rid of the bitterness is with his bow and arrow, steel of his blades.
Hookworth
The gates to Hookworth, such a joy he feels when he sees it every time. He can still clearly remember that first night that he came through them.
The guards escorted him (With a lot of protest ) to the hall of the Knights. Now he is part of the High Nine. Others look up to him. The elf gives a half bemusing, unbelieving snort. He never thought that would even be possible. He has enough trouble looking up to himself. All that he can see is a ... Must he think of these things now. Shaking his head he tries to focus on something else. One of the guards. Brend, he thinks was his name, bows down halfway "Evening, sir. I hope you had a pleasant hunt" he says in his gruff voice.
He was an old man with a wife and children, the children have all left them, in search of their own destiny. The Order looked after him and Gretta, and they help the Order. That is how it has been from the day that the order has started. Together they stand as brothers. “It was fine, thank you, Brend. I brought you something." the elf replies. On the back of his horse hangs the carcass of a freshly slaughtered deer. Normally he would come back with some game and give it Brend to skin for him. It is just the skin that he wants and the guard is more than happy to be of assistance. "Would you mind?" he smiles with a jerk of his head to the back. All thoughts of slaughter now from his mind. "How's the wife been doing? Is she still ill?"
"I'm afraid so, sir. The fever has been a hitting her hard" the guard heaves as he lifts the kill from the horse. Herrond helps him from the other side. Herrond doesn't talk much, if at all. It's only been to Brend that he has seen him talk to so far. Great companions they have become, it wouldn't surprise him if Brend was his only friend. Nodding to himself, he makes up his mind. He's going to invite Herond for supper tomorrow night, that is if there's not some pressing matters that he first needs to attend to. Although the last few days has been quite busy. Thinking it's going to get pretty quiet here now with everyone preparing for the attack.
Brywyn has sounded his own wishes the last time that they were in the Knight's Hall. It was not just himself that feels so helpless just standing by while the others prepare.
Then there's his sister that has returned on top of it all. For goodness sake, he didn't even know that he had a sister. And he has only been able to speak to her a few times since he has seen her. The love that he feels for her is as deep as it would have been if he knew her from the start. There was always something missing in his soul, something that tucked at his spirited, letting him feel that there's always a loss. He never knew what. At founding her some of the feeling has disappeared, though a portion still remains. It is something else that is troubling him.
"I'll go speak to one of our healers and send her over there immediately" Zarg says, his eyes falling kindly on the man. "Just the skin as usual" he then speaks as he makes his way into the village. The guards already had the carcass propped against the wall, debating who gets what. After a few paces down the old cobbled road, the elf hears the faint echo clinging of a coin in the air. Heads or tails it seems.
