There was a breath of fear amidst the four Eorlings. Two women, and two men; both men stood with their swords unsheathed, along with one of the women. The fourth was not one for fighting, but rather she was a gentle soul, a healer named Elfwyn; why she had come along with them was a queer mystery that was wrought in Ceorlgar's mind. He was one of the warriors, and there was sweat on his brow - he had never experienced such fear before, but beside him stood one who kept him hopeful in dark hours; she was Melowen, a shieldmaiden with a long sword and a fury unmatched by most. Her unceasing rage gives her great courage in the most treacherous of dangers, and this often lead her to do foolish things. In the past days Ceorlgar and Melowen have been at some unease in one another's presence, though they were companions; true to another in the face of death or from across a table where pints of mead were between them. Then there was Cynholm, a man true and stout, for among those who were hurt Cynholm seemed to take many, but his determination was unceasing. In truth all three of the warriors were growing weary and doubtful, for their foe that day was no easy prey: It was a great orc who stood almost as tall as two men, and was broad, fierce and merciless. His weapon was a long spear that was a deal longer than the spears of the Eorlingas, cutting him was the easy task, for he bled like every other orc, but getting close to him was especially difficult.
The warriors took many wounds from his spear but their assailment persisted, but was pushed away like waves upon the shore; seeking to ride further upon it but the pull of the great ocean would not allow this. With a CLANK their weapons collided with the orc's spear, and suddenly he orc distanced himself from the group and gave a wide swing of his spear that each thankfully were either to block or lesson the hurts it would inflict. When it came to retaliation Ceorlgar managed to strike back at the orc, but he could strike no weakness, nor remain nigh long enough to cast several swings at the orc.
Cynholm appeared to be the orc's focus, and beneath all the wrath he was weakening the quickest and it was clear that he would soon fall if this persisted too long.
Melowen did well to defend herself and deal strikes to their foe. It was clear that there was a difference in her ways on that day; she was courageous, but not careless, determined, but not unfocused. Her rage could be perceived as a frightening thing, but the orc was unfrightened, more amused, for he remembered her from their previous encounter and now laughed at her face.
But even with all of their efforts the orc stood strong whilst they suffered hurts, it would be difficult to believe that this was a single orc, but his size was unmistakable and his ferocity feared. With each swing or jab of his spear the warriors had to think and react swiftly, for even with the advantage of numbers they were hopeless; mere ants that the orc could trample and squash.
Meanwhile Elfwyn took note of a curious thing. There was a child at the barrels nearby on the wooden platform of the mill where they stood. The Entwash flowed beside it and neared it's mouths by the boarders of the Riddermark and the morning seemed long. The frightened boy shivered, he was beaten and abused as no young child would ever deserve. Elfwyn snuck aside and beckoned to him. The boy squirmed and crawled towards her and hid behind her as the two stood there, only able to watch the decisive battle persist before their eyes.
Ceorlgar has long had a wish. He wished to die with a smile upon his face, even should he be mauled by a warg or skewered by an orc. He wished to smile as he fell upon the fields of his homeland, but there was no smile upon his face, and suddenly he came near death: The spear jabbed at his face and rode over his cheek, skewering his ear in two. Though he was dismayed, and kept fight as blood began to drip down his face and down into his flaxen beard. His mind was void of thoughts, there was no time to think of the purpose of what he was doing, but only that he was doing it. A time for action, no more.
It was in those few moments when all three of the warriors took heart and gave into their fury as if they were a single tide. At once they all stepped forth and the orc sought to defend himself with his long spear, and he would have if it were not for Melowen's rage that bent into her long sword as she swung it down upon their foe's only defense. Her fury and steel sent it cracking and skewered in two halves, then their foe was caught in dismay and pierced many times by the two men and then he fell to the floor and his blood soaked the porch.
They were tired beyond remembrance of when they have been so weary, they felt as though they could fall where they stood and sleep in the blood of their slain enemy, but they could not. Their wounds were dire and if left they may have bled out and died. Elfwyn's skill in healing would be of no use without the necessary supplies.
But even in their weariness there was laughter and joy that did not linger long before it was silenced by the approach of many orcs that suddenly halted. They looked upon the bloody mess that was their leader and were dismayed. The three warriors turned to face them and were doubtful, it was clear that they could not take on so many foes with their poor numbers and current state. It would have been their end if the dismay upon the orcs was not so great that they cried out in fear at the boding sight. Without further hesitation they turned and fled in all directions, scattering themselves throughout the Eastfold.
That was the door to escape, and they took it, the child keeping close to Elfwyn all the while.
