Deorgast sat upon Grimme, his long-lived and trusted horse, which he has always loved dearly. Behind him, his 70 or so men, all composed of bowmen which he was given the honour of commanding as patrolers of the Wold after coming back to Rohan and being pardoned for his war-crimes, in the times Rohan was controlled by a wizard and not by their king. All around him there were men, scared to death of the enemy they were about to face, and at the same time marvelled by the size and the beauty of that white city they faced, Minas Tirith. Alas, a horn sounds all the wa in the front of the line, and Deor could make out a strong voice shouting.
"Riders of the Wold, to war! Death! Death! Follow the King!"
"Well, it's been fun", Deor thought, in a lazy manner, always innapropriate for the situation he was in, a defect he has always carried since he was but a boy. He saw his bannerman moving, and he followed, riding as hard as he could, his men before him. He shouted as loud as he could, thinking he probably wouldn't be heard amongst all that noise of horses trampling the grass of the Pelennor fields: "Dra... Just fire at them, FIRE!". And he did the same. He didn't aim, like he was used to when he was going on his regular hunts. He just pulled arrows from his quiver and fired at the enormous spawn of orcs in front. He was bound to hit something, right?
Suddenly, Deor catches a rain of arrows coming in their direction. Not able to make Grimme dodge amongst all the commotion, two of the arrows come flying in the direction of his horse, making him stop right in his tracks and Deor come falling down.
Sudden darkness.
