half-orc

Jonn wiped the blood off his blade using the vest worn by one of the handful of slain half-orcs lying around him. He curled his lips at the sight of the liquid; an unsightly sort of blackish-red, like a man's blood after it had dried, but this was still wet. After sheathing the sword, he stood back up from his crouch, grunting at the sudden pain. During the preceding battle, one of the louts managed to get behind him and strike him in the back. The armor didn't appear to be pierced, but he probably had a bruised rib.

It has been awhile since I have been able to write but now I feel my strength returning enough to write of what has happened, I think it may be important so that I may learn from my foolish actions.

There are so many emotions I have had to deal with in the past week, emotions I couldn't even dream I would have to struggle through. Anger, disappointment, fear, annoyance, regret and sorrow. Not to mention the pain I've had to endure and still do to some extent.

Friendly encounters are rare for a man of the wilds. 

Thorontir knew this well. For many years he would wander far to the east of Eriador as far as the Misty Mountains, vigilant of the movements of the Enemy in dark and forgotten places. Winters too cold and cruel he would find refuge among the elves of Rivendell, residing in comfort and kind company. But even during these days he would long for the hills and mountains, content in the steadfast bond of his steed and the distant companionship he found in the great eagles.