Steps in the Mist

[Audark]

He stalked alone in the mist, his steps quiet and his form hidden in the fog and the shadows. He slid towards the distant campfire, the beacon that poked through the shroud of the forests dark. It was as it had been for the past few months, he had made dozens of lonely walks toward those fires in the east, for while a campfire may be a welcome sight to a human or dwarf, it was not so to the elves of the Misty Forest.

There was no question as to the source of these fires, none of the goodly races, not even wayward dwarves, would be fool enough to light fires in a wood protected by elven bows. No, these fires were that of enemies, “Enemies that can not be allowed to remain” the elf thought to himself with a grim nod as he moved from tree to tree towards the camp. And so, in his time, he came upon their first sentry, tall and strong, with hideous armor and an even more foul appearance, an Orc from the High Moor. The beast’s breath came in huffs as it peered out into the fog, and it mumbled something in its own language with a glance back to its camp and its kin. The elf allowed a small smile to himself as he drew an arrow quietly from his quiver and stalked forward again.

That sentry would not fall by his arrow that night however, Onaeri, the bow he treasured like a dear friend, would remain silent for now. Ducking low, he looped north, away from the oblivious orc but towards a copse of trees that the elf could use to mask his approach to the camp. It was nearly five hours later, after avoiding four more guards, that the elf was finally to the east of the orc camp, viewing the scene before him as he lay prone on the forest floor. There before him was a dozen orcs, mostly sleeping around that fire, but there were at least two still moving about in the camp. Once more the elf smiled to himself as he surveyed the foul creatures. To his mind the orcs had made a mistake lighting that fire in the midst of such a small band of their warriors. Raising himself up, the lone elf walked with silent purpose into the orc camp.

Two orcs were arguing over the last scrap of meat by the fire, both waving crude blades threateningly at the other in an effort to make the other back down. One finally snatched the meat from the other and took a deep bite with a snarl. Clearly infuriated, the losing orc began to throw a punch at his opponent until he heard a surprised gurgle from behind him. There crouched the elf, draped in greens, holding a thin dagger in his right hand and a longbow in his left. The sleeping orc beneath him now lay dead in a pool of its own blood, its throat slit. In the moments it took the quarrelling orcs to register the scene before them and give a great shout in their foul tongue, the elf had dropped the dagger to the dirt and had fired an arrow into the skull of another orc, stirring by his side. In a bloodthirsty rage, the two standing orcs charged at the elf, cleavers held high.

Grimacing now the elf danced backwards as steadily as he could, firing arrows as he went. The nearer orc took two in the belly yet still charged in with ferocity, that is until his armoured chestpiece turned an arrow aside, only to have it deflect upwards into his throat and jaw. Battering aside the mortally wounded creature, the second orc came on, too fast, too close. The elf fired one last wild shot that merely clipped the large orc’s shoulder. Ignoring the sting, the orc swung down hard, but the elf had already lept to its left, dropping his bow and drawing a slender sword as he came up out of a roll. The orc almost grunted a laugh at the sight of that small blade and came charging in yet again. It’s overhead chop being quickly intercepted this time, the orc found himself off balance and in immense pain as the elf batted his strike to the side, and then plowed the thin blade through the orcs open armpit.

As the Orc stumbled to its feet the elf had darted off to collect his bow, it was too late though. The remaining orcs of the camp had collected their polearms and their bows and strode in a ferocious line towards towards the elf, collecting their wounded and angry companion as they went. How small that elf looked to them now, bearing down on him, how alone he was. But this forest was not home to the orcs, they were invaders and destroyers, the Misty Forest was the home of the elves, and this elf smiled, in the face of all those orcs, he gave a wicked smile indeed. Perel Nilvollen smiled because he was by no means alone. With great shouts to Corellon, to Solonor or to Rillifane the bows of fifteen elves sprang to life from the west, cutting down the majority of the orcs in a moment as their arrows struck their unprotected backs.

Now firing along with his kin into the scattering orcs, Nilvollen saw two of his arrows bite home before falling to his knee with an explosion of pain. He blinked looking down at the orc arrow sticking through his thigh, its tip still smoldering, coated in that foul High Moor acid. Turning from his knees he saw the orc archer, fleeing east with the few remaining orcs from the camp. Muttering only a few words to Solonor and throwing out his right hand toward the orc, a root sprung from a nearby tree and hauled the orc to the ground, only for it to be covered with more vines as it fell. Walking slowly with a limp, he once more drew his sword and brought it down at the orc just as it was fighting free of the vegetation.

A few minutes later the elves were milling about the ruined orc camp, tending their wounded and getting their bearings.
“None escaped, Perel, the sentries were taken quietly and you witnessed the rest” a blonde elf with bronzed skin spoke to the injured elf sitting on a log by the fire.
“Good, we should get moving back to the village… grrnnn” The elf snarled as he drew the arrow shaft from his thigh. After breathing a few moments and looking up “The Princess will want to hear of our success, lead them back Rythrae. I will be returning to Daggerford as soon as my leg can bear the journey.” With a quick smile and a nod, the blonde elf darted off into the fog to call back his scouts and take the force back west. Somewhat alone once more, Perel collected his discarded dagger and returned it to his belt and then turned to the fire that was still burning amidst the corpses. As he smothered the flames with an armful of soil, he wondered to himself how many more such fires would he need to put out before the orcs would come no more.

Leaving the camp a few minutes later the elves walked quietly into the west, leaving behind a field of orc dead, the smouldering whisps of smoke from a dying fire and an orcish pike, driven into the ground with a head upon it. That orc head faced east, one eye cut out and a silver arrow with green fletching held between its fangs. A warning that the Great Archer of the Seladrine would not suffer the kin of Gruumsh in these elven lands, not ever.

[foaloke]

Cool. Very cool.

[danielmn]

good descriptions...quiet the tale of bravado, enjoyed.

[Rusty]

That orc head faced east, one eye cut out and a silver arrow with green fletching held between its fangs.

Wonder where little Perel got the idea to go around leaving mutilated orc-heads behind him, eh?

Sounds like he needs someone to teach him how to fight, as well...

[Audark]

Who says you can't teach me new tricks, the "one-eye" bit is rather effective, AND fun at parties, but yes Perel started doing it IC after Von'nes laid that orc across a bridge as a warning.

little Perel... I could hit level 20 and for some reason other elves would still find a reason to talk down to me heh

[jmecha]

Good story Little Bow, well written and an entertaining read.