Post by breguilas on Jan 11, 2010 2:28:34 GMT -5
((And now, because I feel like it...Storytime! One of Breg's many memories that I've cooked up.))
Breguilas stalked softly through the dim light of the fading stay, cloaked in shadow and stealth as was the way the Elves were taught. The great wood of Dorthonion was a dangerous place, and she had been told a great creature, most foul in its countenance, needed removing. It was said that perhaps it was one of Ungoliant's ancient children, massive and grown fat with age, but Breguilas had seen the bodies of its victims, and knew better.
It was said that Ungoliant's eldest children had blade-like legs, just as capable of slashing down an Elf as an Orc sword; she knew first hand that this was sometimes the case, as she had hunted Ungoliant's brood in the days when the massive and fell creature had roosted in Ered Gorgoroth, before it had been driven away. These wounds, however, were too clean, too even for such primitive things.
These were the work of a sword, a very sharp sword, and one wielded with skills few possessed. It was almost elf-like in its precision, but far filled with far more killing intent than an Elf usually bore, even at their most dangerous. No, this was likely an Orc, but the kind of Orc which was rare, and still possessed some unknown quantity of its ancient elvish lineage, albeit corrupt and rotten.
That made it her problem to deal with.
The issue at hand, however, was finding the damnable thing. She wasn't exactly an amazing tracker, and while she understood the basics enough to track common orcs, this one moved with skill unparalled by its brethren. Only the faintest traces of its passing remained, and she had to work damnable hard to find them, which only slowed her progress.
Without thinking, she danced aside as a fant wind blew past her face. For a split second she nearly floated, hands flying to her weapons, before the great pine she had been standing next to splintered and cracked with a great groan; the strike had been swift and true enough to split the tree across its width, and it came down with a furious crash as she finally alighted as a bird upon the ground, a massive cloud of dirt and dust filling the air.
Her foe wasted no time in pressing his assault; steel rang against steel in a silvery flash as swords struck each other, and Breguilas felt herself slide backward with the force of the blow, distraction enough for a moment to allow her quarry to give her the slip. Valar help her, he was fast and silent, almost unnaturally so.
A faint rustle in the leaves was her only clue as to the direction he approached again; behind her, this time. She spun, and turned aside the blow with Naltanar, the sword which had been the first of her pair to be forged; brilliant sparks flew and vaguely illuminated the darkening sky, giving her a brief moment to see her attackers face: it was a truly twisted visage, one belonging to an ancient orc whose hair had gone white with age. Indeed, this was a foe who was a great champion of the enemy.
She would enjoy this, more than perhaps she should.
She let the momentum of the strike roller her backwards, and with a flourish, Breguilas found her way to her feet. Naltanar was already in hand, and she drew his mate, Nendil, into her free hand as she took off headlong at a run amidst the trees.
She could vaguely make out the sound of her opponent running along a course parallel to hers; every so often, they would drift near, and lash out, the sparks brightening the now omni-present gloom of fading daylight.
Without missing a step, Breguilas turned, and plunged headlong towards her foe. The sound of steel rang in her ears as the two exchanged blows, and met each other stroke for stroke, each like a clap of thunder and a strike of lightning. Their fight continued as they ran, dancing among the trees, each trying to overcome the other in a half-crazed flurry.
Breguilas danced backwards, and then jumped, both weapons brought down in a killing stroke. Her opponent caught both blades alongside his own, and with a great grunt, hurled Breguilas backwards through the air and towards a massive tree trunk.
Carefully, she planted her feet against the trunk and sprang forward, only for her weapons to meet his one more time. This was growing tiresome; Breguilas knew she couldn't maintain this pace much longer, and that meant ending the fight now.
Touching down on her feet, she assumed a defensive position and waited. Her foe had disappeared from sight, but she knew he was there, lurking just beyond her vision. Nendil shimmered pale blue like the moon upon water, and Naltanar's blade flickered like a flame in the night. They were prepared.
In a rush, her attacker came forward, his blood lust clear across his face; he was just as eager to end this as Breguilas was. Time seemed to slow as his sword screamed ever closer towards her face, and a lesser swordsman might have flinched at the last moment, but Breguilas did not.
With a flick of her wrist, Nendil came up behind the Orc's weapon, close to the hilt. With all her might, she brought Naltanar's blade down across the orc's, and with a sound of shattered metal, snapped the Orc's weapon clean off at the hilt, before burying her sword deep into the orc's shoulder.
With a graceful spin, she pulled her weapon clear of the orc's body, and then severed his head cleanly from his neck.
She almost felt bad; such a technique wasn't among her most preferred, for it put her own weapons at great risk, not to mention herself. One simple misstep could cost her life. However, now it was done.
With a careful flick, she sprayed her foe's blood across the dusty ground, then wiped the blades clean with the hem of her cloak before returning them to their homes at her hip. She had a long hike ahead of her to return to Gondolin, and it was dark out. Not the best travelling conditions.
Breguilas stalked softly through the dim light of the fading stay, cloaked in shadow and stealth as was the way the Elves were taught. The great wood of Dorthonion was a dangerous place, and she had been told a great creature, most foul in its countenance, needed removing. It was said that perhaps it was one of Ungoliant's ancient children, massive and grown fat with age, but Breguilas had seen the bodies of its victims, and knew better.
It was said that Ungoliant's eldest children had blade-like legs, just as capable of slashing down an Elf as an Orc sword; she knew first hand that this was sometimes the case, as she had hunted Ungoliant's brood in the days when the massive and fell creature had roosted in Ered Gorgoroth, before it had been driven away. These wounds, however, were too clean, too even for such primitive things.
These were the work of a sword, a very sharp sword, and one wielded with skills few possessed. It was almost elf-like in its precision, but far filled with far more killing intent than an Elf usually bore, even at their most dangerous. No, this was likely an Orc, but the kind of Orc which was rare, and still possessed some unknown quantity of its ancient elvish lineage, albeit corrupt and rotten.
That made it her problem to deal with.
The issue at hand, however, was finding the damnable thing. She wasn't exactly an amazing tracker, and while she understood the basics enough to track common orcs, this one moved with skill unparalled by its brethren. Only the faintest traces of its passing remained, and she had to work damnable hard to find them, which only slowed her progress.
Without thinking, she danced aside as a fant wind blew past her face. For a split second she nearly floated, hands flying to her weapons, before the great pine she had been standing next to splintered and cracked with a great groan; the strike had been swift and true enough to split the tree across its width, and it came down with a furious crash as she finally alighted as a bird upon the ground, a massive cloud of dirt and dust filling the air.
Her foe wasted no time in pressing his assault; steel rang against steel in a silvery flash as swords struck each other, and Breguilas felt herself slide backward with the force of the blow, distraction enough for a moment to allow her quarry to give her the slip. Valar help her, he was fast and silent, almost unnaturally so.
A faint rustle in the leaves was her only clue as to the direction he approached again; behind her, this time. She spun, and turned aside the blow with Naltanar, the sword which had been the first of her pair to be forged; brilliant sparks flew and vaguely illuminated the darkening sky, giving her a brief moment to see her attackers face: it was a truly twisted visage, one belonging to an ancient orc whose hair had gone white with age. Indeed, this was a foe who was a great champion of the enemy.
She would enjoy this, more than perhaps she should.
She let the momentum of the strike roller her backwards, and with a flourish, Breguilas found her way to her feet. Naltanar was already in hand, and she drew his mate, Nendil, into her free hand as she took off headlong at a run amidst the trees.
She could vaguely make out the sound of her opponent running along a course parallel to hers; every so often, they would drift near, and lash out, the sparks brightening the now omni-present gloom of fading daylight.
Without missing a step, Breguilas turned, and plunged headlong towards her foe. The sound of steel rang in her ears as the two exchanged blows, and met each other stroke for stroke, each like a clap of thunder and a strike of lightning. Their fight continued as they ran, dancing among the trees, each trying to overcome the other in a half-crazed flurry.
Breguilas danced backwards, and then jumped, both weapons brought down in a killing stroke. Her opponent caught both blades alongside his own, and with a great grunt, hurled Breguilas backwards through the air and towards a massive tree trunk.
Carefully, she planted her feet against the trunk and sprang forward, only for her weapons to meet his one more time. This was growing tiresome; Breguilas knew she couldn't maintain this pace much longer, and that meant ending the fight now.
Touching down on her feet, she assumed a defensive position and waited. Her foe had disappeared from sight, but she knew he was there, lurking just beyond her vision. Nendil shimmered pale blue like the moon upon water, and Naltanar's blade flickered like a flame in the night. They were prepared.
In a rush, her attacker came forward, his blood lust clear across his face; he was just as eager to end this as Breguilas was. Time seemed to slow as his sword screamed ever closer towards her face, and a lesser swordsman might have flinched at the last moment, but Breguilas did not.
With a flick of her wrist, Nendil came up behind the Orc's weapon, close to the hilt. With all her might, she brought Naltanar's blade down across the orc's, and with a sound of shattered metal, snapped the Orc's weapon clean off at the hilt, before burying her sword deep into the orc's shoulder.
With a graceful spin, she pulled her weapon clear of the orc's body, and then severed his head cleanly from his neck.
She almost felt bad; such a technique wasn't among her most preferred, for it put her own weapons at great risk, not to mention herself. One simple misstep could cost her life. However, now it was done.
With a careful flick, she sprayed her foe's blood across the dusty ground, then wiped the blades clean with the hem of her cloak before returning them to their homes at her hip. She had a long hike ahead of her to return to Gondolin, and it was dark out. Not the best travelling conditions.