WOW........... NICE job and nice typing man!

((OOC: Uh...thanks! XD You interested in joining the forum? :D))

The earth shook ever so slightly, like the dissipating tremors from some far-off earthquake. The dust on the ground was disturbed and a low rumble grew steadily in intensity. Even in the stark blackness of night, a large, dark mass could be seen some distance off. moving at a great speed. As it progressed towards the place where the Elf and Man stood, the mass dipped down into a small vale in the rolling plains of the Wold, dissapearing temporarily from view and the noise of its coming died away abruptly as if it had simply vanished into the darkness of night.

Then, with a shouting and a noise like thunder the Riders of Rohan broke over the crest of the hill which concealed them, charging down towards the company of orcs, completely ignorant of both the man and Elf, as well as the dangers lurking above in the sky. Spears were hurled through the darkness with deadly percission, impaling their targets and arrows wizzed by in every direction.

The orcs dispersed in the confusion of the sudden ambush, and by the time they had gathered themselves, the riders had disappeared over the next small hillock, leaving nearly a quarter of the raiding party dead or injured. Within a minute, the Riders reappeared on the crest of the hill, preparing to make the next charge. It could be seen now that the company consisted of only roughly two dozen men. They would not have the elememt of surprise in their attack this time.

The Riders began down the hill again at a slow trot, gradually picking up speed until they broke into an all out sprint. At that percise moment the full moon emerged from the clouds, illumintaing the sky and bathing the battle field in a silvery-blue light. Then the piercing screams came. A great, winged firgure passed infront of the moon.

"NAZGUL!!!" came the shouts from various riders, even as they broke upon the company of orcs, like a firebolt through a hay-stack. The ambushers had become the ambushed.

In all the confusion, Fírore, Second Marshal of the Mark, found himself thrown from his horse and lying in the vicinity of two figures whom he had not noticed before: Arithien and the inn keeper.

Arithien was just as surprised by the ambushing riders as the orcs were. Chaos churned over a once orderly battlefield, changing the dynamic of the fight entirely. Amidst the confusion, two of his gnarled and mangled foes managed to seek the Elf out from the crowd, both sent on carrying out their master’s will. One charged just in front of the other, both with their dark iron swords held high against the night’s glimmering moon – first mistake.

Before they even reached Arithien, his tactical advances were already made in his mind. The Elf twirled about his slender curved hunting knife in his right hand, anticipating when to make his move. Sooner than he hath expected, the first orc was upon him. The creature, swinging the sword in his right hand down vertically towards Arithien met the stern grip of the Elf’s left hand. Securing the orc’s wrist, Arithien held it in place as he slightly crouched and impaled the knife into his enemy’s stomach. The orc instantly coughed up tainted black blood, hunching over ever so slightly as the blade was withdrawn. Not hesitating a moment, Arithien twisted his right shoulder back and away from the orc’s right side, allowing him to turn the grappled orc’s sword horizontally above his own head.

The next orc, caught off guard by the Elven Lord’s swift style of combat, could not stop his likewise down-slicing blade in time. Catching the horizontally held in place blade of the first dead orc, the second orc too left his stomach open to attack. Arithien, still crouched and spinning, twirled in-between the first dead orc he supported, and the second charging one. As he spun, his knife followed suit, slicing open the guts of the next attacker. Releasing his grip of the first orc’s wrist as he finished off his spin, Arithien stood fully erect and watched as the two lifeless forms dropped to the ground.

A small grin crept upon the Elf’s face as he looked on in satisfaction…it was such a complicated move, made simple and easy. That was why the Elf thirsted for combat, for he dealt death as swiftly as the reaper himself. Caught up in his moment of glee, Arithien did not think to notice the nearby rider, probably the leader of the raiding group. Surprisingly, the Elf did not hurry or run towards this man, as it would seem customary amongst the flurry of combat. Instead, he walked with a slow and steady gait, never breaking eye contact with the man. Around him fell orc and man alike, rider and beast were slain and hatchlings of evil were struck down…none ever seemed to touch the Elf, nor even break his gait or concentration one bit. It was almost as if his Elven lore made him impervious to the effects of battle; invincible.

It had to be so, however – for Arithien’s proposition to the leader would need all the convincing possible.

As swords clanged and spears shattered, Arithien’s voice seemed to be temporarily drained as he spoke to the mounted leader. Instead, the Elf spoke to the rider of Rohan through his head.

-I am Arithien of Rivendell, once the Great White Wizard of Good and the protector of the Elven lands…this fight is not yours, Firore of Rohan, but mine. The Nazgul believe that I possess the One Ring, and we must let them believe it so. I must let them capture me, and in secrecy you must follow me. I suspect the forces of Evil have been regrouped and re-forged in a place other than Mordor. The Nazgul will undoubtedly take me to their master, and that is where you must follow me. Discover the location of their hidden abode, and once you do, ride to the four corners of Middle Earth, assembling all bastions of Good. Strike them at the heart of their lair, and root Evil from this land for eternity. Is that understood, rider of Rohan?-

Arithien’s voice would appear both soothing and calm, showing no haste or fear to the human. It was a daring operation, for the sake of Arithien’s life, and that of Firore and his men…but perhaps a necessary one.

Fír was taken aback by the powers demonstrated by the Elf. Though the clamor of battle rose about them, he heard the Elf's message as clear as water. He understood... even though he did not understand. He knew that this task was important, and, though he hated to desert a battle whic might yet be won, he began the retreat.

Two mighty blasts upon his horn brought his men back to him. He lifted a wounded rider onto his own horse and then lead his confused men to the edge of Fangorn Forest. They did not undertand why they had left.

Fír explained it to them as best as he could. After they were satisfied, he left them with instructions to return to the battle field in an hour to collect the bodies of the five men who had not returned with them. Leaving one of his captains in charge, Fír crept back onto the dark plains of the Wold, maintaining a wide breadth from the action. He carried with him a short bow, a longsword, and a lance which doubled as a walking staff. Not knowing how long this mission would take him, or where it might lead him, he set out to do what Arithien had asked of him.

((OOC: I believe AoS will be back tomorrow to play the part as one of the Nazgul.))