What was that?
Ransom had heard a dull *umph* up ahead, along with the sound of armour falling. A quick glance caught the figure of an vaugly human shape, but no more. Who else would be out here now?
Another howl issued from the right. The wargs were trying to flank him. Only one choice. Ransom began to turn left, heading toward the sounds and praying to the gods that they weren't orcs. He stowed his bow, giving him use of both hands.
Too late. The warg to his right burst from the bushes, snapping his teath and clawing. A paw dug into his right arm, between his mail shirt and his gauntlets. Ransom swung his left hand with desperation, hearing a satisfying crunch as the gauntlet impacted the warg's head, sending it reeling backwards and exposing the neck. With a quite swish, the wolf lost it's head.
Without pausing, Ransom began to run again, but fatigue and blood loss began to slow him and blurr his vision. He didn't see the body of a Gondorian knight in the way, nor hear the shouting of the elven maiden pinned under him. A boot slammed into a leg, and Ransom quickly saw the ground approaching his head before blessed oblivion overcame him.
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"The blood of the dead mixes with the the flowing sand and grants more power to the killer."--Gaara of the Desert
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