[Garen LiLorian]

"'Ware, Trolls!" Elladan's shout rung through the cave, startling Angóre from his contemplation of the bare rock before him. Quickly the small group of Elves turned to face the new threat. "Back to Back!" the son of Elrond cried, and Angóre pressed against the back of Torfithien as she readied an arrow.

Long years of hunting had sharpened Angóre's senses to nearly supernatural levels, and he felt rather than saw or heard the gigantic creature's paw swinging towards him. Torfithien dove, releasing her arrow, but Angóre stood calm, his short javelin braced against the rock of the cavern.

The creature's boulder-like fist impaled itself on the Elven warrior's short spear, and another howl rent the air of the cavern. However, Angóre himself had not escaped without injury. Only the great beast's pain kept it from following through with the swing, but the strength of the creature was enough to send the slight Elven warrior against the wall of the cavern, his breath leaving him in an explosive rush. The walls trembled again.

The scene in the cave was chaos. Fingil and Vanimorén had succeeded in bringing one of the great brutes to the ground, and if their cries of triumph sounded pitiful when compared to the great bellows of the wounded trolls, no-one seemed to care. Elladan and Elrohir worked as a team, slashing and confusing one of the trolls, the lamps in their hands blazing as they fought together. The third and final of the beasts bellowed its anguish to the rocks, arrows liberally coating it and the thick pinprick of Angóre's javelin still protruding from its clenched fist.

Angóre drew his blade with eager fingers, his eyes bright. "Torfithien!" The Elven maiden stood under an overhang of rock, fitting yet another arrow to her bow, but looked up at Angóre's call. "Concentrate on the arms, keep them off me!" he called, and threw himself forward before recieving an answer.

The great troll's eyes narrowed as it saw the small Elf moving towards it, blade in hand. Yet another roar boomed through the cavern, and a hand swept out. Angóre dodged, then rushed, his bright blade drawing a dark line down the creature's thigh. Another swing of the beast and Angóre ducked, feeling the wind whistle on the back of his neck. Another dark line, and Angóre danced away out of reach. This was a game he had played often, and in an open field the troll would have stood no chance against him. But here the rock walls hemmed him in, kept him from exercising his one advantage.

Angóre's dodges became increasingly frantic, his counter-attacks fewer and farther between. Torfithien had saved him three times already, her arrows piercing the troll's shoulder and upper arm just at the upswing had saved him from certain death, but now she stood, fitting her last arrow to the bow.

Angóre danced back yet again, drawing his blade across the creature's knuckles as it swung. His narrow chest heaved as he fought, sweat drenching him. Again he dodged by the narrowest fraction. The Troll, maddened beyond reason by this stinging gnat, stumbled forward, his great arms reaching, and Angóre did the only thing he could. Forward he dove, the troll's hands snapped on nothing. Torfithien's last arrow quivered into the beast's chest and it threw back its head for yet another roar. Angóre saw his chance open before him, and thrust the sword home with both hands, the Elven blade biting deep into the doomed troll's vitals, stealing its life.

"Aure Entuluva, amil." He whispered softly as the dying troll sobbed and gasped, and a solitary tear slid its way down his face, losing itself in the mixture of sweat, blood and dirt.