At last the invading beasts drew back. Tarannon watched as Islist sent the last few on their way with a rapid volley of arrows. It disturbed him to see them go unharmed, and he had to exert quite a lot of will power to keep from chasing them. Sighing, he turned and began to clean his sword.
When his sword was clean, Tarannon resheathed it and began to hunt for his knife. He had drawn it when the orcs first charged because, he remembered ashamedly, he had not thought to draw his sword when he took up the watch. He saw a glint in the grass. It turned out to be his knife, stuck deep in the chest of a dead orc. He retrieved it, cleaned it, and sheathed it. He had only been in the thick of things for a few moments before backing off, but it had been enough to tell him that he was falling behind on his sword skill. He needed to do some sparring to recover his speed and agility. Ruefully, Tarannon examined a long scratch on his right arm. It was not deep, but stung annoyingly. Luckily it was not poisoned, and his sword arm was uninjured. He walked toward the center of camp to see how the other rangers had fared.
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