[maikafanawen]

Dûrvagor

The plague of war had never been a frightening issue for the jovial ranger, but more a sorrowful task that could not be avoided. All the same Dûrvagor hadn’t ever enjoyed putting his sword to use against the foe though he had always done so without hesitation, knowing he did the right thing.

As he fought the enemy now upon the fields of Pellenor, his views on violence didn’t change. He met each scimitar with a firm parry and killed the enemy with his second move. How long the battle would last he couldn’t foresee. The adversary was numerous and strong. However, the addition of Lord Aragorn and his men was to the rangers’ great advantage.

Pernole faired well, constantly avoiding the occasional axe or spear of an Uruk. Dûrvagor hadn’t anticipated his horse surviving any more than ten minutes into the fight; the beautiful steed had now conquered fifteen minutes and trampled no less than twenty small Uruks.

The roar that followed the death of the first Troll shook the very ground upon which Dûrvagor’s mount stood. The ranger spared a glance to where the colossal foe had fallen and shivered. It would be the end of him and his horse if one of those were to challenge them.

Aravir

The giant black warhorse that he had acquired early on was extremely helpful. He seemed to know exactly how to move in order to keep his rider safe though give him the best vantage to a mounted attack. Uruks were an imposing enemy and to eradicate them meant dislodging their heads or sending an aerial weapon into their neck.

Aravir’s knives were spent successively and gathered up again routinely. His arrows had been spared and his sword wore the blood of thirty opponents.

“Aragorn! Isildur’s heir has come!” Aravir couldn’t identify the origin of the shout but looked nonetheless towards the shore where an armada of ships in their magnificent splendor came, a brilliant light shining from the bow of the foreword-most. It was indeed the heir and rightful king of Gondor.

Aravir fought on with formidable strength. It came to the point where an Uruk would blanch and turn at the sight of his blade. It was then that the berserker came. He raised his seventy-two inch scimitar above his head and snarled. The warhorse quickly retreated backwards, out of the Uruk’s range.

Aravir’s hands had gone instantly to his bow and letting an arrow loose towards the foe the moment it was notched. The berserker faltered as the arrow pierced the center left of his chest, but stood, scimitar ready to strike. The second arrow found its mark in the monster’s neck but didn’t throw off his swing. Beneath him, the warhorse stumbled and fell as its front legs were broken. In the next moment, the magnificent beast was slaughtered with a second swipe of the Uruk’s scimitar.

Aravir grasped the blade of one of his knives and hurled it at the monster who caught it cleanly in his throat. Spurting blood, the berserker fell to his knees before a nearby ranger severed his head.

Aravir was now horse-less, and the fighting wore on....