Ori positioned himself behind a rock, and drew his short, stocky, solid bow. He was better at using a bow to pierce the throats of orcs than an axe to hew them to pieces. He sighed, and aimed as the first of the orcs burst through the gates. The arrow whistled through the air, and found its mark. The orc toppled and what life remained in him was instantly trampled by his companions.
Some of the dwarves had bows, like Ori himself, while others were wading amonth them, hewing their heads, or any other appendage in immediate reach. The arrows in Ori's quiver were soon spent, and he reached for his axe. He gripped the handle and, jaw set, beard braided and tucked into his belt, he stepped from behind the rock and threw himself into the flood.
It raged about him, casting him where it would. He fought with all his strength, and the orcs fell beneath his arm. The sea swelled as another wave of orcs poured through the opening. Their leering faces were contorted with gruesome battle cries as they plunged through their fellow orcs, seeking for the dwarves, lusting for their blood.
Ori suddenly found himself next to Flori. His brother's blade was notched, stained with blood, and Flori himself was grim of face. He saw Ori, and flashed a small smile at him. Ori returned it and nodded before he continued to fight the tide. The tide that could not be stemmed.
His brother's words echoed in his mind: Alright lads - let's show the coddle-brained, wood-headed monsters how a dwarf of The Lonely Mountain fights! He nodded as he swiped an orc's head and watched it bounce away.
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