"You acursed creature!" Arathorn said, looking at Owacyn. He still wasn't moving. Arathorn, his rage filling him, ran under the troll assaulting him. While he was under, he shoved his sword upward. The troll began to scream as he fell to the ground, twitching the entire way. Arathorn quickly pulled out his sword and went to Owacyn. As before, he was motionless.
"Owacyn? Owacyn! Get up! You might not realize it now, but this isn't the best time to sleep." Arathorn said, pulling Owacyn to his feet. Owacyn gave out a small cough and mumbled what sounded like "yes sir!" Arathorn's stamana was getting worse and worse as the trolls kept comming. The elves were handling themselves pretty well, but the men were starting to loose focus. Suddenly, Owacyn's eyes bulged. He screamed "Watch out!", but it was too late. Arathorn, standing on the head of a dead troll, was already in mid-air by then.
A troll had come from behind and pounded its full weight on the dead troll's stomach, forcing a tornado of air through the mouth. A million thoughts were pouring through Arathorn's mind as he was airborn. His primary one was, "How do I get out of this?". As he began his descent, he realized he had two options. He could either try to land on a tree, or land in the middle of a upward facing ax. His choice was obvious. At once, Arathorn began leaning twords a slumping tree. In the process, he cought half of the branch he tried to catch, stopping the impact. However, he did, nevertheless, let go of the branch, falling ten feet.
The impact was heard all around the ring, and everyone stopped. Arathorn lay next to Owacyn. They shared one thing in common. They both weren't moving.
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