They always resorted to metal . . .
The rat’s bright, beady eyes took in the two combatants as they hacked away at each other with their blades. Like two cooks having at a haunch of roasted deer, they were slicing away at each other with some precision. At least one of them was . . . the bad one . . . the Southron . . . Luindal, for his part, was really more like a poor goat herder stumbling upon a wasps’ nest by ill chance. His blade moved back and forth, trying to swat away the sting of the sharp point and edge of Marreth’s blade.
Rôg scrambled closer, his little rat feet moving quickly over the stinking refuse. Luindal, he saw, had dropped his blade, and now the Corsair moved in for the kill. And it would be a kill, despite the Southron's words. With or without the receipt of the smaller palantir, Marreth would do in the Elf. And knowing Luindal, he would force the Corsair’s hand to a sooner course of murder with his refusal to give back the stone.
The hum grew quite loud as the rat leapt up, and changing, began to beat his small wings furiously. Darting through the air, a black and yellow
insect made for the back of the Southron’s hand; the hand which held the sword. He stung it twice, sending a wave of fiery pain coursing through the man’s limb. The blade dropped as the Corsair batted wildly at the offending wasp. None hit the insect, save for the
whooshes of air displaced by the manic pawing. Rôg’s next target was the side of Marreth’s face, near his left eye, and then quickly as he could, the upper tip of the fellow’s right ear. This left the Captain hitting at his head as he yelled wildly in several Southron dialects.
Plummeting down toward the floor of the garbage hold, Rôg resumed his human shape, grabbing, as he reached the slippery boards, at the handle of a discarded pot. It had a large crack in the thick, iron metal, and while no longer functional as a cooking utensil, it would serve his purpose well. He stood quickly and brought it in a quick, hard arc against the side of the Corsair’s head. Marreth dropped limply to the refuse strewn floor.
‘Up Elf! he rasped at the dazed Luindal, nudging the dropped broadsword toward the Elven captain. ‘I’ve downed him with my well aimed kettle; now take up your blade and make sure he doesn’t revive while I fetch some rope . . .'