[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa stood frozen for a moment, staring through the etherial form before her. Daggers of uncertainty quite literally pierced her heart until she heard a cry from Malris. She looked to him, noting the way his beloved sword pierced the air, if nothing else. She swept her blade from the ground, steel resolve in her bright eyes. The vines of the hilt fit the contours of her hand lovingly, cradling her fingers. It was long for a dagger, silver, and deadly. Her twin blades were strapped to her pack and she thought of them with regret as she knew unpausingly that it would take too long to unbind them. Had she realized what danger this trip would provide... she had been so certain it would be a test of will, rather than strength. Perhaps it still was.

The crazed spirit rushed her once more, blade raised. She stood her ground, crouched into a fighter's position. She still wore her filthy and torn breeches, and her boots, soft at the uppers, were solid support on the treacherous rock. No protection, any of her garb, for any weapon, be it corporeal or no, yet it was very suited for quick dodges.

"Spirit," she murmered. "Why do you linger? Your dark master awaits you in the void." With this, she leapt forward, blade nothing more than a blur. The orc did not even slow. Grotesquely, he laughed a bone-chilling laugh as her blade pierced his formless body with no effect. Tasa hesitated, barely. Another hit landed on her, scratching across her face, a mirror image of her scar of old. She shuddered uncontrollably. The wounds, insubstantial as they were, took longer to heal each time they landed.

She spared a moment to look for escape. Her companions were as beseiged as she. Their battle seemed hopeless. While the wights landed blow after blow, continuing the strikes even through the blocking blades of her fellows, they were unable to truly affect the dead. Her opponent, thankfully only one, had returned. She looked to the sky, taking comfort in Eärendil's glimmering. She glared with unadulterated hatred at the unsettled death that stood before her, sizing her up. She could not begin to imagine what evil thoughts raced through his mind, but she could hope to force his hesitation long enough to gather her companions together.

"Auta i lómë." she spoke reasonably to the orc. "Aurë entuluva." He turned to the eastern horizen and she bolted, soundless. With a wrenching cry, he saw her motive and followed. She nearly laughed at the absurdity of the feint before raising her voice above the din. The spirit froze at the horror she spoke; the Elves looked to her, perched upon a rock, shadowed, nearly hidden, and yet the center of the moment. The orcs halted their attacks.

"Hear me now, ye proud Noldor! We will leave this place. Hope stay in your hearts. Aurë entuluva! Hear me now, ye restless spirits! You shall not remain, with us or without! Leave now or we will dispatch of you in less merciful ways. Hear me now, and choose." She raised her blade to the sky, awaiting reaction in the sudden silence of the night.