[Saurreg]

Loudewater rode silently along side the wounded Thoronmir as killer struggled to match the pace of the ranger's greater steed. The farmer was concened for his friend who was still ghastly pale and alittle wobbly. But at least the poison on the arrow was mild and Thoronmir's condition was not deterioting. The ranger caught Loudewater staring at him and gave the latter a tough man's wry smile.

The battle was going very badly for the investigators and their troublesome guest from Bree, but somehow a dispute between the orcs and trolls arose and that together with the spectacular skill at arms of the two warriors - Aidwain and Silrûth made escape possible - but just barely. Loudewater smiled to himself when he recalled how he nearly turned and struck Thoronmir in the face when he forcibly pryed him off the dead orc - his dead orc.

But the novelty had worn off and now the man from Bree rued that he smelt of dead orc. The dark gooey orcish ichor had also coagulated, staining his brown tunic badly. But compared to the rest of the ocmpany, he was in good shape.

Veryadan was the worst off. He had fought magnificently whilst already badly injured and now his injuries had worsen. Osric was riding on the same mount as him, holding the semi-retired leader of the pack in his firm arms and trying to avoid jolting the saddle as much as possible to reduce any potentially fatal discomfort to his ward. Loudewater feared for the worst.

Tarando was also injured but not as severely as Veryadan. Loudewater suspected that his elven constituent helped for the new leader still rode at the front, upright and alert with his sister Luinien by his side. The air of calmness and self-confidence this warrior of the older race exuded was reassuring.

Menecar was dead and chances were, the orcs were having fun with his corpse now. Loudewater shuddered to imagine that he might one day see the same troop of orcs displaying a pole with the dead ranger's head stuck on top of a pole as some sort of a bizzare trophy.