Last Ride of the Heir RPG

[The Perky Ent]

Pain hit Arathorn like a rock under the Falls of Rauros. Arathorn tried walking, but to no avail. "Well Arathorn, you can't just sit here" he told himself, and with a sigh, he threw his sword strait into the brow of a troll. It fell in a swift motion. The others weren't having such luck. "I'm in charge! I have to save them" Arathorn thought, once again trying to get up. He could bend his legs, but he didn't have enough energy to support the rest of his body. "Mind if i borrow that, Owacyn?" Arathorn said to owacyn, refering to the bow. "I don't see why not!" Owacyn said, handing the bow, along with several arrows, to Arathorn. Arathorn pulled the string back, and fired.

It was well into the morning, yet still dark. Everyone was getting weak and tired. It seemed, if the fight didn't end soon, they'd fall asleep never to wake. By now, Arathorn had used all of the arrows, and couldn't reach any. All the elves were using swords now, striking as many trolls as they could get their hands on. Owacyn now could weild a sword, but didn't have enough energy to fight a troll. "Good news Arathorn!" Elladan said, straying away from the battle. "Almost all of the trolls are in the ring now. It will be over soon!" "Excellent!" Arathorn said, once again trying to fight. "May their deaths be a long and painful one!" Arathorn said, giving a roar. Elladan smirked, and ran back into the fight. Those who weren't injured were getting on their last limb, and although Elladan sounded very enthusiastic, he was giving false hope. His energy was almost spent, and the same was with the others.

After a while, the night sky became lighter. Morning would come soon. Arathorn fighted to not fall asleep. He desperatly tried to get up and fight, but he couldn't. Arathorn couldn't stand to lie there and watch the horror. Sudddenly, there was a great roar, and one of the trolls came running in Arathorn and Owacyn's direction. Apparently, someone had weged their sword in the trolls back, and the troll had run off with it. He troll was blinded with pain, and couldn't see where it was going. Feet before it reached Arathorn, he focused all his energy to jump out of the way. It worked as the troll ran off into the night. "That's it!" Arathorn said, getting to his feet. "I'm not gonna wait! If I die trying, then let it be said that I died fighting, and didn't wait to be killed!" Arathorn said, giving a loud roar, catching several trolls attentions. Arathorn got to his feet and fastly limped to the fight. Owacyn followed him.

There were now twelve trolls left, but all of them had maces, and the men could no longer fight. All that was left was Arathorn and Owacyn, who had mustered energy resting. "Kill the scum!" a troll shouted, as he looked down at Arathorn. The troll in front of Arathorn laughed, looking at the blood covering him. "This is for Nuwethion!" Arathorn shouted, grabbing a sword from the ground, and shoving it at the troll. Owacyn did the same. Both trolls fell down to the ground. "Gah! He killed Durb! Get him!" a troll shouted, as the ten remaining trolls circled. Ten strong maces stared down at Arathorn. "Well Owacyn, you were a great companion to the end!" Arathorn, said, giving a small smile. "As were you Arathorn! Goodbye" Owacyn said, putting down his sword. There was no hope. It was all over. Arathorn would never live to see his son. Suddenly, a beam of light shot from the bottom of the sky. "It must have happened. I am dead." he said, giving a great sigh. Suddenly, the trolls began to screem. "Nooo!" they shouted, as a rumbling sound was heard. All the elves and men looked up, watching in amazment. "Agh!" one troll shouted, as he began to swing at Arathorn, but stopped inches before his face. He had been turned to stone. The battle was over.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Hanindur sagged to the ground heavilly. "Thank Eru for daylight," he said hoarsely, knowing that he wouldn't've been able to fight any longer. The sun had came out, and the trolls were stone blocks under the new light. Then he recalled that there were others still alive... but whom? The ranger forced himself to his feet, exhausted, and in pain. His sword lay on the ground, coated in rapidly thickening blood, from the trolls that were now harmless stone.

If only the sun had came earlier. If only... it always came back to that. Then maybe Anga wouldn't've been killed, or Nuwethion, or Arathorn injured. There was so much that could've been changed, but it was always the 'if' there. There was no way to undo what was done.

He stroked his sword against the torn ground, to remove the black blood from the now tarnished blade, and sheathed the blade. Hanindur didn't know what had happened to his dagger, and, at the moment, didn't care either. He cared for his friends, and for their safety, surely they were still alive, surely most still lived. Indeed, he hoped, but hope was always only hope.

Hanindur crossed the torn field, stone-turned trolls littering the way, and uprooted trees still laying on the ground, where the trolls had tossed them. So much destruction... Everything that the new light touched seemed to be destroyed, or blood-stained after the battle. He would've picked up his pace, to cross the land that had once been a great forest-- and could've been-- but the wounds he had received during the fight pained him. Hanindur bit back a cry of pain, as he wove his way through to where the remainder of their party was.

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Owacyn let out as much of a cheer as his broken ribs would allow. The fight was over, and they'd only lost one man...He swung his sword down and decapitaed the stone head of one troll. Then his eyes strayed over the battlefield. Over the body of Anga, and the body of...

"Oh no..." he whispered to himself as he ran to Nuwethion. He lifted the dead elf's head up, and frantically sought for a pulse in his wrist and neck. He ripped the elf's chest armour off in a vain attempt to liberate his lungs and allow breathing, but it was no use. He lifted his hands and noticed they were covered in blood. Shaking, he turned the body over, and saw that most of the back of the head had been utterly smashed, and small pieces of bone fell into Owacyn's hands. Shaking with rage he stood up and screamed into the sky. Cursing it violently, before sinking to his knees again. He had never been that close to Nuwethion, but his loss still saddened his heart.

Traipsing back over to the camp, the party held the bodies of the two fallen on biers. Elladan and Elrohir walked crestfallen behind the two biers. Two of their kin lost in the fight. As they laid the biers to rest Owacyn sat by the fire and started to whittle a small wooden sword. The rest of the group sat near, not saying anything, but sad faces were worn by all...

[ArwenBaggins]

Eirian dropped his sword. The trolls were stone… he was alive. Groaning in pain, he reached to the bloodstained ground and picked up his blunting blade. Rangers and Elves were sitting, gasping for breath, not far in front of him at camp. "I could join them…" he complained aloud, he himself struggling with the pain his wrist and other wounds brought.

He noticed the two bodies were not breathing in relief on the biers. Remembering the sanguinary incident with Anga, he cursed under his breath. If only he had been there to protect him and Nuwethion. If only Arathorn had not been injured. If…

Stupidly kicking a frozen troll as he walked past, he cringed as more unwanted pain drifted through his toes and then his foot. The pain in his swollen, almost certainly broken wrist was enough to make him pass out, but he forced it away. The battle was over… there was no need to fall now. He wouldn't fall now… if he could help it.

Wiping some blood from the edge of his gray eyes, he continued to slowly stumble toward the rest of the group. Finally reaching Arathorn, he collapsed. He couldn't stand the pain any longer. He had fought many battles, but none seemed as hard as this one was. He lay on his back, his bloody head resting on the knobby roots of a giant tree. 'This is wonderful, he crooned inside of his head, his eyes falling closed.

[Mad Baggins]

Beroth lifted his sword to deliver a fatal blow and stopped in mid-air. The sun was peeking over the horizon and the trolls had fallen silent. Tentatively, he touched one of the trolls and felt stone beneath his fingers. Relief flooded through his body as he raised his sword in a gesture of victory. Wiping his bloodied sword upon his tunic, he suddenly remembered the cut he had received earlier in the night. Pressing his hand to his forehead, he felt a long gash caked in blood.

He turned to see how the others had fared and noticed two still figures on biers. One of them he recognized as Anga, but the other...Nuwethion?

Beroth's eyes filled with tears as he joined the procession, trudging solemnly behind the biers. They were laid to rest respectfully and the Rangers and Elves dispersed among the camp. Beroth wiped his forehead with his dirtied sleeve, unmindful of his injury. The cut opened and blood began to trickle down his face.

Wincing, Beroth pulled a small fabric bag out of a pocket and opened it. He pulled out a leaf of athelas and replaced the bag. Then he pushed the leaf into his cut and pressed the sleeve of his tunic against it. His eyes watered as the leaf stung, but it subsided and became a soothing coolness instead. Beroth wandered over to where a group of rangers sat and let himself fall to a sitting position, filled with grief over the loss of their comrades.

[Will Witfoot]

Wielding his blade with superlative skill, Eldín wove a deadly dance around one of their hulking opponents, wounding the troll in the critical soft spots in it's flesh and leaving it chasing shadows as he ducked out of the way of it's clumsy blows, re-appearing again only to deliver another flurry of attacks, each deadly kiss of his sword drawing black blood from the creature. After the troll was sufficiently slowed by it's wounds, the nimble elf administered the coup de grace, somersaulting in the air past his adversary's face and slicing his sword across it's throat. The troll gave a final, gurgling roar and fell to the ground, it's blood pooling up under it's dead form.

Eldín glanced around him, determined to let no foe take him unawares. Despite his difficult condition, he had learned the teachings of Imladris' weapon masters well. His guard was always up and his keen eyes ever open in case of trouble.

Suddenly, there was a lull in the fighting. The trolls that had assaulted them stood completely still, and it was a moment before Eldín could understand the reason for it. Then it all came together as he realized the suns first light playing upon the rough features of one of their gargantuan assailants, illuminating the rough, grey stone quite clearly. Eldín smiled. The light was yet stronger than darkness.

The smile died from his lips, however, when he recognized the two figures lying amidst the carnage of the battlefield. He hurried over to the still forms, pain in his eyes as he saw the relaxed features of Anga and Nuwethion, their faces smoothed by death. He felt a deep sadness, especially at the loss of Anga. Even though they had only got acquainted with each other quite recently, he had felt that they were on their way to becoming friends. It would have been the first friend that Eldín had ever had.

The surviving members of the group laid their departed companions to rest, singing songs of lament for their memory. Eldín could not hear their song, nor could he partake in it or word his sorrow at the loss of their comrades. He was truly beginning to realize how removed he was from the world.

[The Perky Ent]

Arathorn propped his back against one of the stone trolls. The battle had been won, but at the cost of two fine people. Arathorn was amazed that there was only two. He, personally, had thoughts that there might not have been a single survivor. Clearly, he had made good choices in his party. The men were all in bad shape, and probably wouldn't make it out of the forest easily. And if they couldn't make it out by night...

Arathorn rallied the others foward, after a long period of time. The sun was now well into the sky, its golden rays cascading over the forest. "Let us not forget the dead. For they will not forget us. Let us remember Anga and Nuwethion, who died on our behalf. Today will be a sollum day. No trumpets will be heard while we are present." Arathorn paused, looked at everyone. They were are mourning their loss. Arathorn took a deep breath, then said, "Well, let's get to work." And with that, Arathorn began moving one of the edges of one of the trolls axes, and began to dig.

A little past mid-day, there were two even holes in the ground. Arathorn noticed that Eldin was secluded from the rest of the group. "Do not recoil" Arathorn said, giving a soft pat on Eldin's back. "We will see them, eventually." Arathorn said, walking back to the holes. There, Arathorn, with the help of Elladan and Elrohir, placed Angakemion and Nuwethion in their graves. And when the dirt was back in place, Arathorn took the stone from the trolls, and began to hack at them. After a while, Arathorn had made two gravestones for the dead. "Angakemion and Nuwethion now rest in the Ring of the Dead. This ring will be remembered, for their sake. And for ours. And all who pass will be filled with the sorrow of the scene. They will feel our pain." Arathorn said, in a loud but sorrow tone. As the others turned away, Arathorn whispered, "Goodbye Anga. Goodbye Nuwethion."