Hunt for the Palantíri RPG

[Lalwendë]

It was that rare thing, a fair fight. This Elf was a match for him. No simple blow to the chin would bring this one down. Tarn’s rage deepened into a kind of desperation and the world shrank away so there was only this struggle, which he must win at all costs. He ducked the fists which were thrown at him and with lightning speed managed to connect with the jaw of the Elf, who staggered away from him.

Thoughts of triumph started to enter his mind, and a smirk began to spread across his broad face. And then the Elf hurled himself forwards and taking Tarn unawares, grabbed him about the neck and pummelled his fists into Tarn’s chest. Tarn struggled, but try as he might, he could not get his hand about the Elf’s strong left arm to break his hold. The blows rained down faster than he could breathe and his chest tightened up quickly. His vision stared to blur and his frantic struggling started to slow down. He could not even manage to cough between the relentless rhythm of the hits he was taking and he felt as though pins were being stuck into his ribs. He could not feel his feet or hands and became almost calm.

Not like this, he thought to himself, managing to take a breath as the Elf started to punch his face instead. No, this was like drowning. This was what he did to others. No-one would do this to him. Not to Tarn.

His arm dropped from the Elf’s shoulder where he had placed it in an effort to shake off that powerful grip. It was limp, but not useless, and Tarn, taking another breath, slid his hand into his coat and withdrew the knife. As the Elf stood back to drop what he thought was an unconscious man to the deck, he got a nasty surprise.

Tarn pushed the knife as firmly as he could into the Elf’s flank, pushed through his jerkin until he felt it give way in the flesh, jerked it roughly, and pulled it out again. Tarn, exhausted, and still gasping for breath, then dropped to the deck where he sat in a heap and laughed as the Elf, his eyes wide as he saw the knife, staggered backwards.

The Elf fell down opposite Tarn, clutching his side, his breathing laboured. Tarn, wheezing, examined the tip of the serrated blade, and then looked deep into the eyes of the Elf. They were defiant but misty with pain. Those eyes widened as they went to the knife, not only covered in Elven blood, but grisly with remains of rotten reindeer flesh, flecks of something black, and threads of old twine.

Tarn lightly touched the tip of the blade, gently pulling it towards him, and then let go. The blade sprang back, splattering the Elf’s face with a mixture of his own blood and the foul remains which must by now have entered his body through the wound he had just received. “Feeling sick are we?” gasped Tarn, laughing wheezily. “ Should really…” Tarn could barely finish what he wanted to say. He spluttered and spat out more blood, which was almost black and very thick. “Ought to keep it cleaner, that knife.” He didn’t have a chance to see the reaction of the Elf as another fit of coughing took him and he doubled over with the pain which returned to grab his chest with a vengeance.