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6 Fourth Age: The Geometry of Shadows; [Hand of Sauron]
Topic Started: 28 Aug 2008, 11:16 PM (823 Views)
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He saw the man making a signal that was not meant for him and those muscles that had been primed for impending violence snapped with the jolt of instinct and immediately notched a golden-feathered arrow into the bow. He took aim once more at the dark man's heart.

“Namarie, Legolas Thranduilion,”

Uruk-hai streamed from behind the outlying rocks where they had been concealed from his eyes. A strong intuition told him that he must kill this servant of Sauron, for that is what he was - it was very unlikely that any other man could wield such control over those of Orc-kind. In a split second he had his arrow trained on the man's retreating back, but in that crucial second when he was just about to let the arrow fly, his peripheral vision caught sight of an Uruk's hatchet flying towards him, yet his arrow still flew, his sudden motion to avoid being critically wounded causing it to fly many feet above his target's head. But mere inches from where his head had been, was the roughly hewn hatched deeply imbedded into the dark, thick bark of a tree.

His one chance ruined, Legolas now drew out his Elven knives as he was now forced to make the choice that he had posed to Fairion: should he fight until all the Uruk's had been defeated or should he flee and preserve his life? He was far out numbered and unlike the days when he had killed a great many enemies in a single battle, there was no one here to watch his back. The chance of death would be high if he lingered to fight, and what would the purpose be? The Black Numenorean would be far out of his reach by the time he had cut and slashed his way through the Uruks. That time would be better spent warning others of what he had just encountered

An deeply held innate feeling told him that to choose flight would be dishonourable, cowardly even; but his years of experience said otherwise, and he sheathed his blades and began the retreat. He turned his back and ran with light steps back up the slope that he had originally come from. An arrow whistled by him, cutting the sleeve of his leather jerkin and his own skin in the process. Whirling around once he had the high ground, he unleashed wickedly fast arrows that screamed toward their targets, cutting down the archer and then two others who were getting too close.

And as he turned to run once again, the trees in this part grew thicker and denser and he would hold out hope that his cloak of Lorien would conceal him in their outstretched branches and deep underbrush.
 
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