What bone-headed smith leaves holes in his armour?
The notch in the steel plate at Gurag's shoulder was seeping a mixture of blood and whatever foul toxin the arrow had carried. The irony of hunting duty.
His vision blurred,and the normaly familiar canyons of the Reach were becoming a maze of jagged stone walls. He found a shaded spot off the main trail and lowered himself painfully to the ground. How far was he from the stronghold? The sun was sinking, dicing the mountainside into bright strips.
He tore a sleeve from his shirt and roughly bound the lose tendrils of skin and muscle to his mangled shoulder, a twisted lip and a snarl masking the pain in true Orc fashion.
"I'm not telling you a thing, you know" he wheazed to the silent figure siting on the outcrop above him, a longbow slung over his shoulder.
"You won't find the them before dark ...and when dark comes-" He heaved and spat blood into the dust.
"Trolls don't mess around"
The figure shifted its weight, and a glint apears in its slender fingers. He smiled a tortured smile. Very well then.
He hauled his considerable weight from the cold stone, the remains of the steel plate falling of off him. He pulled axe over his should and held it bear. When he looked up, the figure was stood against the opposite wall holding his hand close to his side. The Sun had sunk low across the horizon, a crimson orb, making the waters of the lake in the valley below shimmer. A fitting final hour.
"I would be ashamed also, of such a measly blade" he forced the words. The archer said nothing, only watched. What little blood left in his body boiled in his viens, and he brought the blade down with a terrible splintering of stone and swirl of dust.
When he came to his senses, the axe had powdered the rock where the assassin had stood, a sour smell and a warm trickle seeped into his gut.
The mountainside was almost completely shrouded now.
Gurag laughed at no-one.
"Orc ale is thrice as strong as Elf poison!"
"Histcarp" came the cool voice.
"And those Trolls don't mess around"