A Single Dream is More Powerful Than a Thousand Realities

Durin's Day

Bard grunted as he was overpowered by two orc warriors, their knives drawn in anger, their low guttural cries of fury ringing in his ears.

He managed to take down three with arrows before the crows managed to distort his field of vision and harangue him with their incessant pecking-not enough to pierce skin or inflict real damage, but enough to bother him terribly.

Now as he fell, trying to fend off the scraping nails and claws of the green and grey skinned creatures, he acknowledge a growing dread and fury welling in his chest.

These damnable creatures were going to be the death of him?! The thought was so utterly absurd and ridiculous!

And yet here he laid, pinned beneath a vicious monster of a creature, staring down the jagged end of a knife. He could die in this moment

And he would have let them down.

Everyone.

His son.

The children.

Even the little hobbit.

With a roar of frustration, he thrust his arms upward, catching one orc in the jaw. He kicked his legs and sent the other orc sprawling in a tangled mass of flopping limbs and annoyed cries.

Rolling, he managed to jab his bow into the orcs throat, pushing the creature completely off balance and giving Bard a chance to rise to his feet.

For a moment at least. Several crows dived at the man, sending him stumbling backwards in surprise. He tripped over one of the orcs and tumbled backwards, landing on his back with a groan of surprise.

And then an orc was on top of him again.

The orc he'd caught in the jaw, backhanded the bowman and managed to yank the bow from Bard's grasp, his knife poised to strike the man in the chest.

But something connecting with the orcs backside made the creature jerk forward in surprise and confusion, a look of pain crossing its features as the knife slipped from its grasp and it dropped forward landing atop the struggling man.

The body was utterly still and Bard tilted his head, as he pushed the deceased creature off of him.

He noted two arrows embedded into the creatures back. Bright golden and white arrows, far more pristine and elegant than anything he owned.

Elvish arrows.

"Get them!" Legolas' voice thundered through the air. "Don't let anyone escape."

The bowman scrambled to his feet as a large gathering of elves encircled the few remaining orcs, picking them off one by one.

The crows, sensing defeat, retreated, their caws echoing in the air. Bard dreaded where they might be heading, but there was very little he could do about them at the moment.
Retrieving his bow, he adjusting his sling of arrows, ensuring that the black one remained and then he turned to face the elf prince, who stood, his lips thin and pursed as he gaze around.

"Sorry we're late," The elf gave Bard a small smile and gentle clap on the back, "I was not expecting to find so many adversaries in these woods. This is bad news." He shot a more somber glance at the bowman, "Those were no ordinary birds and they've returned to report to their master. We've but a short time to complete our task. We must hurry. My father would already be in the city by now."

Bard nodded and followed after the tall, graceful creatures feeling a worry tickling his brain. If orcs were this far out, surrounding the lake, had they already infiltrated the city? Just what sort of alliances did The Master have?