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The group of orcs had not truly been expecting the puny little elf woman to charge, much less swing an open blade out, and into their astonished midst. The advantage was clearly hers as she swept forth, the Windstepper itself knocking down one of the orcs as it clipped the fell beast with its side.
The others roared, in both frustration and in shock, their guttural voices an abomination on the ears as Mn’dharrowryn sailed on, her blade keen for death.
The first sweeping blow sailed into the neck of the first orc, the subsequent spray painting the sky with crimson blood as it spurted, and then, with the body of the brute, fell. The others meanwhile, were preparing to fight back, and whilst there were only two of them now, more would assuredly come.
The archer who had made it onto the scene was unsurprisingly the less fortunate of the two. Orcs were not the brightest of creatures by any stretch of the imagination and, rather than reach for the weapon laced to the belt at his side, the fiend endeavoured to draw his bow, at which point, he became fodder for the sword.
Mn’dharrowryn would be able to take him down, though the third of the orcs remained, and whilst he dodged away, readying himself to solicit an attack, the one that had first fallen spoke, a pained little gurgle in his last few moments of life.
“It too late, little elf.” He sneered, in spite of the fact that his very existence was drifting away in streams of red. “Too late…”
Across the mountain path, from whence the orcs first came, Mn’dharrowryn would be able to catch a line of black in her sights. There were more of the beasts coming, and a fair few more than this. How, then, could she hope to survive, when all the other guards here had been lost?
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