[i]"What was he doing here? He was no fighter after all... He was nothing but a failure. What was he thinking? Taking arms up against Orcs. Orcs of all things! Murder machines from the east. Was it the peer pressure perhaps? Or maybe the opportunity to show his worth?"[/i]

Gnorlin was ripped out of his thoughts by a fleeing peasant who almost falls over him. He shakes his head and tries to focus on what's happening. Yelling... No... screams for help. They almost sound beastly. The bridge was not far away, but it was nearly impossible to cross with all the fleeing peasants on it and... oh no! The Orcs had already reached the bridge and... Wow, those were some big brutes. Gnorlin probably only reached their knees or something. Maybe it was best if he just jumped into the nearest shed and acted like he was sleeping or something. Yes... Yes, that was the best thing to do. Gnorlin looks around, in search of some form of cover, but to no avail. Many bushes have already been burned down by the fire arrows of the orcs, and the only structure at this side of the bridge was the tool closet of Old Man Willakers, which the old man himself only had access too.

What in Troy's name was he supposed to do against this massacre...?