Darcyn was a man of many things. He loved his ale, his smoke, his women. He enjoyed the culling of tribes of Orcs. Their runts were quite delightful- if he knew the word- to run down from his equally problematic gelding. A sad excuse for a horse with a liability to bite anyone with reach if he got bored. But as he looked to the knife ear elf, that was far taller than he, and was met with a hostile and predatory gaze. It reminded him he wasn't the one thing he claimed to be. Brave. For Darcyn thought himself everything perfect in a man, when in fact he was quite the opposite. Darcyn was a coward. A blight upon many a tavern and road. Staring down the seven odd foot elf from a horse. The man sneered from his tangle, and most likely lice infected beard. "C'mon lads, this twinklin' fairy aint worth the time." Turning his horse, he and two of his cronies trotted off up the column. Knocking the Númenorean to the side with the shoulder of his horse, and a cruel laugh as he passed. Joining up with the rest as they roved off the road. Most likely to terrorize the local wild life much the relief of the caravan.
Lathranien breathed a sigh of relief. Darcyn was a threat, and a large one if her years amongst the humans had taught her anything. But as ever the situation did, it had turned for the worse. But thankfully the Elven man thought her a boy, most likely a human as well. A Númenorean at most. It was a ruse she had worked for decades to keep up, it was a must for her survival. Keeping her head down as the Elf helped her gather up the arrows about her. One of the few tools she could use well with her injured hand. But as a hand clamped on a thin shoulder, perhaps a tad too thin, she tensed as the elf paused to let the caravan move a tad further ahead as she had already been at the very tail end of it. The nearest person was the Númenorean woman and she was further ahead. Far enough she was just out of earshot even for her kind. Lathranien had learned not the mess with the Dundain, they were too sharp. Her pale eyes flickered at the elf. Capping her by two feet and then some. Elves were more so dangerous to her than Númenorean. When Agarwaen asked if 'he' was alone, the elfling paused. She tugged the hood lower over her face., her sleeves nearly passing her gloved hands the ends thread bare.
Her voice deeped, or tried to, cracking. Good to pass for a boy. "Ah'm doin' just fine." A tone of annoyance heavy on her voice, like any indignant youngster. Albeit she was a eldar one. The less she talked, the less she was around others the better it would be for her. The grey sky and overcast lighting from the oncoming storm was a blessing in the current. The wind about the caravan picking up a tad. Though her worries about finding food and shelter for the night were only added by the anxiety of the elf. She picked up the pace as the Elf released her, nearing the edge of the woods. Perhaps she could slip into them and the elf would stay here. If she was lucky, she could get a rabbit or something. If Lathranien was unlucky and she ran into Darcyn, she'd climb a tree and circle back about to follow the caravan's wake. Something she should have done in the beginning Lathranien mussed. Of course, she didn't suspect a
elf joining them.
Hooves struck the leaf strewn ground of the woods as Darcyn and his men pounded after a frightened herd of deer. The crude leader of the group was snarling and cursing in frustration of the puny hunting bow he had snatched from one of the farm wagons, much against the protest of it's occupants. But it was the law of nature, the strong got what they wanted, the weak gave it. Women were for giving ale and taking care of men and their needs. Ale was for the best, and Orcs were to be hunted. Chased down and killed for sport. Dwarves were little better than goblins. Only their work set them above the rats that hid in the Misty Mountains. A arrow nicked the the hind before him, the arrow thudding into a tree harmlessly. Darcyn cursed aloud.
Elves, elves by far were the worst of the races of Arda. They were so aloof. So much
better than the race of Men. They best him at every round and shamed him. HIM! He was the best, the strongest! He had women and ale. He slew Orc for game, and took Dwarven works for his own. Something they should be grateful for. Pulling the horse up, he wrenched the arrow from the tree. His men tiring of the hunt to laugh and joke about him about the caravan and it's various occupants. There was currently a bet going on as to whom could win the pretty 'warrior woman' first. Darcyn sneered at the thought, the Númenorean would be a good conquest. A notch on his belt.
Dismounting the bad tempered nag his rode, Darcyn moved to check the ground. Disturbed leaves catching his eye. Leaves still on a tree. And black with blood. A small smile crossed Darcyn's lips. True game was at hand. His job required he report this to Giles, who would most likely skip resting the night and move the caravan. Even through the storm. The merchant took no chances, not with Orcs. A smart man but one that had no fun on his caravan. Darcyn's smile only grew at the thought of what he enjoyed for fun. Perhaps even the elf would get taken out and it'd solve his problem for him.
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