The fall of the last spawn of Ungoliant
A journey to Torech Ungol and back, picking up some wine on the way.
Is'mon of the Rohirrim eased his way down the dark yet bone dry corridors,
"Do not think of bones" he chastised himself. Somewhere, according to ancient legend here was the last spawn of Ungoliant, an evil spirit that took an even darker form. He remembered the stories of the creatures first defeat by the ringbearers Samwise the brave and Frodo nine finger. Then of course they had potent elf magics with them, mithral armour, Sting and of course the light of Erendil. Is'Mon hefted the rusted orc blade in his hand, it was considerably longer than the dagger Sting, and given the situation he preferred the weight, although the mail and a light besides the almost-spent torch would be more than useful in these web-filled caverns.
Somewhere, a many legged creature scurried.
Two corridors to choose from, or go back and forget the entombed sheep and cattle, poisoned and eaten from within near the farmsteads on the western faces of Torech Ungol. Besides, who believed in the old stories?
"When in doubt, follow your nose" the horse rider reminded himself, also remembering the fine Riadaele, a mount of considerable speed and grace, bone white until the orcs had caught the horse and rider unaware. Now bloody and cold, the horse lay under a stone cairn, a honour to a fine mount. There was that word again, bone, and now blood. Is'mon paused, not for the first time wondering whether this was an intelligent or insane action to take. Yet he had sworn to the King of the White Tower he would battle this beast or die trying.
The first lunge took him unaware, but luckily the fell creature had not attacked to feed, but just to knock the blonde man down. Sharp rocks dug deep into his leg, piercing the worked leather armour that had been ripped in the earlier fight against the half dozen orcs.
Shelob smelt the blood, blinded from the fight against the Shire-folk so many decades ago, and lunged again this time with the venomous bard, for too long she had feed from beasts, but this was man-ling flesh, a brighter taste altogether.
The lunge was deflected with iron, Is'mon had drawn his sword during the initial fall and was now wielding it in a manner that would have put a ranger to shame. Another thrust from the toxic barb and a lunge from both forelegs also resulted in similar blocks, but the mans days were numbered, the spluttering torch which had lit his way so far began to burn out as it lay on the floor. Sensing the change in circumstances, the immense spider launching itself upwards, relying on its weight to smash rocks from the ceiling, each which fell with bone crushing strength onto the uneven floor.
Is'mon rolled away, underneath the beast and thrust towards its soft underbelly, using the size of the creature to shield him from the rockfall.
One of the eight legs knocked the blade away, and the creatures mandibles snatched him into the air. Pain lacerated his arms as the creature pinned him, almost helplessly. Is'mons mind drifted; if only his own sword didn't lie shattered on an orc shield a life time away outside near the grave of his horse, if only he had steel left within arms reach... or maybe within a foots reach.
He glanced down at the steel toe-capped boots the King had insisted he worn, 'Unsuitable for riding a horse, but perfect for cave fighting' he had been told. Time to give it a go.
The first kick shattered the spiders front leg, it screamed in pain, giving Is'mon a second more.
The second collided with Shelobs face, tearing the already ruined eyes into further destruction.
The third kick made it drop to the floor, releasing him from terror and agonising death.
With shaking hands, he used a piece of paper to pick the beast up and flush it down the toilet.
Is'mon of the Rohirrim eased his way down the dark yet bone dry corridors,
"Do not think of bones" he chastised himself. Somewhere, according to ancient legend here was the last spawn of Ungoliant, an evil spirit that took an even darker form. He remembered the stories of the creatures first defeat by the ringbearers Samwise the brave and Frodo nine finger. Then of course they had potent elf magics with them, mithral armour, Sting and of course the light of Erendil. Is'Mon hefted the rusted orc blade in his hand, it was considerably longer than the dagger Sting, and given the situation he preferred the weight, although the mail and a light besides the almost-spent torch would be more than useful in these web-filled caverns.
Somewhere, a many legged creature scurried.
Two corridors to choose from, or go back and forget the entombed sheep and cattle, poisoned and eaten from within near the farmsteads on the western faces of Torech Ungol. Besides, who believed in the old stories?
"When in doubt, follow your nose" the horse rider reminded himself, also remembering the fine Riadaele, a mount of considerable speed and grace, bone white until the orcs had caught the horse and rider unaware. Now bloody and cold, the horse lay under a stone cairn, a honour to a fine mount. There was that word again, bone, and now blood. Is'mon paused, not for the first time wondering whether this was an intelligent or insane action to take. Yet he had sworn to the King of the White Tower he would battle this beast or die trying.
The first lunge took him unaware, but luckily the fell creature had not attacked to feed, but just to knock the blonde man down. Sharp rocks dug deep into his leg, piercing the worked leather armour that had been ripped in the earlier fight against the half dozen orcs.
Shelob smelt the blood, blinded from the fight against the Shire-folk so many decades ago, and lunged again this time with the venomous bard, for too long she had feed from beasts, but this was man-ling flesh, a brighter taste altogether.
The lunge was deflected with iron, Is'mon had drawn his sword during the initial fall and was now wielding it in a manner that would have put a ranger to shame. Another thrust from the toxic barb and a lunge from both forelegs also resulted in similar blocks, but the mans days were numbered, the spluttering torch which had lit his way so far began to burn out as it lay on the floor. Sensing the change in circumstances, the immense spider launching itself upwards, relying on its weight to smash rocks from the ceiling, each which fell with bone crushing strength onto the uneven floor.
Is'mon rolled away, underneath the beast and thrust towards its soft underbelly, using the size of the creature to shield him from the rockfall.
One of the eight legs knocked the blade away, and the creatures mandibles snatched him into the air. Pain lacerated his arms as the creature pinned him, almost helplessly. Is'mons mind drifted; if only his own sword didn't lie shattered on an orc shield a life time away outside near the grave of his horse, if only he had steel left within arms reach... or maybe within a foots reach.
He glanced down at the steel toe-capped boots the King had insisted he worn, 'Unsuitable for riding a horse, but perfect for cave fighting' he had been told. Time to give it a go.
The first kick shattered the spiders front leg, it screamed in pain, giving Is'mon a second more.
The second collided with Shelobs face, tearing the already ruined eyes into further destruction.
The third kick made it drop to the floor, releasing him from terror and agonising death.
With shaking hands, he used a piece of paper to pick the beast up and flush it down the toilet.