In these woods Curin feared nothing, for they had housed the long line of his family back to when the grey-elves had named them, the Neiruthaun, Red-Pines. For year-round these tall swaying trees had needles that were a distinctive terracotta red, and which dried on the forest-floor like copper. Here and there, where the pines relinquished their close-growing stands, dense copses of ash and elm would grow, thick with hazels and elders, and every imaginable fruiting and flowering thing. Here and there, aging only as quickly as the hills, were the stones left by the Sindar, weathered so that the ancient inscriptions could only be read by one who already knows what they once clearly said.

Neiruthaun, which was a great arrow-head shaped valley, was held between the largely impassable mountain-reaches. Those that discovered it were largely wanderers along the coastline. But even then the Valley of the red Pines was easy to pass by, for at its coastal end, there were arching bluffs overlooking the sea, with only a few gorges that made passage onto the terrace above.

All the more reason why Curin went about his way in the ancient confidence of his people, for they were brave, and their land was still free, and the few passes into Neiruthaun were watched as closely as mortals were able.

As was the custom of Curins' house, they hunted in broad daylight, with remarkable throwing-axes, the design of which had been perfected over the long millenia. He also bore a very plain axe on an arm-length haft of dark timber, almost liquorice green. His beard muffled much of the noise of his breathing, and he wore leather buskins without heavy soles, slipping through the woods as if bare-foot. Curin had been out into the wide world, and was a soldier for a time. But he was called to his homeland, only to miss the burial of his father by a month. The farm was now his, though his cousins were better heirs for it. Curin was happier in the wilds at any rate, and did not trouble his cousins with regard to his inheritance.

That day he was having immense trouble locating any prey. There was something at work in the woods. It was quiet. Something had disturbed the usual flurry. The forest almost seemed to hold its breath.

Curin cocked his head to the side, imagining he heard something. His hand strayed to his axe, and he took a quick glance about him. Now the uneasiness had gotten into him too.

This was quite a surrounding. Lush grass, strong trees, and the ever present boulders seemed to plague the region like a virus. Despite the beautiful surroundings, the sun hit the trees just enough to cast the proper amount of shadows that Silva needed to lay low. He had been following this woodsman ever since he had trekked through Silva's portion of the woods back a ways. Silva yearned to gut him, but knew he had to wait until the opportune moment before revealing himself. After all, he was a warrior of shadow, and used stealth and speed to his advantage to ensure quick, painful deaths.

His hood on his cloak was down, so his feathered blond hair was revealed, blowing softly against his head in the slight breeze that picked up through the area, sending red needles fluttering against the ground ever so smoothly. His cold, icy blue eyes watched his prey with passion and keen marksmanship. Fingers slowly wrapped themselves around the cold, mud brown hilt of his longsword, letting the large weapon slide out of it's scabbard with a soft shink sound. The sun cast a ray upon it's steel blade, letting a flash of light reflect off it's cleaned surface, before dying out.

His eyes widened slightly, before moving behind one of these tall Red-Pines as he saw the man stop and made for his Axe. Had he been careless? Let off some hint that he was even around? No, Silva was never that sloppy. He would've been well aware of any error on his part and soon would have instantly corrected it to avoid detection. No, it was obvious that the man was paranoid for traveling alone, and simply sought comfort from his only weapon. Foolish.

"Just relax, fool, and let down your guard. As soon as you do, I'll rip that throat apart and make sure you never be so careless again." Silva muttered to himself, letting out a low chuckle to accompany the dark words.

Curin breathed out slowly, and watched one of the spotted thrushes of the valley. The little bird, emblem of Curins' House, had a strange little habit. It would hop a step in the direction of any person it saw, and bow. Curin readied himself for assault, for he watched the thrush bow to him, and again, to someone who must be behind him.

The wind in the pines sighed, and like old men, their nodding heads gathered above him. The whispred voice of the wind was in his ears, and in his lungs. This was his domain, and something, that did not belong, had come into it. He heard grim words and a smug laughter. Curins' broad chin tightened within the dense closely cropped beard, and his shoulders strained against the hardened leather jerkin he wore.

Curin stooped into a stance of utmost alert and defence, his axe held above his head, blade up, and slowly he turned, expecting assault any instant.

When he saw his assailant, he was not relieved. The assassins' posture spoke of a terrible strength and skill, and he appeared little concerned that his cover, and element of surprise had been lost. Nor was the length of the longsword encouraging, afterall swords were not the easiest of weapons to repel with an axe, albeit one that Curin weilded as if it was a part of him. The assassin carried the longsword with the ease of a feather. The eyes were completely relaxed, and calculating, reading Curin every bit as much as Curin was him.

Curins' only comfort was that the assassin underestimated him, he could tell that. The assassin thought Curin would be an easy kill. That assumption was a mistake. Curin ceased to think, and let his body take over.

His position, it seems, had been revealed by none other that a bird with manners. How typical these days. Silva was being foiled left and right by such trivial things that it was really trying his patience. However, now that the woodsman knew he was no being paranoid and had an actual enemy to aim his axe's blade at, things had gotten quite a bit interesting. After all, Silva may have been a trained assassin, but it was only temporary until he could get his hands on some arcane arts. Then, the true show would begin.

Stepping from behind his tree, Silva stood firm and tall before the bearded male. His longsword held at his side and catching a great deal of sunlight, it glew a bright white against it's clean, black blade. The man's eyes revealed quite a bit to Silva, especially when they seemed to flicker with a bit of worry as the man most likely realized the deadliness of going against a sword with an axe. It was a noble, but foolhardy battle, it was.

"So, I've been revealed then? Ah well, I prefer you see my eyes when I kill you anyways. What be thy name, woodsman? I always require my quarry's legal labeling before I slay them, so that I might record my plunder on parchment to admire at later dates." Silva said with a mocking air to his words. He was taunting the man. Taunting him to let his emotions cloud his mind and make him act on dangerous instincts. He would succumb to rage and attack straight on to seek reprieve from Silva's tongue.

Silva would then dodge, spin and slice through the man's exposed stomach with a simple stroke, ending it. That's how the plan played out in his head, and he would now wait to see if he was destined to be a fortune teller as well as he waited for the person to respond.

Curin relaxed into the nerve-searing alertness of his long training. He felt the weight of the axe-head, whose heaviness could be used to built a frightful speed and momentum in a fraction of an instant. He felt the good red earth beneath his feet, and knew that he had sure footing, and could move freely in the clearing without fear of slipping or tripping.

He was dimly aware of the assassins words, that reached the tiny fraction of his mind left for anything but reacting perfectly to battle. Grim, scornful words, intended to make him hasty and angry. All the evil ones were the same in this way: they all had an overweening desire to gloat over what they felt was their imminent victory, these were not the variety of villains Curin was afraid of. The ones that attacked without word or delay were the ones that terrified him, for their own senseless hatred was all the satisfaction those ones needed to kill. Nor would they care to remember you half an instant after they had desecrated your fallen body. The talkers, though, often resorted to magic. That was a concern here.

Another part of Curins' mind was soaking in his beloved land, if indeed this swordsman could champion him. He could smell the pungent sweetness of the ripe elder-berries, and the sharp tang of the crushed parsley underfoot. On the wind, as it gusted suddenly from the seaward side, was bright with the scent of the ocean, whose rush and sigh could be dimly heard. He felt the great contentment of his breakfast in his stomach, baked ewes'-milk ricotta with fresh sliced sweet-onion, and the yellow-fleshed melons that grew on the cliffs. A gull sounded overhead, ululating its' queer mournful sound to an unknown ear.

The black blade glimmered an undead white. The assassin awaited an answer.

"I am Curin Neiruthaun, son of Ebendorn, of the banner of the Throstle and Axe. Whose knights have served the purpose of the lady of life since the stones that surround you were only newly laid. I am the nineteenth farmer of this valley in line unbroken. This is my home, where all are welcome, regardless of alignment, who have come to find whatever we can provide them. If you mean me harm, then let us have it."

However Curin had a feeling the Assassin had no intention of doing this, the eyes had flickered to his stomach, that was where the sword would strike. But the assassin needed Curin to advance, in haste and wrath. That he would not do, battle-rage was long trained out of him, even though he was but a rough diamond in comparison to the others of his regiment. Curins' attention returned to his sense of balance, and the axe. If the swordsman struck, he would see an axe weilded as only those of Neiruthaun were capable, who were masters, second only to the dwarves. Curin, though he was not the most masterful by a long shot, had passed his fathers test, to slice four falling pine needles into halves before they reached the ground. This was the ability of the least of those that wore the beard of Neiruthaun.

Silva nodded, obviously impressed. He had finally found someone worthy enough to cross blades with, it seemed. However, Silva didn't want to get too ahead of himself. There was always the chance that this man was simply smart, but backed no skill. The way he held his axe, though, so free and focused, assured Silva that this man could walk the walk as well as talk the talk. A sneer rolled over his lips. Perfect.

Silva let his blade trail a bit of earth at it's tip, before bring it up and examining it. It was still finely sharp, despite the years upon years of battle and carnage it had produced. It's surface shone bright and true, with only the fainted evidence of gore and blood upon it's black being. After all, with so much killing, not even the most daily attention could remove all the mess afterwards.

Letting it drop, Silva gave a final nod, before dropping into an attacking stance, and then shooting off to his right, spewing up a cloud of dust and needles at the speed of his take off. Skidding to the man's left, Silva shot forward, his fingers gripping the bumpy hilt of his longsword firmly, before he coiled his muscles and released them in an instantly, sending his right arm cocking back and swiping forward in a fluid motion quick enough to turn his sword into an ebony blur.

"Well, enough of the formalities, let's put those skills to the test!" Silva called even as he followed through with his assault, preparing to turn his wrist and double back for a reverse slice right after his initial attack hit. Even if it was blocked or it's aim was true, Silva had to be prepared for anything. Otherwise, he'd never get anywhere as a swordsman.

Curin felt the almost blissful release as the swordsman attacked, for now- for better or worse- the fight was happening, and there was nothing left for Curin to do but be himself. He would not remember the fight afterwards, if he lived that long, nor could he ever clearly recall the events of battle afterward. He heard the shrill sound of sword grinding against axe-blade.

Something very peaceful blossomed within him, even as the sword scored its terrible edge across his ribs, opening a long weal that felt as cold as if Curins' side had been frozen to ice. But the real danger of the blow was deflected.

Curin, in the same liquid reaction sent the haft-end whistling towards the swordsmans' cheekbone, where, if the swordsman wasn't as fast as lightening, it would split his cheek, below the eye. This attack was not much of a reply, and would only create a slight flesh-wound, any more than the cut in his side was of much concern, but it would be a bloody wound if it landed, and would spoil the concentration.

Bloody light filtered through the scarlet canopy of the pines, as the combatants unleashed their primary attacks. Curin darted backwards, his axe weaving an impenetrable wall of defence. A startled bird went sounding into the woods, its shrill cry fading into the red-golden haze of Neiruthaun.

Before the swordsman could hope to regain his balance, unless he was as instantly responsive as Curins' own shadow, Curin advanced with renewed attack, thrusting the beard of his axe, with a mighty twist, intended to grasp hold of the swords' blade, and wrench it from the swordsmans grasp. There was a hiss and a spark of steel.

Silva's blade swung true as it sent sparks astray with it's primary swing, and just as he had expected, Curin wasn't prepared for the reverse slice. It sliced just underneath his rib and sent a few flecks of blood shooting out of his cloth. Smirking, Silva turned and gave a snide laugh, before brandishing his weapon once more, and moving in for a vertical slash towards the shoulder.

Despite the wound just inflicted upon him, Curin was still agile, and moved from Silva's attack, before coming in to slice into Silva's cheeks. A brilliant effort, but Silva's muscles were tuned to reflex, and he instantly brought his blade up to parry the blow, sending the bulk of the ax swaying away harmlessly. With an opening revealed, Silva felt it best to regain the footing he had lost during the reverse slash.

Jumping back, Silva crouched as he landed a few feet away from Curin, making a good amount of distance between them. The man was a brute with his axe, and he handled it with mastery the likes of which Silva had never seen in a Human, but Silva had the weight advantage, and his speed was most likely higher due to this. Agility was Silva's forté, after all, and he'd made full use of any advantage he had within it.

However, just as he realized this, Curin was on the move again, rushing forward to make a slash right at his blade. Silva knew not the meaning behind it, but he'd show Curin that it was a mistake. Sneering, he came across with his right arm, before swiping out and downward towards Curin's blade, connecting steel and sending a scratching sound into the air.

It was only then that Silva saw Curin's true motive. He must've known Silva would fall for a frontal assault and let his pride cause him to meet it on full force. With their weapons locked, Curin was able to twist the balance in his favor with a quick flick of the wrist and a mighty heave, sending Silva's right arm hold the sword flailing back, creating a large opening for Curin. He hadn't lost his weapon, but if Curin was as fast as Silva though, he might just lose his life.

The deep dark mind behind the eyes of the swordsman had realised something terribly important. He knew that if Curin chose to now, he could bring the beard of the axe up, and tear open his stomach and ribcage.

But Curin glassaded back, and adopted a completely non-aggressive stance, albeit ready to defend himself. He dug into the leather pocket at the front of his hooded jerkin, and tossed a scarlet handkerchief through their air, for the swordsman to tend his lacerated cheekbone. Taking another one, and binding it to his side, he bowed his head.

"You are a masterful opponent, but we are a match I think. Come, let us put our rivalry aside, Neiruthaun is a place of healing, and of ancient wisdom. I will show you a herb that will ensure there is no scar from the little scratch there on your face."

Curin turned to the side, still slightly reluctant to turn his back on the swordsman. He thought he could read the signs of a great internal struggle going on, as the swordsman wrestled with equal measures of injured-pride, anger, and respect.

"Come, there is a good meal awaiting us by a good fire."

Instead of taking advantage of the opening and most likely killing Silva, he simply jumped back and stood up straight. He had sparred Silva's life. It wasn't too hard to imagine, Silva had encountered plenty who had done the same, but he had taken advantage of their kindness and slaughtered them. Besides, Silva could have ended Curin back at the parry, but didn't want to risk a slip of the foot, so he regained posture instead. He felt they were now even.

The man pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to him for his cheek. Silva lowered his sword and wondered what he meant. It was then that he felt a small trickle of blood run down his face. His eyes widened and he raised his empty hand to it, to feel a small, bleeding cut upon it. But how? He had blocked the blow, and parried back his axe. Apparently, Curin was much quicker than Silva gave him credit for.

He grabbed the cloth and applied it to his face and listened to the man's offer. A meal and herbs to heal his wounds and empty stomach. Silva hadn't eaten properly in many months, but his pride was too large to accept such hospitalities from his opponent. He'd never fall so far as to let some mangy woodsman make a fool of him. He had come here to slay this man and wouldn't leave until one of them was dead.

"What do you think this is? A spar!? I came to kill you, Curin Neiruthaun, and I won't leave until one of us is defeated. Now guard yourself!" Silva shouted, before tossing aside the bloodied cloth and rushing at the man with his full speed, before swinging up his sword in a diagonal fashion to try and cleave through the wrist of the arm that was tending to Curin's waist wound.

Curin dropped to the earth, and sword, and arm passed above him. Using the weight of the axe-head he swung the haft like a pendulum aimed to deliver a crushing blow above the elbow, that would surely break the bone.


Then he was on his feet and kicking dust toward the assassins eyes.

If the swordsman regained his composure long enough to give chase, Curin did not care. He had melted into the red haze of the woods, and only a hound could hope to pursue him.

"Farewell brother. Your road will be a lonely one, and your mouth will never taste satisfaction, even when your hands are holding it." In the distance there was the flicker of a red hankerchief waving, then the last trace of the Neiruthaundrim was gone.

[hey thanks a million Silva. I'm going to finish at this point, with your blessing. thanks again!]

[Hey, no problem, this helped Silva's development alot.]

Silva let out a howl as his elbow was pushed in and then forced to move in a direction it was normally unable to make. Bones snapped and cracked as his arm gave way and his sword dropped from his limp hand. His arm fell in sync and he grasped it in utter agony. Before he could even throw an insult at the man, his eyes were then attacked with dust and sand and his vision impaired. Such ruthless tactics! He dropped to one knee and wiped at his eye with his good hand, removing the veil of earth that clouded his vision.

As he looked on, he watched the man run off, leaving him with burning words. He was right. All these fights he had won, all the kills he had claimed, had been empty. Because his soul was being denied. He yearned for something his soul didn't want, and it clashed. It didn't want boastful victories, it wanted blood, and it wanted death, nothing more. He was acting like a small child and it was time to grow up. He'd start, by killing the woodsman.

Standing up, he nodded a small thanks to Curin for allowing him to realize his mistake, before bending over to pick up his sword. He put it back in it's scabbard, and without delay, rushed into the forest to tend to his arm.