Chapter 17: Orc Pursuit
The river was a frothing beast, its current a relentless surge of icy water, crashing against jagged rocks, spraying mist that stung Mark's face and clung to his lashes. The barrels spun and collided, the dwarves' shouts—Thorin's growl, Kili's defiant yell, Fili's sharp curse—barely audible over the water's deafening roar. Mark stood on the bank, a phantom in the shadows, his tunic soaked, clinging to his lean frame, chafing his shoulders, the fabric heavy with river mist and sweat. His wrists throbbed, raw from old chains, and he rubbed them, the sting sharp, grounding him in the chaos. The air was thick, the scent of wet stone and pine now tainted by a foul, rotting stench—orc blood, rancid, ancient, a sickening weight in his lungs. His teeth gritted dust, the taste bitter, scraping his dry throat. "They're here. Gotta protect my investment," he thought, his modern lilt a defiant spark in this primal world.
The orcs burst from the underbrush, a tide of snarling jaws and rusty blades, their roars a guttural symphony of hate, their wiry bodies moving with feral grace. Their stench was overwhelming—rot, old wounds, the sour reek of unwashed flesh. Thorin's barrel rocked, his sodden cloak flaring, his growl defiant as he swung a broken plank. Kili's eyes flashed, his braided beard swaying, his makeshift club—a splintered branch—crashing against an orc's skull. Fili hacked with a stolen dagger, Dwalin roared, Balin ducked, Bofur cursed, Bombur's bulk steadied his barrel, his breath heaving. A splintered barrel on the bank, its wood cracked, bore a faint rune—a smuggler's mark, perhaps, whispering of desperate escapes through this very river.
Mark's pulse surged, adrenaline flooding his veins, his meta-knowledge screaming of Dol Guldur's orders. "They want the dwarves. The treasure," he thought, rubbing his wrist, the sting grounding his racing thoughts. He focused, pouring his will into Repulsion Field, the system's runes humming like a glitchy storm, a low buzz that set his teeth on edge. The air thrummed, a destructive pulse building in his chest, and he unleashed it—a wide, invisible blast of force. The front line of orcs—green, snarling, their scimitars raised—flew backward, their shrieks swallowed by the river's roar. Rusty blades and axes spun, clattering on the rocks, the iron tang of blood mixing with the water's icy bite, a metallic scent that stung his nose.
[Repulsion Field Lv. 3 unlocked. MP -20. Nice blast.]
[Repulsion Field Lv. 3: MP 0/100. Cooldown: 45s.]
Mark panted, his chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes, the air humming with residual energy, a faint crackle that raised the hairs on his arms. "Scattered them," he thought, triumph sparking, but his body trembled, his power drained, his legs unsteady on the slick bank. Tauriel fought nearby, a blur of red hair and steel, her bowstring snapping with lethal precision, arrows whistling, felling orcs with deadly grace. Her lavender scent cut through the rot, her leather armor creaking as she moved, a lethal dance against the river's roar. But an orc—Krul, its face a mask of primal rage—lunged from behind, its rusted blade slashing her forearm. Crimson bloomed, staining the river, a sickening splash against her pale skin, the sight twisting Mark's stomach.
Fear and guilt surged, an emotional override drowning logic—he couldn't lose her, not after everything. "Not her. Not now," he thought, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it, his heart pounding like a war drum. He reached into the system, the runes pulsing erratically, a sickly yellow glow flickering in his mind. A Health Potion materialized, its vial glowing faintly, its herbal scent—earthy, sweet, like crushed mint—cutting through the orc stench. He phased to her side, the river's chill biting his skin, the mist clinging to his lashes, and poured the potion over her wound. The liquid shimmered, sealing the cut, leaving a faint, silvery scar, the skin knitting before his eyes. Tauriel's breath caught, her green eyes wide with shock, confusion, a flicker of gratitude beneath her warrior's mask.
[Purchase: Health Potion – 100 Essence. Balance: 350.]
"You… you didn't have to," she murmured, her voice strained, melodic, her eyes searching his, a mix of vulnerability and suspicion, her fingers twitching toward her dagger.
"Couldn't let you bleed out," Mark said, his grin thin, worried, his modern lilt soft, cracking under the weight of his fear.
The river's roar mocked him, its icy spray stinging his face, the dwarves' barrels bobbing chaotically, their shouts faint—Thorin's orders, Kili's taunts, Fili's grunts. Mark scanned the chaos, his meta-knowledge nagging, a cold dread settling in his gut. Bilbo was missing. No barrel, no trace, just a faint ripple in the water, a whisper of movement, an unseen presence that sent a shiver down his spine. "The Ring. He's got it," he thought, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it, the system's runes pulsing faintly, their snarky tone a prod.
[Intuition +0.3. Where's the hobbit?]
His heart raced, guilt and suspicion warring, his moral hypocrisy gnawing at him—saving Tauriel at a cost, neglecting the Ring, a survivor's choice he wasn't proud of, like Daryl Dixon risking all for a friend in a walker-infested camp. A cracked rock on the bank, etched with a faded leaf, whispered of a lost traveler, its lines worn, a silent story of desperation. In a quiet moment, Mark lingered by the rock, his fingers tracing its jagged lines, the stone rough under his touch, grounding him. His sister's voice echoed, reading Tolkien by flashlight, her laughter a ghost, the scent of her lavender candles sharp in his memory. The ache of her absence was a weight, pressing against his chest. The river's mist cooled his sweat, the orc blood's tang lingering, anchoring him in this alien world where every choice was a gamble, his hypocrisy a shadow he couldn't outrun.
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