She manoeuvred her horse backwards as a wall of loyal soldiers formed a fragile front around her, shielding her from the attack as best as they could. Tirneliell could do nothing but watch intently from the first row seat that she was granted in this skirmish. The scent of fresh spilled blood soon filled the air, the sharp clanking of swords rang in her ears, her reflexes were piked up to their utmost capabilities as she dodged the arrows here and there, but mainly as she looked around vehemently, searching for anyone in need of her help. Then she spotted the first man down. Or at least he seemed to be the first. She had no time to warn anyone if she wanted to save the soldier. With one quick glance towards the king, she has made a decision based on impulse and a sense of duty. Steering her horse away from her guards, she galloped to the injured man, dismounting even before it reached its destination. The fact that the rider-less horse now took its leave, rushing through the forest to get as far as possible from the danger, went unnoticed by Tirneliell who was kneeling be the wounded man's side.
"Don't move," she instructed him, laying a hand on his shoulder to emphasize her words in case he didn't hear her. "The less you move, the slower the poison is going to spread through your blood." Her words were exceptionally calm for the situation and the fact that there were enemies everywhere who at any given point, if she faltered in guarding herself by observation, could behead her as easily as a chicken. But Tirneliell would not allow that. She worked swiftly, her hands as sure as that of a sculptor.
The man suffered an arrow wound. Part of the arrow was snapped off as he fell of his horse. The she-elf deftly pulled the remaining part out, being aware of the pain it might cause to the man, but knowing there was no other way. The man moaned as if in uncomfortable dream, which was the first and only alarming sign that Tirneliell needed to stop and look much more closely. The man should be in agony, convulsing as his blood stream began to be corrupted by the poison. Yet, what she saw was a man whose eyes seemed to be distant, dazed. Being a healer, she recognized at once how grave a symptom it was. As horrific as it seemed, it was more unsettling and baffling. What she was witnessing was not a man suffering from a poisoned wound, but a strong soothing serum that was meant to sedate a being. It was putting the soldier in some sort of a slumber. In those few moments, when she focused on the puzzle at hand, she mad the first mistake. She let her guard down. Without realizing an orc has found her to be a great target for his blade swinging. Only her elven speed and reflexes saved her from a mortal wound that would have cut her from right shoulder, across her back down to the left hip. However, as she skilfully tumbled from her seating position to the side, escaping the orcish weapon, the soldier she was tending to fell a victim to it instead. The blade burying deep within his chest, blood flowing from his lips almost immediately. He was dead in an instance. The shock Tirneliell experienced at the sight was paralyzing. For a fraction of a moment, her expression went blank, memory of seeing her mother with exactly the same wound rushing in front of her inner eye, gripping her chest, threatening to crush her vulnerable soul there and then. But instead of watching in horror and letting the orc correct his mistake, the sudden rush of pain and memories created a mixture of anger and blind bravery. In that fraction of a moment when Tirneliell's face was distant, it just as fast turned into an expression of utter hatred and determination. The orc, being as dumb as he looked, had no idea what hell he has unleashed, or more likely what suffering Tirneliell wanted to unleash on him.
As the orc freed his blade from the lifeless body, the elven healer was already standing up, dagger firmly in her hand just as the king instructed her. Her opponent made the mistake of trying to attack her the same way as a few seconds ago, bringing his arm high up on the side for a mighty swing. Tirneliell took her chance, as the orc just opened up himself with multiple possibilities, she already had a plan in place. With a swift step forward, she dropped below the swing that buzzed over her head. The orc was not expecting his attack to be unsuccessful and so the power of the swing combined with inertia forced him to make a precautionary step forward, his back bending down slightly. Tirneliell used that to her advantage as the orc's side was now in front of her. Making another step forward, taking hold of the orcs arm, Tirneliell propelled herself upwards with her other foot, using the close tree trunk as her launcher. Suddenly, she was a head higher than him, her dagger high above her head rushing down with force that was much more powerful than what she used against the king. The reason? It was fuelled with pure rage, her own misery at losing a patient in her hand and resolve to give the beast what it deserve. Death.
This was one of the moments when Tirneliell resembled her mother. Hot blooded in ways and moments that might have been dangerous or inappropriate, but it always bore fruits. As her weapon pierced the orc's throat right at the large vein, inflicting a mortal wound. The painful roar of the injured creature reverberated through Tirneliell's bone structure, but it also caused a certain form of ecstasy to spread along with it. The moment she buried her dagger in the flesh of her enemy, the she-elf knew that she wouldn't be able to get it back. It was buried too deep, in an angle that was most unfortunate. And as she was about to land back on the ground, the injured orc did what any creature who has just been assaulted and was suffering in great pain, would do. He flailed. Throwing his arms to the side, turning and twisting. One of his forearms hit Tirneliell across the back, propelling her forwards even before she could set her feet back on the ground and get to safety. She flew the short distance like a rag doll, colliding with another tree trunk, and as she dropped down, she felt a sharp pain in her own forearm.
It was not the sensation of a broken bone. No, this was acute and cutting feeling she got, followed by warmth spreading down towards her fingers. The impact from the accident caused her vision to blur momentarily, but as she was regaining her senses quickly, she realized the warmth was of crimson colour. She was bleeding from a cut wound on her forearm, but what horrified her more than the reality that she suffered an injury, was the fact that she has suffered it by an orcish weapon. True, the orc was long lying dead, slain by one of the soldiers, but the herbal mixture that the blade was dipped in has already entered her blood stream. Her heart would have pounded faster if the serum wasn't too strong for her. After all, it was meant for soldiers and man who by default had different constitution. On a weaker female like herself the effects appeared much faster. Her vision went out of focus again as she attempted on getting up. She had to warn the king, but her limbs gave up and she fell back, her head hitting the trunk once again, causing needles of stabbing pain attacking throughout her skull. Through the pain and quickly spreading drowsiness, she managed to catch a sight of a tall elegant figure, swinging his sword, defeating the enemies like a true hero.
"Not a poison," she whispered but doubted anyone could hear it in the uproar, especially not the man who she wanted the least to fall victim to this witchery. He had to escape, return to his kingdom, and strengthen his army to defeat this malice. She didn't care about herself no matter how fearful she was without knowing what would happen next after she would awaken, if she'd ever awaken, but she needed him to be safe. Her vision blurred further, losing sight of her king as her head fell to the side, the serum continued forcing Tirneliell into a slumber.