Rymond had been travelling on foot for several days in the low and lonely foothills of the White Mountains. One afternoon, as the sun stood high and bright in the sky, he reached a dry riverbed and made his way along it. A mile or so further on, he spotted an old stone bridge across the dry bed. He would have given the bridge little though, accept that he could see vague shapes moving beneath it. Keeping under cover, Rymond slowly approached the bridge until he got a clear view. From the top of a rocky little hill, he could see four orcs sheltering from the sun. Although the orcs would be at a major disadvantage in bright daylight, four was more than Rymond really wanted to tackle. He was just about to sneak around, when he saw an old man, walking alone towards the bridge...
Realizing the closer two orcs would certainly catch the old man before he could make it, Rymond slid down the steep rocks, rolled to his feet and drew his sword.
Rymond quickly dispatched one orc and pushed the other back. However, the other pair of orcs continued to chase after the old man.
Rymond charged one of the pursuing orcs. Again finding himself outnumbered.
Rymond dispatched another orc, while the old man stumbled back from the orc on the rocks.
Just as Rymond cut down the last of the orcs facing him, the old man gave a cry and tumbled down the rocks into the riverbed.
Before the orc on the rocks could chase after the old man, Rymond snatched up his bow from where he dropped it and fired an arrow square into his back.
The old man had broken both an arm and a leg in his fall, but he was alive. It took Rymond many long hours to carry the man to the nearest shelter.