James
Few were the ironies lost on Nargul as he crept, shrouded by dusk-colored cloak and scarf, through the depths of the greatwoods that made up the Greenheart. The game wasn't something-... Necessary. Not to the sensible. But still, it was a test he wanted to put himself to, to see that his mettle had not dulled throughout all his travels. In seeking strength, he learned much of innovation, peace, and the cultures of the world. But - there was still a place for martial might - the clarity of will that came from combat.

And today, he was seeking a dangerous quarry. An animated armor, one whose allegiances were as unbending as the black steel that made up its casque. He had heard much, and followed rumors of the Dragoon, and knew that today, it would wander these forests, each stomp as subtle as stones slamming into the sea. A plodding prowl, Nargul thought. At least he'd never have to worry about the thing catching him unawares.

The forest, or the area where he could hear the armor approaching, was split by a single great beaten path, strewn with broken stones of old ruins and the roots of trees that pierced the horizon above as a thousand splintering spears. Smaller subsidiary paths split off from the pain one, as well as a crossing creek that was knee-height, at most. The line of sight in any direction was broken by bushes, branches, and trunks, and dusky beams of the fading light fell on the forest, painting it in golden and orange hues of the coming sunset.

Nargul awaited, great recurve in hand, his body shrouded by darkness, with a silhouette broken by interwoven trigs, leaves, and liberally layered muds. He was so still, that small rodents and insects would crawl over his body, assuming him to be nothing more than part of the tree's trunk in-which he kept himself.

Soon, a battle would ravage these woods, with Nargul intended to learn what he could, and teach an important lesson to the immortal.
Michele
*The silence was near deafening, it was odd the life filled forest with hundreds of animals was silent as anything. Too quiet. That silence was soon penetrated and invaded by the unneeded but unhelped stomps that echoed through the forest. This nine foot tall 500 odd pounds beast broke through the trees leaving huge footprints that could fit a small human inside. On his person he had a huge near seven foot great sword sheathed on his hip pointed in a straight direction rather than down because of the sheer size of it. Usually he'd have it on his back but today he knew it wasn't going to get in anyone else's way so on the hip it is.*

*This place never gets old, the sheer beauty of this place was that rivaling whatever lies beyond death. The many times he came here to train, fight battles, drive bandits away or just watch the sun set and rise was unnumbered. But now his body is numb he cannot feel the wind on his face, smell the fresh smell of nature, breath in the stench of horse shit or anything he coulda done two centuries and a bit ago. He can't really even remember what life was like back then. He needed to get out of this realm and go to the end.*

*The Animated Armour that stood for Alynthi was out here simply patrolling the countryside looking for any trouble, though hopefully there shouldn't as he had spent nearly two centuries driving out whatever bandits, thugs, attacking armies and the such from trying to make their fortune in Alynthi's borders. The people of Alynthi respected Dragoon greatly for it and gave him the nickname Guardian as many do not come in her borders no more because of this long forgotten knight.*

*All of a sudden he stopped. Something doesn't feel right, an odd feeling he is getting. Doesn't have many of those. But unbeknownst to 'The Guardian' he stopped in probably the worst spot he could have picked. Right in this orcs view who is ready to rein whatever he has on him.*
James
Dusk dwelled in the demure, drawn-out rays of dusky light that fell upon the forest. Pallid yellow soon gave way to a vibrancy not unfitting for a Bard's tales. Soon followed by a more ominous orange, then a red - trapped in twilight was this place, followed by that torpor of strange unease that ate at the Guardian. Senses sharp still, he had indeed stopped in the Orc's crosshairs.

Nargul breathed in tandem with the periodic chitter of small game and flustered birds that flew and fettered around the periphery of their arena. Hiding the sound, he aimed to draw back his bow, pulling it not to the extent of his full strength, but comparatively around the draw one might expect from a strong human. This was a time of learning, and he had no reason to rush it.

The arrowhead was a thick broadhead of blackish iron, a haft of hardwood and feathers strung in such a way that they'd sing softly as it flew. It was intention. Nargul -wanted- the Dragoon to hear him, to begin to set heuristics that he can later use against it. Nargul breathed out at full drew, concentrating from his place of ambush in one of the trees above, as he finish his observations over the figure's form and armor - his natural vision well attuned to the coming darkness.

Aiming then for a gap in the plates, Nargul let loose an arrow that flew with sure and swift speed, from above towards the right of the Guardian, at around two as the clock counts. Nargul would aim to bury the bolt deep in the armpit of the armor, letting the barbs sit and settle in the right armpit - not to wound, he knew better than that - but to be an irritating impediment to bending the suit's arm properly. Otherwise, he waited, eager to see whether the thing could see or sense him as he glanced momentarily at his escape route down the trunk.
Michele
*The ancient Guardian of Alynthi stood stoically still as he tried to figure out this odd feeling, back in his organic days he would be moving round, shield and swords out and the such. But now he simply is unfazed as nothing can even move him anymore. His strength unmatched, durability unmatched, skill unmatched, size also unmatched. It's been centuries since he's had any reason to use an excessive amount of force, maybe apart from the war Alynthi has recently had with Nargul's backward species. But he mostly sat that one out.*

*As the barbed arrow was released from the bow and zoomed its way towards the Royal Knight at a remarkable speed. The sound though it hit a memory of Dragoon's making him move ever so slightly, the chance was gone. This arrow missed the shot, drinking off the shoulder plate with a spark, nothing more. A futile attempt. An overwhelming feeling of dread flooded over Nargul as 'The Guardian's' 'face' glared at where the shit came from, if you looked into the slits in the helmet all you'd see is a dark black void. What is this thing, whatever it was it had a kill count like no other. And it followed him.*

*In a blink of an eye Dragoon unsheathed his gigantic Greatsword that was infused with necrotic powers, a small black mist emanating from the blade. The heavy mist sitting on the forest floor seemed to kill the wildlife it touched. It was odd that this thing that reeked of death was considered a hero in folklore. Without much warning the 9'0 ft tall armor began marching with purpose towards the direction of the shot. Narguls position, this is going to be a massacre for one person here.*

*As he slashed through the walls of trees Nargul would notice that with each swing and hit the tree woukd fall and then seem to start to wither and die. He does not want to get hit by this sword. He doesn't want to get within sword hitting range basically.*
James
Kneeling on the edge of the branch that he occupied, camouflaged by makeshift ghillie and the mud he used to mask the scent of his equipment and body, the Orc gave the smallest of 'Tks' as he clicked a lip with half-lidded observation of the shot. Rusty- should've kept his mind on what *She* Had taught him, back home. No matter now, the imprint was there. A wider, fatter bolt shot with half the power, and without his more specific tools for these sorts of-... Foes.

Nargul then squinted, scrunching his nose and brows tight as he focused his vision. Grey eyes flooded over with a glint of yellow, and he saw for a moment with the vision of a bird of prey, taking in every detail of the Dragoon's armor, including the general number and width of slits on the helmet, before the vessel vacated of that vacuous, vicious mist. Nargul's eyes looked to either side, approximating-... A few feet, between three and five at most, after a few moments of observation. Roots rotted and thinned away, grass wilted and lay flat, or fell to ash. Otherwise, Nargul glanced at the trees around him, thinking of ideas. For now, he worked off of a supposition, as the specter would have to clear the three hundred feet or so towards Nargul.

As Dragoon started to cleave and fell lesser trees, man sized ones, Nargul would loose another arrow. This one wasn't even an attempt to do more than piss off the spirit within - the head little more than a heavy, dull block of stone, aiming to cling off of the helmet with a forceful 'ShhhhDING!' as the Orc tilted his head towards himself. A gesture that meant something well familiar to a solider, especially with the tug of a few fingers.

*Come on. That all you got, down there?*

And so Nargul would wait a moment, drawing out a length of black iron chain in his back hand, and otherwise considering the other tools he brought.