Disclaimer: PJ messed with Tolkien, and I'm messing with both.
Author's Note: For the 'smell' challenge.
The stench of charred bone and burnt flesh filled his nostrils, and black, acrid smoke threatened to choke him. The Dunadan fought the urge to gag and the stronger urge to turn and flee. The Elf touched his shoulder, all the strength of the Eldar bolstering his wavering will. Forward then, to whatever horrors lay ahead - duty demanded such.
"Though many terrors I have faced, of this I am most afraid."
The third paused at these words, smiling a rictus grin.
"I am sworn to this fate evermore; but you, sire, must only this night suffer Eowyn's roasted hog."