Eleanor, daughter of the Great Warrior Maethor, is a High Elf entrusted when she was but an infant to Finarfin, Galadriel's father. The youngling is then raised alongside Galadriel and her brothers as a member of their family.
Centuries pass in Val...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Tirharad, Southlands, Middle Earth
The night was particularly dark, Elanor thought as she waited, hidden amid the shadows of an old house. There was no star in the sky, and the moon was shy, playing hide and seek with the clouds. The wind was also strong, whooshing through her hair and clothes, finding ways to reach her skin from under her armour. For a moment, she thought of how cold the villagers must be as she listened to the leaves rustling.
Bronwyn was at her post, right outside Tirharad, hiding behind a cart filled with straws, waiting for the first orcs to arrive so she could set it on fire. Elanor, for her part, was waiting by the town's centre, her sword already unsheathed. She could hear the heavy, anxious breathing of the villagers around her, fear escaping their bodies in waves, and she hoped the orcs would not smell it, even though she knew it was foolish. Orcs sensed fear like wolfs smelt blood.
When the first orcs appeared atop the hills, Elanor's grip over her sword tightened painfully, and her blood started pumping rapidly through her veins as she could feel the adrenaline rushing through her and clearing her mind.
She watched them slowly enter the village, surprised they were not running or chanting as she remembered them doing centuries ago. They were much more than Elanor had expected, and suddenly, as hundreds of orcs invaded the space, the air became fooled by their stench, leaving a bitter taste on the tip of her tongue. Elanor observed the orcs looking through the village's houses, breaking open doors as they were walking. She stayed still, eyeing her soldiers on the other side of the town, posted on top of the houses, bows and swords at the ready. As she signed for them to wait, they kept still as well. She looked to her right, her eyes searching the dark hill outside Tirharad, wondering what was taking Bronwyn so long as she should have set the first cart alight already. She waited a moment longer, the minutes feeling like years, at last, when the first carriage was finally set on fire, then a second, then a third, efficiently trapping the orcs inside the village as the fire took in.
Watching the orcs trapped within the burning village, Elanor waited a moment longer, wanting to see the fear within the orcs when an arrow — rudimentarily made but obviously elvish — flew past her to hit the closest orc in the forehead, killing it. She briskly turned around, her eyes settling on Arondir as a small smile stretched her lips. She smirked at the soldier before signing her troop to attack. Already, more arrows rained down on the enemies, men and elves attacking as if they were the same body.
However, regardless of their countless efforts, the orcs kept marching in the direction of the town's centre where Elanor was posted, right by the tavern where all the villagers that could not fight were — the old, the cripple, and the young. She waited a moment longer, her blood throbbing against her temples as she watched the orcs coming closer, a slight, vicious smirk marking her face now.
Then, listening to a silent order, the villagers suddenly flooded the town's centre, weapons in hand and screaming in rage as they attacked the orcs, jumping through fires and running to hit their targets. Seeing them do, Elanor decided it was time for her to fight, and swiftly, she leapt from her hiding place, sword high in the air as she beheaded the first orc that came close to her, slitting the throat of the second. She waltzed among enemies and allies, the blade of her sword soon entirely covered with thick, black blood, as well as the front of her armour, but Elanor did not slow or rest and kept slaying as many orcs as she could.
