Epic Scenes I've Written in the Past

The Prince of the World's Rage is not to be Tested

(A Non-Canon Silmarillion Roleplay: Arazorwyn's Infiltration of Valinor.)

(Author's Note; This is my Alter Arazorwyn's Source Memories.)

⊰᯽⊱┈──╌❊╌──┈⊰᯽⊱

The young Princeling growled as he fell to his knees, wounded from this armed guard in the prison portion of this fortress his Elder Sister and his Mother had infiltrated while glaring up at his opponent. His eyes glittered dangerously with an ice-cold fire similar to his own Father's. His opponent was grinning cockily, thinking that he has won this battle against a seemingly easy foolish boy...

But this Prince was the firstborn son of Melkor himself...

He was not one to be trifled with.

He may have the same temper that could destroy mountains and set all he wished ablaze, but he also has the ungodly patience of practically bedrock to go along with it.

<•> "You've lost this battle you obviously haven't prepared well enough for. You seriously thought you could win this war you dared to wage upon us? Tch, pathetic and foolish you are! You didn't stand a chance against me! Where is your God now, Princeling?!"

The cocky guard taunted as he kicked the Prince in the face with his steeled boot, sending his head to the side for but a moment, letting blood now spill from his lips that he unceremoniously spat onto the pristine floor, despite it being the Chambers of the Dead.

These Elves really did make everything pristine and spotless, even their damn dungeons.

It was almost amusing to him in this situation.

The Prince however, merely chuckled deeply at the guards' words as he spoke to him, now that it was his turn to speak. He really was as good at Deception as his Father, his Mother and Sauron were, if he made his opponent think they had won against him.

He was born into that skill.

It was in his blood practically.

[🦇] "Hmhmhm...~ Funny you ask me that.~"

He slowly rose from the ground as he chuckled, raising an armored hand to magically pull his sword into his grasp once more, grabbing the hilt of it that had been knocked from his hand during their "battle" and lightly dragged its blade upon the floor, grinning like a madman possessed as he picked it up, the metal making a beautiful ringing sound as he held it once more.

He loved this sword almost as much as his own family.

He had created her himself, after all.

His aura was linked to this blade, he made sure of it. She was a bit of an apathetic woman who was always insistent on Arazorwyn keeping her sharp and clean, but sometimes, he just loved to hear her complain for the fun of it.