Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

It was the 210th year of the Sun in the First Age, and the Avari realm was bathed in the golden light of morning. The vibrant city bustled with life, but within the royal palace, a quiet intensity filled the air. Arinyanénar, now 100 years old, stood tall and proud, the culmination of years of relentless training and discipline. His lean, muscular form and striking silver-gold eyes reflected both the refinement of his elven heritage and the fiery determination he had cultivated through years of effort.

He had never forgotten the challenge his father, Anórien, had set before him decades earlier. Now, the time had come to prove himself.

In the training grounds, Anórien stood with arms crossed, his orange-red eyes gleaming with pride and amusement as his son approached. The gathered warriors, five of the finest the Avari had to offer, stood nearby, readying their weapons. Each had fought in countless battles and earned their place as the best among the Avari.

"Well, Arinyanénar," Anórien began, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, "you've had decades to prepare. Which one will you fight first?"

Arinyanénar's gaze swept over the assembled warriors, his expression calm but resolute. "I'll fight all of them at once."

A ripple of surprise passed through the warriors, but Anórien only laughed, the sound deep and warm. "All of them? At the same time? Bold, but foolish."

"No," Arinyanénar replied firmly. "Confident."

Anórien's laughter faded into a smile of approval. "Very well. Let it be as you wish."

The warriors took their positions, forming a circle around Arinyanénar, each gripping their chosen weapon—a sword, a spear, an axe, a bow, and a dagger. Arinyanénar drew his training sword, a well-balanced blade that glinted in the sunlight. His stance was steady, his breathing even, as he prepared to face the challenge ahead.

The first attack came from the warrior with the bow, a swift and silent arrow aimed at Arinyanénar's chest. In a blur of motion, he deflected it with his sword, the wooden shaft splintering upon impact. The archer nocked another arrow, but Arinyanénar was already moving.

He lunged toward the spear-wielder, narrowly dodging the thrust of the weapon. Pivoting on his heel, he swept his sword low, knocking the spear aside and forcing its wielder to step back. The axe-wielder charged from his left, the heavy weapon descending in a brutal arc. Arinyanénar sidestepped just in time, the axe embedding itself into the ground.

Using the moment of distraction, he spun and struck the dagger-wielder with the flat of his blade, sending him sprawling. The archer loosed another arrow, but Arinyanénar ducked, letting it sail harmlessly overhead. He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, disarming the archer with a swift strike to his bow arm.

The warriors regrouped, circling him again. This time, they attacked in unison. The spear and axe came at him from opposite sides, the sword-wielder charged from the front, and the dagger-wielder flanked him. Arinyanénar parried the sword, sidestepped the spear, and spun to avoid the axe, all in a single fluid motion. The dagger-wielder aimed for his back, but Arinyanénar anticipated the move, delivering a sharp kick that sent the attacker stumbling backward.

The battle raged on, a symphony of clashing weapons and shouted commands. Despite their combined skill and coordination, the five warriors couldn't overwhelm him. Arinyanénar's movements were precise and calculated, his strikes swift and powerful. One by one, the warriors began to falter, their attacks growing slower and less coordinated as exhaustion set in.

With a final, decisive blow, Arinyanénar disarmed the last warrior, his sword clattering to the ground. Breathing heavily, he stood amidst the fallen, victorious. The training ground fell silent, save for the sound of labored breathing.

Anórien stepped forward, his expression one of pride and approval. "You've done well, my son. You've earned the right to leave—but remember, the world beyond our borders is far more dangerous than this training ground."

Arinyanénar nodded, his silver-gold eyes shining with determination. "I'll be ready."

That night, as the realm lay in peaceful slumber, Arinyanénar found himself in a vivid dream. Aulë, the great smith of the Valar, appeared before him, his presence radiating power and wisdom.

"Arinyanénar," Aulë said, his voice deep and resonant, "your courage and determination have reached even my ears. To forge the weapon you seek, you must journey to the cities of Nogrod and Belegost, the great dwarf realms. There, you will aid their people and earn their trust. Only then shall the weapon be forged."

Arinyanénar awoke with a start, his heart pounding. The dream had been so vivid, so real. Without hesitation, he rose and made his way to his parents' chambers.

Anórien and Galadriel listened as he recounted the vision, their expressions a mixture of pride and concern.

"You have your path, my son," Galadriel said softly. "We will support you in whatever way we can."

Anórien nodded. "Prepare yourself well. Take your sword, your armor, and your bow. And ride Lauriënénar—he will carry you swiftly."

The next morning, as the sun rose over the Avari realm, Arinyanénar stood at the gates, ready to embark on his journey. His silver-gold eyes shone with resolve as he mounted Lauriënénar, his faithful steed.

With a final farewell to his parents, he rode out, the path ahead uncertain but filled with promise.