Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

Arinyanénar's POV

The journey from the Avari realm had been swift, the winds carrying the whispers of my horse, Lauriënénar's, thundering hooves. The forests and rivers of Ossiriand stretched before me, vibrant and serene. But beneath the beauty, I felt the unease of shadows lurking.

Lauriënénar snorted, his golden white mane catching the dappled sunlight, his sharp eyes scanning the path ahead. "Do you sense it too, old friend?" I murmured, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword. He stomped once, an unmistakable affirmation.

The scent hit me before the sound—acrid and foul, like rotting meat left to fester. Orcs.

We crested a rise, and there they were: a small band of eight, moving sluggishly through the trees. Their guttural grunts and cruel laughter grated on my ears. They carried sacks that reeked of plunder and blood, likely stolen from unfortunate travellers.

The leader, a hulking brute with a jagged axe, barked orders at the others. His armor was pieced together from scraps of steel and leather, stained dark with the filth of battle. None of them had noticed us yet.

"Time to cleanse this place," I whispered to Lauriënénar.

He needed no further urging. With a mighty leap, he charged down the slope, his powerful legs eating up the distance between us and the orcs. I drew my sword, its edge gleaming in the sunlight.

The first orc barely had time to turn before Lauriënénar's hooves crushed his chest, the sickening crunch of bone audible even over the chaos. I swung my blade in a clean arc, slicing through the neck of another. Black blood sprayed, staining the green grass, and the headless body collapsed in a heap.

The orcs roared in surprise and rage, scrambling for their weapons. One lunged at me with a rusted spear. I leaned low in the saddle, dodging the thrust, and drove my blade through his face. The tip of my sword emerged from the back of his skull with a wet, sucking sound. I pulled it free, and his body slumped to the ground.

Lauriënénar reared, his forelegs striking out like hammer blows. He shattered another orc's ribs, sending him sprawling, coughing blood. The others circled, their yellow eyes wide with panic as they realized they were not dealing with a mere elf.

An orc with a cruel, curved blade managed to swing at me, his weapon scraping against my armor. The blow did no harm, but it was enough to draw my ire. With a snarl, I leapt from Lauriënénar's back, my sword flashing. I cut the orc in half from shoulder to hip, his torso sliding free with a grotesque slurp.

The leader roared and charged, his jagged axe raised high. He was larger and more skilled than the others, his strikes fast and heavy. I dodged one, then another, the weight of his swings causing the ground to shudder when he missed.

"Is that all you've got?" I taunted, dodging a blow aimed for my head.

His only response was a snarl, but his focus wavered. In that moment, Lauriënénar came from behind, biting down on the orc's neck with the ferocity of a wolf. The orc screamed, black blood pouring from the wound, but Lauriënénar didn't release him until his struggles ceased.

The last two orcs tried to flee, but I wouldn't allow it. This forest would not bear their taint. I nocked an arrow to my bow and fired, the first shot piercing one's spine, the second burying itself in the back of the other's skull.

The clearing was silent now, save for the labored breathing of Lauriënénar and me. The air reeked of orc blood, the grass slick and black where their bodies lay. I wiped my blade clean on the tunic of the nearest corpse and turned to my horse.

"Well done, old friend," I said, patting his neck. His fiery eyes gleamed with satisfaction, though his nostrils still flared with the lingering scent of battle.

We pressed on, leaving the scene of carnage behind. The forests of Ossiriand returned to their tranquil state, but my thoughts lingered on the fight. This was only a small group, easily dispatched. Yet it was a reminder of the shadow that plagued this land—a shadow I had vowed to confront.

By nightfall, we reached the gates of Nogrod. The massive stone doors loomed before us, carved with intricate patterns of dwarven artistry. A pair of stout guards stood watch, their axes gleaming in the torchlight.

"Halt!" one of them barked, stepping forward. His eyes narrowed as he took in my appearance. "State your name and purpose, elf."

"I am Arinyanénar, son of Anórien and Galadriel of the Avari. I have come seeking the guidance of Aulë the Smith and to offer aid to your people."

The guard studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Enter, son of Anórien. But mind your manners—our lord does not suffer fools lightly."

With that, the gates creaked open, revealing the bustling city of Nogrod beyond. As Lauriënénar and I stepped inside, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement. My journey was only beginning.