Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

Arinyanénar's POV

As Lauriënénar and I ventured deeper into the stone passages of Nogrod, the underground city of the dwarves, I could feel my heart quicken. I had passed through forests, across rivers, and braved the wilds of Ossirand, but nothing compared to the overwhelming presence of this ancient city. The sheer scale of it was both humbling and awe-inspiring. It felt as though the very mountains were alive here, their walls thick with the weight of time. The tunnels twisted and turned like a labyrinth, each corner holding a new marvel—massive stone carvings of dwarven kings, great forges glowing in the distance, and halls that seemed to stretch into eternity.

Before my arrival, however, Nogrod had faced its own trials. A massive orc horde had been spotted in Eriador, advancing with the intent of besieging the mighty halls of the dwarves. These orcs were unlike any the dwarves had faced before—savage, numerous, and bloodthirsty. They had been on the move for weeks, marching from the dark places of Eriador, and it was clear that their numbers grew with every passing day. The news of this army had spread quickly, and it was clear that Nogrod's defenses would be tested in the coming days.

What made matters worse was the news that another orc army had already begun marching toward Belegost, Nogrod's sister city, to the east. Both cities, ancient and proud, were under threat. The dwarves of Nogrod knew that their survival depended on their ability to stand united and fight with all their might.

As I entered the heart of Nogrod, I could sense the tension in the air. The dwarves were clearly on edge, their eyes darting toward the forges where weapons were being crafted and armor forged, all in preparation for the impending conflict. The rumble of hammers striking anvils echoed through the vast halls, a sound of both defiance and determination.

Eventually, I reached the royal palace, the throne room of Nogrod, where I was to meet Thrain, the lord of the city. Thrain was a dwarf of considerable size and wisdom, and his eyes glinted with the knowledge of centuries. But beneath that wisdom was a deep concern. The orcs were coming, and they would not stop until they had brought ruin to the city.

Thrain met me with a hard gaze, sizing me up, and then spoke in a voice as gruff as the stone around us. "So, you are Arinyanénar, son of Anórien. The High King of the Avari sent you, did he? Tell me, elf, what brings you to Nogrod?"

I met his gaze calmly, feeling the weight of the question in the air. "I've come at the request of Aulë, to aid the dwarves in whatever way I can," I said, my voice steady. "Your father, the Vala, has seen fit to send me here to offer my help with whatever challenges you may face."

Thrain eyed me with suspicion for a moment, but it was clear that he had no time for anything but action. "I trust Aulë's judgment, and if you've come here to fight, then you are welcome. But there is little time for pleasantries. We are under siege. Orcs march toward us as we speak, and the same fate is set for Belegost. The armies of these vile creatures grow by the day."

My heart sank. "How many?"

"Thousands," Thrain grunted. "Too many to count. The city is preparing for the worst, but our numbers are not enough to hold the line for long. That is why I must ask for proof of your strength. If you are truly here to help, you must first show me that you can stand with the dwarves."

Before I could respond, Baruk, Thrain's son, stepped forward. He was known as the best fighter in Nogrod, his prowess with an axe legendary among the dwarves. "Father, let me test the elf's strength," he said, his voice thick with a mixture of challenge and curiosity. "If he can defeat me, then he will have earned my respect."

Thrain nodded, the challenge accepted. "So be it. A duel then, to see if you are worthy to fight alongside us."

I drew my sword, and Baruk took up his great axe. He was strong, but I had learned much about myself during my travels, and I was confident in my abilities. The duel began with Baruk charging forward, his axe raised high. I sidestepped the swing, and the massive axe cleaved the stone floor with a deafening crash. I took my chance and struck, my blade cutting through the air toward his side.

Baruk parried with his axe, his strength forcing me back, but I was quick—quick enough to dodge his strikes and make my own. The battle raged on for minutes, each strike louder than the last. The ground shook beneath us as we fought, our blades clashing with an intensity that seemed to match the coming storm outside.

I was faster, and I was able to predict his movements, but Baruk was no slouch. His sheer strength and experience with the axe were formidable. But with one final strike, I caught him off guard, knocking his axe from his hands and bringing my blade to his throat.

He grinned, clearly impressed. "You fight with the skill of a master," he said, breathless but proud. "I yield."

Thrain stepped forward, nodding in approval. "You have proven yourself, Arinyanénar. You are welcome here. Now, let us prepare for the battle ahead."

As the cheers of the dwarves echoed in the hall, I felt a sense of pride and camaraderie. I had earned their respect, but more importantly, I had shown myself worthy to stand with them in the coming fight. The orcs were coming, marching from Eriador, and it was time to face them.