Tethlis returned to what had become his home over the time he spent living in the tower. It was on the upper levels, on the same floor as many of the other elf nobles and commanders that resided there. He entered the dwelling; a somber look still encrusted on his face, and was greeted by his family, who had come from the festivities shortly before Tethlis arrived. The sight of his two young children and wife seemed to lighten his mood somewhat, but the air of concern remained with him, and he shouldered it alone. His wife, Seleresh, approached him, and lovingly draped her arms around him, embracing him tightly, and kissing him gently on the cheek.
"Welcome home, my love." she whispered softly in his ear. Tethlis smiled weakly, and returned the kiss. She then noticed the look on his face, and knew it to be trouble immediately. She sent the children to their rooms, and turned to face her husband, concerned about him. "What is it? Did Aenarion inform you of something?"
Tethlis was silent for a moment, scratching his chin, searching for the way to tell her of his own fears and concerns. "Not something he told me." He started, removing his armour, and unbuckling his sword from his hip, placing both a rack near the door. "Rather, something I saw in him. He showed fear when we spoke. That is something that worries me. I have never seen a braver, more valiant warrior then Aenarion." He sat down in one of the plush chairs in the common room. His wife walked over to him, and sat down in the chair next to him. "He is fearful that we may not survive the week."
Seleresh's head reared back, surprised at how open the admission of defeat was, something she had never expected from an elf as great as Aenarion. She shook her head, and placed a hand on Tethlis' shoulder, comforting him as best she could. The two sat there as time passed by. Neither moving, both in silent reverie of the day's events, nor what had been said.
*****
"Dos' 'Umies think dat dey beat us so easily! We show dem!" the giant Orc chieftain bellowed, his voice carrying in the large tent that served as what could only be called a war room. He was in their six other Orcs, all leaders of their own tribes. Behind them, groups of squirming, whimpering goblins huddled, hoping that they would be called on for some important task, or ignored fully. "Dey thinks that by killin' Ghaszak dat we gives up..." This comment was followed by several grunts from the other war bosses. "Wells, we's show dem! We's attack dem again! And in bigger numbers! We's gonna send for Kit-cusher! He gonna fix dem up real good..." the Chieftain rubbed his hands gleefully, and pointed to one of the goblins who hurriedly scurried up tot he chieftain. The Orc gave the goblin a piece of dear hide; on it was crude form of a letter, written in some green liquid. To any intelligent creature, it would be no more then nonsense, but to those who were small of mind, it
made perfect sense. The goblin ran off, giggling gleefully, off to fetch Kit-cusher and his clan...
*****
The day was coming to a close as Aenarion finally walked into his room. Inside, he had no family, no company. It was as barren the lands the Orcs came from. On the upper levels of the tower, he could see out over the fields before it. He watched as tiny yellow lights began to appear in the surging tide of Orc and goblin. Their voices seemed to carry, and he could hear more cries of battle, and curses of vengeance towards the leader of the Lothlerlian, Aenarion. He sighed, and hung his head. He was tired. Tired of the conflict, tired of it all. He turned from the window, and plumped down into a chair, not even bothering to remove the blood stained armour. He rested his head back, allowing his body one more of relaxation, and he closed his eyes.
He was on the field again. The sounds of battle surrounded him, and the clash of weapons and the cries of his comrades flooded into his ears. He was standing before the same Orc War Boss he had earlier, this time though, it seemed larger, and more imposing. Aenarion charged forward, reenacting the battle. He lunged forward; swing his mighty sword, dodging the combined attacks of both club and axe. The event played out exactly as it had earlier, save for one instance. When Aenarion went to slash out the entrails of the Orc War Boss, his blade was met by the edge of the axe. The metal shrieked in protest, but the sound ended quickly as the axe shattered the enchanted sword. Aenarion flung his body to the side, and to the ground, narrowly avoiding the bludgeon coming for his head. He landed in the mud of the field, and looked up to the orc who was looming over top of him. Aenarion rolled to the side, again being missed by the clumsy attacks. The mud was weighing down his hair
and clothing, and he felt himself slowing. He scrambled backwards, but the War Boss pressed on, continuing its attack. As Aenarion began to lift his hand to pull himself up, he felt it resist. He panicked, and looked to his wrist. Something was holding his hand down. He looked back to the Orc overhead. It had won. It swung its axe in a vicious swipe, digging deep into the elf's chest. It didn't stop there, though. Aenarion could see his body now. He watched helplessly as the Orc War Boss continued to dismember it, ravage it. Piece by piece was hacked off. When t was finished with the body, it picked up Aenarion's head, and gave a great bellow. It was met by hundreds of Orcs lifting their weapons high into the air, cheering for victory. The corpses of elven warriors lay strewn all about. The Tower was in shambles, chunks of the ramparts gone, and holes knocked in its base. The screams of women and children could be heard from inside as the Orcish horde surged through the
tower. Not a single elven warrior was left alive. Aenarion's eyes flared open. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow, and cheek. He was breathing heavily. His collar was soaked with his sweat, and his striking white hair was matted to the back of his head. He pushed himself out of the chair, and walked back to the window. It was darker now, close, if not passed, to midnight; He surveyed the camps of the horde, the cheers still ringing loudly in his ears. Green death, he thought to himself. He curled his hand into a fist, and slammed it hard onto the wooden rail that served as a banister. He was not going to let them take his tower. He was not going to let them destroy his life. He was going to defeat them...
*****
Virrilis climbed onto the rocky cliff face, and looked over the land. He and the other elven warriors, a full compliment of five hundred battle hardened elves, sent to help the besieged elves of the Lothlerlian had been marching for seven days straight, trying to reach the tower before it fell. The war host spent little time to rest, usually only in one or two hour increments, and was determined to make it there in another days march. They were already ahead of schedule, and making good time, as the weather had been favourable. The worst they had seen so was a light snowfall, that quickly turned into a chill rain, and that was five days ago. It was cold though, and the biting winds were relentless. Virrilis hugged his cloak tighter around him, and returned to the marching troops, that were passing him by on the trail beside the cliff face. The Court of the Seldarine only spared a hand full of their elite warriors, the Blade Singers, four to be exact, feeling that would be
more than enough.
Virrilis rejoined the other three at the front of the convoy. He turned to each, an optimistic look in his eye. "We may just make it in time," he said hopefully. "I saw trails of smoke leading into the sky to north. That means the Orcs are still there, and haven't won the battle yet."
"I hope you are correct, Virrilis." responded one of the other Blade Singers, a younger, more brash elven man by the name of Ka'lesh. Virrilis passed a glance his way, and disregarded the comment, and continued to press forward, the War Host marching ryhtmatically behind.
*****
The Orc hordes were strangely docile for many days, and Tethlis didn't like that. Something was a foot. He was standing on the battlements of the tower, the same location he and Aenarion had been standing the day the siege began, looking over the horde. Even more had come, swelling their ranks, back to their original numbers, and then some. Tethlis felt a pit in his stomach as he watched. He knew that three hundred, beleaguered elven troops, and barely half that number of elven archers wouldn't be able to withstand an attack of that magnitude. Where were all these orcs coming from! Tethlis had never heard or seen of such a large gathering, and he was worried. He knew every last elf would fight to the last, and make the orcs earn every foot they gained, but he wondered if that would be enough. When he was about to turn back inside of the tower, some movement caught his eye. Something was joining the ranks of the creatures, but it wasn't another group of orcs. Suddenly he
heard a loud, gut wrenching cry come from the horde, and a loud bellow that followed. He knew what had come. He turned, and ran inside, searching for Aenarion to tell him of the Giants coming.
*****
The time had come. The Horde was making another charge towards the tower. It seemed as if a tidal was of putrid green flesh was surging forwards, everything in it's path being consumed. The elven archers rained down a hail of arrows to the insurmountable force of Orcs, a stoic pride making their shafts fly true. All the defensives had been made, and preparations were done. Aenarion would again lead the forces of the Lothlerlian into the field, to meet the Orc threat. The elves were three hundred strong, but they were all veterans, and ready for battle. Aenarion, as always was at the tip of the charge. What little glimpses of the sun that shone through the cloud of arrows glinted magnificently off of the elven commanders chain mail. The two forces clashed, and chaos ensued, with Aenarion at the tip. The elven war host drove deep into the lines of the horde, a bloody swath of death. Each elf fighting for his or her home, and each one valiantly giving their life.
From the battlements, Tethlis commanded the elven archers, pointing out points that need support, and what to aim for. The catapults didn't come this time. Tethlis viewed the battle from high atop the tower, using his own long bow to assist in raining death upon their hated enemy. His mind paced frantically, and his palms were sweaty, but he continued. If he were to die, he would take as many of the foul kind with him. Aenarion's blade swung with intense ferocity, often cleaving two or three orcs with one swing. The once clam, stoic face of the commander was now twisted with rage and vengeance, and each swung seemed to fuel that inner fire. He pressed forward, the rest of the war host behind him, engaged in their own battles. Aenarion stopped surging forth, moving against the tide of darkness, and held his ground. He began to hack all incoming orcs and goblins, cutting each down with a powerful slice of his blade. Around him, the bodies began to pile up, each one more foul
smelling then the last, and each one more ravaged then the last. Atop the pile, Aenarion stood, still battering down upon the swelled ranks of orcs, his fatigue being stayed by the rage he felt within. He turned to face one of the orcs moving up the pile to face the elf, but stayed his hand as he watched three arrows bite into the form, and drop. A twisted smile came to his face as he turned, and drove his sword through the unsuspecting body of another orc, blood washing over his face. His bloodlust was unnatural, and almost insane. As the battle raged on, both elf and orc casualties climbed, every death of one the elven warriors costing the orcs tenfold. The savage and brutal fighting was like a mid summer storm, bent on destroying all those caught within. The Orcs began to feel hesitant about facing the shining Aenarion, fearing his wrath. The elf commander was destroying every Orc that came within a foot of him, and the orcs were beginning to view him as some vengeful
god. The surge didn't stop though. The loud war cries continued to echo through the fields of battle, and the clash of steel rung in his ears.
Atop the pile, Aenarion stood like a beacon, igniting some flame within the remaining warriors, renewing their sense of pride and hope. Aenarion made killing blow after killing blow. As he was about to run another orc through, something shook his footing loose. He set it, and turned to face what had done it. The sounds of battle seemed to cease, almost altogether, and the ground shook with a tremendous roar of fury. Aenarion jumped back, off the pile of dead orcs and goblins, where the remaining forces of his war host joined him. Before them stood six Mountain Giants. Kit-cusher's tribe. Kit-cusher raised his massive club, which was no more than an oak tree, and gave another bellow. The orcs and goblins seemed to back off from the six giants, and elven war host, not wanting to get caught beneath one of the gargantuan beasts foot. Aenarion stood with his war band, less then one hundred now, and was prepared to face this challenge. He raised his sword in defiance, as did the
remainder of the war host, and charged the six giants. The elf's swarmed the giants, dodging the lumbering attacks made, and poking their meager weapons into the skin of the creatures. Aenarion charged Kit-cusher himself, jumping from side to side, avoiding the massive oak where others didn't. Beside him, elves would drop under the tremendous weight and force. When Aenarion was close enough, he leapt forward, the Sword of Hoeth poised to strike deep into the giant's stomach. Kit-cusher, though, was faster. With a deft movement, faster then most giants could muster, Kit-cusher snatched Aenarion in mid air, and lifted the small elf high into the air. Aenarion swung his sword with intense ferocity, biting into the hand of the monster, trying to loosen the hold. Kit-cusher laughed, and the orc army cheered. The elven war host was fighting hard with the other giants, three of which had been felled, and was now being swarmed by the remaining elves. Aenarion saw none of this, nor
did Kit-cusher or the orcs. The focus was completely on the elven commander.
Aenarion's muscles suddenly went slack, and for a moment, seemed as if the elf had given up. Kit-cusher laughed again, and was about to take a bite out of the elf. Kit-cusher stopped though, and his eyes went wide when he looked at the face of the elven commander. Aenarion's face had twisted into a terrifying look of anger, vengeance, and rage, all semblance to the left he was a moment ago gone. His attacks became renewed, with more intense fury, the sword of Hoeth digging in deep into the giant's hand. Kit-cusher squealed, and dropped the elf to the ground. Aenarion, landing gently on his feet, leapt forth, and drove the sword deep into the giant's gut, twisting the blade as he did so. Kit-cusher doubled over in pain, and Aenarion struck again, this time thrusting the blade into the giant's neck. Aenarion was then covered in blood as it poured from the giant's neck. He withdrew his blade, and leapt back as the giant came crashing to the ground. Kit-cusher and his clan had
been utterly killed, and the elven war host was surrounded. The circle tightened, and the elves stood back to back, each offering a prayer to Corellon to bring them swift death in battle. The onlookers from the tower, now more than just the archers, watched in horror, and knew what was to come next in this battle.
As the tide of orcs pressed forward, Aenarion and his war host were about to charge in, and die fighting. As Aenarion raised his blade, about to signal the counter charge, the sky blackened, and a large bolt of lightening struck a group of the orcs, flinging the bodies like rag dolls. Aenarion snapped his neck to the edge of the fields, just where the mountainous trails began. Standing there stood their reinforcements, the four Blade Singers at the front, three of which had their hands twisting symbols and casting magic. The War host charged forth, the fresh elven troops, led by Virrilis, meeting the Orcs from behind, and cutting a bloody swath through them. The elves caught in the centre took the opportunity, and attacked as well, cutting down many of the confused before they could react to the turn of events. When the horde finally did realize what happened, they closed in, and tightened their hold on the remaining elves of the Lothlerlian, but none would accept death.
With the fresh troops fighting on one end of the battle, and the stalwart defenders fighting from the inside, the orcs were cut down viciously, Aenarion calling out to his brethren, urging them forth. When the two war hosts met in the centre, they began to fight through the orcs, battering them down, and stopping any hope of an Orcish victory. When clearing the tide of darkness, Aenarion held back a moment. The orcs were fleeing, having suffered a horrible defeat. The few stragglers that were left, Aenarion savagely attacked, chasing them down, and brutally murdering them.
Only when the last orc either had fled the field, or lay dead, did Aenarion stop. His shoulders were heaving, and his breath was heavy. His body ached from the battle, but he held himself with dignity, and pride kept him upright. A man from behind placed a hand on his shoulder. Aenarion snapped, and spun, and was about to attack the man, thinking it was another orc. He held his attack, stopping it just in time, when he saw the face of Virrilis. Aenarion's own face was locked into a twisted image, a mockery of the former one the elf commander held before entering the battle. Seeing the Blade Singer in front of him, he calmed, and sheathed his sword. The fatigue then claimed him, and he fell into the waiting arms of the Blade Singer, and was carried inside to rest.
"Welcome home, my love." she whispered softly in his ear. Tethlis smiled weakly, and returned the kiss. She then noticed the look on his face, and knew it to be trouble immediately. She sent the children to their rooms, and turned to face her husband, concerned about him. "What is it? Did Aenarion inform you of something?"
Tethlis was silent for a moment, scratching his chin, searching for the way to tell her of his own fears and concerns. "Not something he told me." He started, removing his armour, and unbuckling his sword from his hip, placing both a rack near the door. "Rather, something I saw in him. He showed fear when we spoke. That is something that worries me. I have never seen a braver, more valiant warrior then Aenarion." He sat down in one of the plush chairs in the common room. His wife walked over to him, and sat down in the chair next to him. "He is fearful that we may not survive the week."
Seleresh's head reared back, surprised at how open the admission of defeat was, something she had never expected from an elf as great as Aenarion. She shook her head, and placed a hand on Tethlis' shoulder, comforting him as best she could. The two sat there as time passed by. Neither moving, both in silent reverie of the day's events, nor what had been said.
*****
"Dos' 'Umies think dat dey beat us so easily! We show dem!" the giant Orc chieftain bellowed, his voice carrying in the large tent that served as what could only be called a war room. He was in their six other Orcs, all leaders of their own tribes. Behind them, groups of squirming, whimpering goblins huddled, hoping that they would be called on for some important task, or ignored fully. "Dey thinks that by killin' Ghaszak dat we gives up..." This comment was followed by several grunts from the other war bosses. "Wells, we's show dem! We's attack dem again! And in bigger numbers! We's gonna send for Kit-cusher! He gonna fix dem up real good..." the Chieftain rubbed his hands gleefully, and pointed to one of the goblins who hurriedly scurried up tot he chieftain. The Orc gave the goblin a piece of dear hide; on it was crude form of a letter, written in some green liquid. To any intelligent creature, it would be no more then nonsense, but to those who were small of mind, it
made perfect sense. The goblin ran off, giggling gleefully, off to fetch Kit-cusher and his clan...
*****
The day was coming to a close as Aenarion finally walked into his room. Inside, he had no family, no company. It was as barren the lands the Orcs came from. On the upper levels of the tower, he could see out over the fields before it. He watched as tiny yellow lights began to appear in the surging tide of Orc and goblin. Their voices seemed to carry, and he could hear more cries of battle, and curses of vengeance towards the leader of the Lothlerlian, Aenarion. He sighed, and hung his head. He was tired. Tired of the conflict, tired of it all. He turned from the window, and plumped down into a chair, not even bothering to remove the blood stained armour. He rested his head back, allowing his body one more of relaxation, and he closed his eyes.
He was on the field again. The sounds of battle surrounded him, and the clash of weapons and the cries of his comrades flooded into his ears. He was standing before the same Orc War Boss he had earlier, this time though, it seemed larger, and more imposing. Aenarion charged forward, reenacting the battle. He lunged forward; swing his mighty sword, dodging the combined attacks of both club and axe. The event played out exactly as it had earlier, save for one instance. When Aenarion went to slash out the entrails of the Orc War Boss, his blade was met by the edge of the axe. The metal shrieked in protest, but the sound ended quickly as the axe shattered the enchanted sword. Aenarion flung his body to the side, and to the ground, narrowly avoiding the bludgeon coming for his head. He landed in the mud of the field, and looked up to the orc who was looming over top of him. Aenarion rolled to the side, again being missed by the clumsy attacks. The mud was weighing down his hair
and clothing, and he felt himself slowing. He scrambled backwards, but the War Boss pressed on, continuing its attack. As Aenarion began to lift his hand to pull himself up, he felt it resist. He panicked, and looked to his wrist. Something was holding his hand down. He looked back to the Orc overhead. It had won. It swung its axe in a vicious swipe, digging deep into the elf's chest. It didn't stop there, though. Aenarion could see his body now. He watched helplessly as the Orc War Boss continued to dismember it, ravage it. Piece by piece was hacked off. When t was finished with the body, it picked up Aenarion's head, and gave a great bellow. It was met by hundreds of Orcs lifting their weapons high into the air, cheering for victory. The corpses of elven warriors lay strewn all about. The Tower was in shambles, chunks of the ramparts gone, and holes knocked in its base. The screams of women and children could be heard from inside as the Orcish horde surged through the
tower. Not a single elven warrior was left alive. Aenarion's eyes flared open. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow, and cheek. He was breathing heavily. His collar was soaked with his sweat, and his striking white hair was matted to the back of his head. He pushed himself out of the chair, and walked back to the window. It was darker now, close, if not passed, to midnight; He surveyed the camps of the horde, the cheers still ringing loudly in his ears. Green death, he thought to himself. He curled his hand into a fist, and slammed it hard onto the wooden rail that served as a banister. He was not going to let them take his tower. He was not going to let them destroy his life. He was going to defeat them...
*****
Virrilis climbed onto the rocky cliff face, and looked over the land. He and the other elven warriors, a full compliment of five hundred battle hardened elves, sent to help the besieged elves of the Lothlerlian had been marching for seven days straight, trying to reach the tower before it fell. The war host spent little time to rest, usually only in one or two hour increments, and was determined to make it there in another days march. They were already ahead of schedule, and making good time, as the weather had been favourable. The worst they had seen so was a light snowfall, that quickly turned into a chill rain, and that was five days ago. It was cold though, and the biting winds were relentless. Virrilis hugged his cloak tighter around him, and returned to the marching troops, that were passing him by on the trail beside the cliff face. The Court of the Seldarine only spared a hand full of their elite warriors, the Blade Singers, four to be exact, feeling that would be
more than enough.
Virrilis rejoined the other three at the front of the convoy. He turned to each, an optimistic look in his eye. "We may just make it in time," he said hopefully. "I saw trails of smoke leading into the sky to north. That means the Orcs are still there, and haven't won the battle yet."
"I hope you are correct, Virrilis." responded one of the other Blade Singers, a younger, more brash elven man by the name of Ka'lesh. Virrilis passed a glance his way, and disregarded the comment, and continued to press forward, the War Host marching ryhtmatically behind.
*****
The Orc hordes were strangely docile for many days, and Tethlis didn't like that. Something was a foot. He was standing on the battlements of the tower, the same location he and Aenarion had been standing the day the siege began, looking over the horde. Even more had come, swelling their ranks, back to their original numbers, and then some. Tethlis felt a pit in his stomach as he watched. He knew that three hundred, beleaguered elven troops, and barely half that number of elven archers wouldn't be able to withstand an attack of that magnitude. Where were all these orcs coming from! Tethlis had never heard or seen of such a large gathering, and he was worried. He knew every last elf would fight to the last, and make the orcs earn every foot they gained, but he wondered if that would be enough. When he was about to turn back inside of the tower, some movement caught his eye. Something was joining the ranks of the creatures, but it wasn't another group of orcs. Suddenly he
heard a loud, gut wrenching cry come from the horde, and a loud bellow that followed. He knew what had come. He turned, and ran inside, searching for Aenarion to tell him of the Giants coming.
*****
The time had come. The Horde was making another charge towards the tower. It seemed as if a tidal was of putrid green flesh was surging forwards, everything in it's path being consumed. The elven archers rained down a hail of arrows to the insurmountable force of Orcs, a stoic pride making their shafts fly true. All the defensives had been made, and preparations were done. Aenarion would again lead the forces of the Lothlerlian into the field, to meet the Orc threat. The elves were three hundred strong, but they were all veterans, and ready for battle. Aenarion, as always was at the tip of the charge. What little glimpses of the sun that shone through the cloud of arrows glinted magnificently off of the elven commanders chain mail. The two forces clashed, and chaos ensued, with Aenarion at the tip. The elven war host drove deep into the lines of the horde, a bloody swath of death. Each elf fighting for his or her home, and each one valiantly giving their life.
From the battlements, Tethlis commanded the elven archers, pointing out points that need support, and what to aim for. The catapults didn't come this time. Tethlis viewed the battle from high atop the tower, using his own long bow to assist in raining death upon their hated enemy. His mind paced frantically, and his palms were sweaty, but he continued. If he were to die, he would take as many of the foul kind with him. Aenarion's blade swung with intense ferocity, often cleaving two or three orcs with one swing. The once clam, stoic face of the commander was now twisted with rage and vengeance, and each swung seemed to fuel that inner fire. He pressed forward, the rest of the war host behind him, engaged in their own battles. Aenarion stopped surging forth, moving against the tide of darkness, and held his ground. He began to hack all incoming orcs and goblins, cutting each down with a powerful slice of his blade. Around him, the bodies began to pile up, each one more foul
smelling then the last, and each one more ravaged then the last. Atop the pile, Aenarion stood, still battering down upon the swelled ranks of orcs, his fatigue being stayed by the rage he felt within. He turned to face one of the orcs moving up the pile to face the elf, but stayed his hand as he watched three arrows bite into the form, and drop. A twisted smile came to his face as he turned, and drove his sword through the unsuspecting body of another orc, blood washing over his face. His bloodlust was unnatural, and almost insane. As the battle raged on, both elf and orc casualties climbed, every death of one the elven warriors costing the orcs tenfold. The savage and brutal fighting was like a mid summer storm, bent on destroying all those caught within. The Orcs began to feel hesitant about facing the shining Aenarion, fearing his wrath. The elf commander was destroying every Orc that came within a foot of him, and the orcs were beginning to view him as some vengeful
god. The surge didn't stop though. The loud war cries continued to echo through the fields of battle, and the clash of steel rung in his ears.
Atop the pile, Aenarion stood like a beacon, igniting some flame within the remaining warriors, renewing their sense of pride and hope. Aenarion made killing blow after killing blow. As he was about to run another orc through, something shook his footing loose. He set it, and turned to face what had done it. The sounds of battle seemed to cease, almost altogether, and the ground shook with a tremendous roar of fury. Aenarion jumped back, off the pile of dead orcs and goblins, where the remaining forces of his war host joined him. Before them stood six Mountain Giants. Kit-cusher's tribe. Kit-cusher raised his massive club, which was no more than an oak tree, and gave another bellow. The orcs and goblins seemed to back off from the six giants, and elven war host, not wanting to get caught beneath one of the gargantuan beasts foot. Aenarion stood with his war band, less then one hundred now, and was prepared to face this challenge. He raised his sword in defiance, as did the
remainder of the war host, and charged the six giants. The elf's swarmed the giants, dodging the lumbering attacks made, and poking their meager weapons into the skin of the creatures. Aenarion charged Kit-cusher himself, jumping from side to side, avoiding the massive oak where others didn't. Beside him, elves would drop under the tremendous weight and force. When Aenarion was close enough, he leapt forward, the Sword of Hoeth poised to strike deep into the giant's stomach. Kit-cusher, though, was faster. With a deft movement, faster then most giants could muster, Kit-cusher snatched Aenarion in mid air, and lifted the small elf high into the air. Aenarion swung his sword with intense ferocity, biting into the hand of the monster, trying to loosen the hold. Kit-cusher laughed, and the orc army cheered. The elven war host was fighting hard with the other giants, three of which had been felled, and was now being swarmed by the remaining elves. Aenarion saw none of this, nor
did Kit-cusher or the orcs. The focus was completely on the elven commander.
Aenarion's muscles suddenly went slack, and for a moment, seemed as if the elf had given up. Kit-cusher laughed again, and was about to take a bite out of the elf. Kit-cusher stopped though, and his eyes went wide when he looked at the face of the elven commander. Aenarion's face had twisted into a terrifying look of anger, vengeance, and rage, all semblance to the left he was a moment ago gone. His attacks became renewed, with more intense fury, the sword of Hoeth digging in deep into the giant's hand. Kit-cusher squealed, and dropped the elf to the ground. Aenarion, landing gently on his feet, leapt forth, and drove the sword deep into the giant's gut, twisting the blade as he did so. Kit-cusher doubled over in pain, and Aenarion struck again, this time thrusting the blade into the giant's neck. Aenarion was then covered in blood as it poured from the giant's neck. He withdrew his blade, and leapt back as the giant came crashing to the ground. Kit-cusher and his clan had
been utterly killed, and the elven war host was surrounded. The circle tightened, and the elves stood back to back, each offering a prayer to Corellon to bring them swift death in battle. The onlookers from the tower, now more than just the archers, watched in horror, and knew what was to come next in this battle.
As the tide of orcs pressed forward, Aenarion and his war host were about to charge in, and die fighting. As Aenarion raised his blade, about to signal the counter charge, the sky blackened, and a large bolt of lightening struck a group of the orcs, flinging the bodies like rag dolls. Aenarion snapped his neck to the edge of the fields, just where the mountainous trails began. Standing there stood their reinforcements, the four Blade Singers at the front, three of which had their hands twisting symbols and casting magic. The War host charged forth, the fresh elven troops, led by Virrilis, meeting the Orcs from behind, and cutting a bloody swath through them. The elves caught in the centre took the opportunity, and attacked as well, cutting down many of the confused before they could react to the turn of events. When the horde finally did realize what happened, they closed in, and tightened their hold on the remaining elves of the Lothlerlian, but none would accept death.
With the fresh troops fighting on one end of the battle, and the stalwart defenders fighting from the inside, the orcs were cut down viciously, Aenarion calling out to his brethren, urging them forth. When the two war hosts met in the centre, they began to fight through the orcs, battering them down, and stopping any hope of an Orcish victory. When clearing the tide of darkness, Aenarion held back a moment. The orcs were fleeing, having suffered a horrible defeat. The few stragglers that were left, Aenarion savagely attacked, chasing them down, and brutally murdering them.
Only when the last orc either had fled the field, or lay dead, did Aenarion stop. His shoulders were heaving, and his breath was heavy. His body ached from the battle, but he held himself with dignity, and pride kept him upright. A man from behind placed a hand on his shoulder. Aenarion snapped, and spun, and was about to attack the man, thinking it was another orc. He held his attack, stopping it just in time, when he saw the face of Virrilis. Aenarion's own face was locked into a twisted image, a mockery of the former one the elf commander held before entering the battle. Seeing the Blade Singer in front of him, he calmed, and sheathed his sword. The fatigue then claimed him, and he fell into the waiting arms of the Blade Singer, and was carried inside to rest.