Once everyone was gathered it became apparent who was different. Everyone of the Silvan elves wore green and brown armor made of leather enforced with a silvery metal underneath. Their hair was pulled back into one large braid and most carried bow, arrow, and small daggers with which to fight. At the head of the sea of brown and green was a starlight haired elf adorned in shining silver. There was no doubt he was the leader. He carried his head high and sat atop a large chestnut brown elk with massive antlers. Even the beast gave off a regal and majestic air as it and its master moved through the forest just as the sun was beginning to shine down through the canopy. Following him were the Silvan elves. Some of them rode white horses while other simply went on foot. Among the wood elves following their King was a single elf male dressed in raven black with hair to match. Peeking out from his clothing was the undeniable glow of moonlight and unmistakable lavender-ish silver of mithril. The raven haired elf ran ahead of the King scouting the safest and quickest path for he knew the land known as Middle Earth like no other of his kin. As they passed through the land stopping not for rain or snow nor night or day all who saw were awed and afraid for it was well known that elves do not march to battle lightly.
For three days and nights they traveled across the land. Then on the morning of the fourth day they saw it. The once beautiful elf trading town was a red torch against the sky and the blood of the fallen stained the pristine white snow. Orcs and elves met in the streets as a clash or elegance a ferocity. The battle had already begun for the orcs had made their move in the dead of the night. Many of the inhabitants of the town lay dead and those who survived to fight were barley able to arm themselves with better weapons than their fists. Yet they had held their ground and number of dead orcs was twice the number of elves they had slaughtered in their night ambush. The dying shrieks and screams of elf and orc alike were deafening and the stench of death consumed the ordinarily crisp fresh air. No sooner had Thranduil and his men seen the devastation that they too joined the fray. Cheers of hope sprang up from the survivors of the town and enraged roars from the orcs as the elves from Greenwood aided in the struggles. Minutes, hours, perhaps even days seemed to slow to nothing. Amidst the carnage and smoke stained sky there was nothing to gauge time by. Thranduil had been right in his feeling that something was amiss. Where there should have been a few meddlesome orc packs there was an army of the foul creatures. Even with nearly one thousand elves, after combining the forces from Greenwood and the survivors from the town, the orcs still kept coming. Where one orc was cut down two more seemed to take his place. This was a coordinated strike meant to draw the elvish forces from the surrounding lands of Middle Earth so that they could be exterminated.
No one knew how long they had been pushing on. They only knew that their strength was beginning to fade and their numbers were thinning. At the head of the lines pushing the orcs back was King Thranduil and even further ahead cutting down orcs within their own ranks was Himelon. When they had joined the battle Himelon had run full charge into the orc forces and was doing everything he could to draw their attention and give Thranduil and his Silvan elves the opportunity they might need to thin the orcs out. Along the way there Himelon had become very aware that he would likely not return. Seeing the concern on Thranduil's face and hearing the phantom screams of the dying in his ears even as they traveled through Dale had made him all to aware of this. And so he fought with the abandon of a dead man. He did not care for how tired he was becoming or even if he had become injured. All that mattered was giving his kin the chance to win the battle and push the orcs back. The feeling echoed in Himelon the past. He had felt exactly this way when he had marched in the ranks of Lord Elrond to Mordor. Likewise Thranduil felt no pain. His mind was set on keeping, what was left of, his people safe. He was thoroughly determined not to die or let the orcs win. Greenwood had already lost one King and Thranduil had no son to take his place should he fall. Death was not an option and neither was defeat.
As time trudged on the orc forces grew thinner and thinner and moved further and further back. Victory seemed to be near when all fell silent and still. Amidst the shouts and screams of battle came a silent whisper of death. The wind stilled and the whole world seemed to fall silent. As orc and elf alike froze under the eerie still there came a wind like a hurricane. It swept down upon them from west to east and brought with it the unmistakable scent of sulfur and burned flesh. As the realization of what the raging battle had summoned struck the orcs shrieked in horror and ran. They forgot their prey and enemy and all that they had been striving for and fled with screams and stampeding feet. When Thranduil placed the clues together he was gripped with a fear unlike any he had before experienced. He had heard the stories and once, as an elfling, had to been healed after witnessing the horrors of what was coming for them wrought out upon his mother. Amongst the elves he had brought with him only one moved from his frozen stated. Only one shared the same horror as the Elven King. Only one other seemed to know. As Thranduil lurched forward to pull his men back the voice of the raven haired elf range above the silence and wind.