𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ ⋆ ➵𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 -OIALË
↪︎ legolas thranduillion
❝Yet you offer trust so freely. What makes you think I will not turn this blade on you?❞
❝if you wanted to, you would have done so already.❞
𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ━Eliamäre daugther...
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━━act one 𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ nepenthe CHAPTER TEN No path too wild
⋆₊⊹˖ ࣪𖥔
THIRD AGE YEARS ━━2970
━━━━⊱⚔︎⊰━━━━
𖥔 ࣪˖ ⊹₊ ⋆ ↪︎
❝Time held its breath as they ran, and the valley remembered them not as riders, but as wind.❞
━━
The golden light of the late afternoon sun spilled through the towering canopies of Imladris, casting long dappled shadows across the mossy forest floor. The scent of pine and earth hung in the air, mingled with the faint perfume of wildflowers crushed underfoot. A hush had fallen over the woods—an unnatural stillness that warned of danger.
Eliarame moved with the silent grace of her kind, the hem of her green cloak brushing against tangled ferns and bramble as she led her brothers through the underbrush. The tension in her shoulders betrayed her focus; her keen elven hearing caught every whisper of wind, every shift of branch, every misplaced crunch that didn't belong in the natural rhythm of the forest.
Behind her, the soft murmur of boots on earth marked the passage of Elladan and Elrohir. The twins, tall and broad-shouldered, followed her steps with fluid ease. Though they were armed and alert, the mischievous glint in their eyes suggested that no situation—however perilous—was free from jest.
"Careful, Elrohir," Elladan muttered with a smirk, "the last time we followed her, you walked straight into a spiderweb. Screamed like an Elfling in a thunderstorm."
"I did not scream," Elrohir replied, deadpan. "I merely expressed surprise. Loudly. With great conviction."
Eliarame stifled a laugh and threw a glance over her shoulder. "You expressed it well enough to wake the dead."
Their banter, familiar and fond, was a comfort. It lightened the dark edges of what they were tracking—creatures that had no place in the sacred woods of their home.
She lifted a hand suddenly, and the siblings froze mid-stride. Her eyes narrowed, ears twitching slightly. There it was—the low, guttural growling of orcish speech carried faintly on the breeze, mixed with the unmistakable clink of metal and the occasional grunt of displeasure. The trio exchanged glances.
Without a word, they crept toward the sound, moving like shadows between the trees. The forest opened into a small clearing where the undergrowth had been trampled and blackened. There, five orcs had made a crude camp. One stirred the embers of a dead fire with the tip of a chipped blade, while another gnawed noisily on some unidentifiable hunk of meat. Their armor was rusted, their blades crusted with dried blood. The air reeked of sweat, rot, and malice.
