Shadow of Mirkwood

Friendship or love?

Come back. Even as a shadow. Even as a dream. 

The mountain peak was an unforgiving realm, its cold embrace intensifying as Lytharial ascended. The biting wind carried with it the sting of frost, and the sudden onslaught of swirling snowflakes obscured her vision. Despite the numbing cold, she pressed on, the urgency of her mission overpowering the discomfort.

Her attempt to keep an eye on the dwarves had faltered amidst the relentless snowfall. The landscape blanketed in white, swallowed any traces of their presence. Lytharial felt a pang of frustration and self-reproach. Once again, the weight of responsibility bore down on her, amplifying the sense of failure that clung to her like an unwelcome companion.

Navigating through the ruins, she moved cautiously, her senses attuned to the eerie silence that enveloped the mountain peak. The echoes of the distant battle were swallowed by the mountain's unforgiving terrain. She unsheathed her bow, fingers brushing over its familiar contours. The bow, a faithful companion throughout her journey, now felt like both an extension of herself and a relic of times gone by.

As she ascended the worn stone stairs of the ancient ruins, a panoramic view unfolded before her, revealing the desolation that gripped the mountain. The ruins, silent witnesses to the passage of ages, bore the scars of history. Lytharial surveyed the expanse, searching for any signs of movement.

The stillness was broken by a distant murmur of voices. Her elven ears, finely tuned to the nuances of sound, detected a conversation carried by the wind. Alert and focused, she traced the source of the voices. The ruins concealed their origin, and she proceeded with stealth, every step calculated to minimize sound.

Lytharial's heart sank as she rounded the corner and came upon the ominous scene. Orcs lurked within the ruins, hidden in the shadows, and on the other side, unsuspecting dwarves—Kili among them—moved forward, oblivious to the impending danger. The trap had been set, and the dwarves were walking right into it.

The gasp caught in Lytharial's throat as she comprehended the gravity of the situation. It was a cruel snare, designed to exploit the vulnerability of the dwarves. Her eyes darted between the two groups, weighing the risk and calculating her course of action. A surge of panic threatened to engulf her, but she steadied herself. She couldn't let these dwarves face the ambush unprepared.

Kili's face, alive and unharmed, momentarily captivated her thoughts. The warmth in his features sparked a fleeting longing, but the urgency of the situation brought her back to reality. This was not the time for personal reflections; lives were at stake.

With a determined shake of her head, Lytharial refocused on the imminent danger. The pain in her stomach, a constant reminder of her vulnerabilities, momentarily slowed her down. Running to warn the dwarves directly seemed futile; she wouldn't make it in time. Instead, she harnessed the skills ingrained in her through years of training.

The adrenaline surged within her veins, and without a second thought, she lunged at the unsuspecting Orcs from their blind side. The element of surprise was her ally. Lytharial attacked with a ferocity born of desperation, her blade cutting through the air, finding its mark among the Orcs.

As she struck, she let out a piercing scream, using her voice as a warning beacon for the dwarves. 

      "Runnnn!" 

The echo of her cry reverberated through the ruins, carried by the wind, a desperate plea urging the dwarves to turn away from the impending trap.

Lytharial's blades danced through the air, a whirlwind of swift, calculated movements. The Orcs, sensing the danger she posed, converged on her with relentless fury. As foolish as it might have seemed to take on such a number alone, Lytharial knew this was a battle she had to fight. It wasn't just about her survival; it was about the dwarves escaping the impending trap laid by the Orcs.