There is little doubt that she will meet death bravely, but she had not met it today. The wraith advances, looming and terrible, ancient blade streaked with blood. It clasps both hands around the hilt, lifts it, but gets no chance to drive it downward. A flash of moonlit silver darts behind the creature and, at once, the wraith shrieks and contorts. Éowyn is briefly forgotten as an elven blade bites into the flesh it no longer has. The blade carves a path from shoulder to chest before a heavy gauntlet knocks it aside.
It rounds on Elrohir, sweeping its sword up in an arc that skims the ground. Its blade crashes loudly against the guard of an elven dagger, braced well across the hilt of Elrohir's sword. A foot clad in savage layered plate lashes forward and Elrohir is knocked back by the blow. He flings his dagger and it sinks into the Nazgul's shoulder, lodging firmly in shadow and shroud. The wraith parries his next strike and staggers him, catching him in the chest with the weathered pommel of its sword.
They fight above Éowyn in sharp, brutal movements, all crashing metal and the crack of bone. Elrohir is clearly outmatched and it is not long before he is sent reeling backward. Fortunately, between them both, a few moments more have been spent.
The cry of a great, tawny elk is nearly lost to the din and chaos, but the elk itself is far too large and bright to pass unseen. It bounds from between the trees, racing with speed that tears at the ground and has it sailing over rock and scrub. Astride it, clad in armor she has not donned in several thousand years, bearing a weapon she has not held in several thousand more, is the Lady of Lórien.
The creature she rides is both the wildest and the fastest of all the mounts within these woods. It was a gift, not to her but to her husband, and it serves its purpose well. It charges forward, careening, nimble even at its swiftest, between the living and the slain. It is half mad from the hard sprint across miles and miles of dense woodland. With nostrils flared and heaving it strains against the bridle it wears. It seems to want nothing more than to gore the first creature in its path and Galadriel does not discourage it as it leaps and plunges its great antlers through a wraith.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2025-06-03 02:04 am (UTC)It rounds on Elrohir, sweeping its sword up in an arc that skims the ground. Its blade crashes loudly against the guard of an elven dagger, braced well across the hilt of Elrohir's sword. A foot clad in savage layered plate lashes forward and Elrohir is knocked back by the blow. He flings his dagger and it sinks into the Nazgul's shoulder, lodging firmly in shadow and shroud. The wraith parries his next strike and staggers him, catching him in the chest with the weathered pommel of its sword.
They fight above Éowyn in sharp, brutal movements, all crashing metal and the crack of bone. Elrohir is clearly outmatched and it is not long before he is sent reeling backward. Fortunately, between them both, a few moments more have been spent.
The cry of a great, tawny elk is nearly lost to the din and chaos, but the elk itself is far too large and bright to pass unseen. It bounds from between the trees, racing with speed that tears at the ground and has it sailing over rock and scrub. Astride it, clad in armor she has not donned in several thousand years, bearing a weapon she has not held in several thousand more, is the Lady of Lórien.
The creature she rides is both the wildest and the fastest of all the mounts within these woods. It was a gift, not to her but to her husband, and it serves its purpose well. It charges forward, careening, nimble even at its swiftest, between the living and the slain. It is half mad from the hard sprint across miles and miles of dense woodland. With nostrils flared and heaving it strains against the bridle it wears. It seems to want nothing more than to gore the first creature in its path and Galadriel does not discourage it as it leaps and plunges its great antlers through a wraith.