Transmigrate to the world of The Lord of the Rings?

[General POV]

-Ruins of the Valley-

At the southern foothills, the phalanx of elves, newly organized under the command of Aldril and Legolas, took shape. The cleared area near the wall allowed them to descend without unnecessary risks. With the precision inherent to their race, the elves descended in flawless discipline, each movement a reflection of centuries of training and experience.

More than five hundred warriors aligned themselves in perfect rows, their spears raised like a forest of steel, ready for battle. The gleam of their weapons and armor reflected the faint light of dawn, a stark contrast to the ominous darkness of the orcish ranks.

Ahead of them stood Legolas, his posture upright and his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the orcs were regrouping in disarray. The countless arrows fired by the elves from the wall had taken a heavy toll on the enemy ranks, forcing them to retreat. Now, the prince of the elves scanned every detail of the battlefield, awaiting the precise moment to give the charge order.

Yet his attention faltered for a moment, drawn to a figure that stood out amidst the chaos. Moving with lethal grace, Aldril carved through the enemies with an almost supernatural precision. Each twist and strike was a masterpiece, a dance that fused elegance and brutality in equal measure.

Legolas couldn't help but let his mind wander for an instant. 'It's as if the wind of Manwë guides them,' he thought, captivated. There was something hypnotic about Aldril's style, a blend of savagery and beauty he had never witnessed before.

'A dance brimming with savagery,' he mused, unable to avert his gaze.

The orcs were cut down on all sides, their ranks collapsing under the stellar dance of Aldril, whose movements radiated a resplendent brilliance.

'I must hurry,' Aldril thought, spinning in a full circle and severing the heads of the unfortunate orcs who had made the grave mistake of surrounding him.

There was no need to glance behind. His heightened senses, now sharpened by the draconic blood coursing through him, ensured he was always aware of his surroundings.

"Legolas!" Aldril shouted, leaping backward with such force that it left a small indentation in the blood-stained grass. The leap carried him through the air like an autumn leaf, and he landed before the phalanx with the grace of a feather.

Aldril's cry was the signal Legolas had been waiting for. With a serene expression and expectant eyes, he gave the command that the elves had eagerly awaited.

"Charge!"

Like a raging sea, the spears that formed a forest of steel lowered, accompanied by the thunderous battle cry of the elves. It was a fierce charge, brimming with anticipation and hatred, their hands gripping their spears with the desire to pierce the vile creatures they so despised.

The clash was merciless. Only the crackling sound of flesh being pierced and the metallic clang of armor filled the air. Each impact echoed across the southern wall of the valley as the elven charge unleashed a whirlwind of black blood, obscuring the brilliance of their armor like a solar eclipse.

Their faces, serene and beautiful like divine sculptures, betrayed no emotion, only absolute focus. Yet, a closer look into their eyes would reveal a glint of contained fury and the fierce ecstasy of battle.

Legolas stood firm, his posture as unyielding as the oldest mountain, unshaken by the chaos. From his elevated position, he surveyed every corner of the battlefield with a keen eye, commanding the elven archers who had descended from the mountain's flank.

"The number of orcs isn't what Gandalf estimated," he murmured, his words barely audible amidst the din of battle.

Aldril, beside him, remained equally vigilant, his eyes glowing with an intense predatory light as he studied the battlefield like a hawk searching for its next prey.

"That feeling persists. Something is wrong, Legolas," he replied, urgency thick in his tone. The knowledge he thought would aid him was now useless, Azog was nowhere to be seen, and only a small group of trolls had joined the fray, all of them now slain by his blade.

"There are no siege trolls," added Legolas, the same uneasy feeling rising within him like a fever.

Their exchange was abruptly interrupted by a booming cheer.

"The orcs are retreating!" shouted the men stationed on the valley walls.

"Don't let them escape!"

"Kill them!"

Their lack of discipline and overwhelming emotions prevented them from holding their formation. The euphoria of having won a battle they had never fought before filled them with such emotion that they forgot the golden rule of the battlefield: to remain vigilant even after the fight seemed won.

Some young men, overcome with excitement, descended the orc stairs still standing along the wall. Their survival was largely due to the division of the orc army into two groups. While there were some casualties, caused by the dozens of orc corpses strewn across the wall, a few orcs had managed to climb back up and take lives. However, compared to the massive losses on the orc side, the number of human dead was negligible.

"Return! Do not break formation!"

Bard's desperate and furious shouts echoed, but the young men, intoxicated by the thrill of victory, continued to chase after the fleeing orcs.

"Do not worry, my lord. The elves are there, and should anything happen, they will assist," said one of the older Lake Town guards. His cheerful tone was oddly out of place amidst the carnage of orc bodies.

A low growl sounded in the distance, drawing Bard's attention. He saw the young men suddenly retreat, running back in terror. Surviving wargs had descended upon the fleeing orcs, tearing into them savagely or burying their jaws into the bodies of the cowardly deserters.

"You see, my lord? They're even killing each other," the old guard said with a lighthearted tone, attempting to soothe Bard's furrowed brow. He understood those young men, once, he too had dreamed of fighting a great battle and standing victorious.

But the guard's jubilant demeanor faded when Gandalf ran up to Bard, pointing urgently toward the eastern flank.

"The orcs! They're attacking the eastern side of the mountain arm, this was just a distraction!" the wizard exclaimed. His words, like a curse, were followed by a resounding shout that echoed through the valley ruins.

From the southern flank came Aldril's piercing cry, ringing out like the spark of ignited gunpowder.

"Orcs at our rear!"

Then the truth became clear: they were surrounded.

On the eastern side, men were descending the steep arm of the mountain, fleeing in terror from the overwhelming orc army assaulting them.

To the south, elven archers now positioned below the wall fired volleys of arrows toward the mountain's slope.

The nervous expression on Gandalf's face was a grim reflection of their dire situation. His gaze shifted to the orcs swarming down both arms of the mountain, descending like an unstoppable plague.

"They've encircled us."

***

Filthy orcs! There is a magician among us!!! he claims to be our ally, I take a vote, do we let him join the family or do we eat him?

Advance chapters in "[email protected]/Mrnevercry"