The clash that was unfolding below was swift and brutal, reminiscent of the tempests that wailed upon Tor Elythis during the late winter moons. The thunderclap of warhammer against shield resounded across the clearing, its toll serving as the death knell of the misfortunate vanguard.
Even when they held malevolent intentions for the elven maiden, a shudder still coursed through her form as the first orc fell towards the grass. Ayvriel has always been a gentle creature, and she mourned for the loss of life even while she knew of the necessity, more so when the orcs were under the auspices of bloodlust and the lone knight was at a disadvantage.
But it was clear to even her, who has always been kept safe and far away from harm, that her saviour was a proficient warrior. The fledgling spellsinger continued to be a bystander to the skirmish below as two more orcs lunged for armoured figure, her eyes wide with wonderment as he evaded the slash in a flowing movement, only to gasp when the curved blade caught the knight.
Ayvriel leaned as far as she could on her precarious perch even as he took down the assailant, her worry for the other palpable on her fine features when liquid red trickled down from his wounded arm. And thought she wanted nothing more to rush to his side, the air beneath her feet reminded the elven maiden that she was still caught high in an oak tree. Unable to render aid and feeling helpless, she worried at her lower lip as the knight began to maintain his distance.
It was then that the telltale scent that accompanied a spark of lightning permeated the clearing.
A spellcaster.
Before she could even whisper a verse to counter the magick, a flash of white struck her saviour, sending the armoured figure clattering to the ground.
The fledgling spellsinger may be meek and believed in a naïve philosophy, never wanting to do harm if it was at all possible. But never would she stand aside and allow any further harm to befall a man who sacrificed his own safety to aid a stranger.
A gleam of resolve lit up her eyes as Ayvriel chanted, her voice rising and falling as she sang the verse of life, beseeching for the blessings of the forest. Words of her fears and worries, words praising the kind man that needed her aid, words of the trouble they were both in, it was all suffused and woven within her song. With the gathering of her intent from a moment before and her communion to spell and song, the trees of Tennaiglini granted the elven maiden her wish.
It started as a tremor that shuddered across the ground, easily dismissed.
Even then, the spellsingers of the elves were renowned far and wide. The orcs who has once thought Ayvriel vulnerable due to her flight began to wear fear on their roughhewn mien as her clear vibrato filled the quiet of the clearing and the earth continued to rumble in an even more alarming manner. As her voice soared, interspersed by the rising forte of groans and creaks, the roots of the trees began to emerge through grass, rushing towards the remaining orcs.
The spellcaster of the group snarled the words of destruction, but with the bolt of lightning he had unleashed upon the knight and the equilibrium of his focus shaded by the apprehension of their being surrounded, the gnarled root of an oak whipped around his voice, silencing him. It was only instinct to struggle, but the more the orc mage fought against his binds, the more firmly the root curled itself around his form.
Never having taken a life before, the elf with starlight hair was content to allow the mage remain in the grasp as she cast her gaze towards the other orcs.
“Sir Knight, are you well?â€
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