Ungoliant. A creature of ruin and shadow, born before memory. None knew her true origin, nor which dark hand had shaped her. She was not made — she was. A primordial terror that slithered into the tale of Arda like ink into water.
She was the mother of all great spiders, the first weaver of webs that could choke the light itself. In the Elder Days, she walked beside Morgoth, the Black Foe of the World. Together, they struck down the Two Trees of Valinor, draining them of light, and fled with the Silmarils, the treasures of Fëanor.
So great was her hunger that even Morgoth, mightiest of the Valar, was nearly devoured by her in the deep wastes of Avathar.
Of her end, the tales disagree. Some say she was slain by Eärendil, father of Elrond, who bore one of the Silmarils upon his brow as he sailed the sky. Others whisper that she was devoured by her own hunger, consumed by the void she herself had wrought.
But whatever her fate, Ungoliant has never returned.
Her brood, however, still scuttle across Middle-earth, weaving webs of death and despair in her memory. The spiders of Mirkwood are her children — lesser in power, but driven by the same ravenous purpose. In the tales, they are known to have crept from the south and infected the forest, turning its heart to rot.
Now, from the treetops above, they descended in great, heaving swarms — grotesque creatures the size of wolves, their many eyes glittering, their fangs dripping venom. They landed heavily on the forest floor, legs scrambling, and surged toward the company.
"To arms!"
"Sons of Durin!"
Thorin roared like thunder and charged into the fray, his Dwarves rallying behind him. The clash was terrible — axes rang, steel sang, and limbs of chitin shattered like glass.
Gandalf and Saruman raised their staffs, and beams of white fire erupted forth. Where the light touched, the spiders were torn apart — limbs flung wide, corpses crumbling to dust.
Kaen stood before Bilbo, shielding the Hobbit with one arm while his other held his gleaming golden sword. His strikes were swift and elegant, each one felling a foe before it could draw near.
EXP +5
EXP +5
Level 3: (360/400)
Just as their coordination began to turn the tide, a fresh volley of arrows sang through the trees. Slender figures leapt from branch to branch, loosing shafts that found their marks with deadly precision.
"The Woodland Elves!" Gandalf exclaimed, joy lighting his face.
But the joy died just as quickly.
Elven warriors landed soundlessly, and within moments, Gandalf was surrounded, bows drawn and arrows nocked, their heads aimed at his own.
The spiders fell in droves, slain by both blade and bow, until none remained. But now the travelers found themselves ringed by dozens of Elven guards, weapons raised, eyes hard with suspicion.
Kaen had just begun to lower his sword when a clear, commanding voice rang out from behind him.
"Man of the West — drop your blade, or I will drive mine through your heart."
He turned.
A tall Elven maiden, clad in forest-green, stood with her curved blade drawn. Her long brown hair framed a face of striking beauty, fierce and proud. She moved like a panther, graceful and dangerous.
Tauriel — Captain of the Woodland Guard. In the tales, she would come to love the Dwarf Kíli, a love scorned by her kin. For this, she would one day be cast from her people.
Kaen looked at her with a kind of gentle sorrow, eyes filled with a knowing pity. Then, defying her command, he sheathed his blade and smiled.
"If your dagger can pierce my heart," he said softly, "then it is welcome to dwell there — especially if it comes with one so fair."
Tauriel blinked, startled, the meaning of his words dawning upon her. Realizing she had been flirted with, her cheeks flushed with anger.
Her blade spun in her hand — she struck, aiming to clip his hair as punishment. But Kaen was swifter. In a blur, he deflected her hand, disarmed her, and turned her own blade to rest lightly against her pale throat.
"Enough!"
A voice broke through — sharp, worried.
A silver-haired Elf, handsome and quick, sprang from the boughs. With practiced ease, he fired several arrows at Kaen.
But Kaen's hand moved like a flash of light — the borrowed Elven blade struck each arrow from the air, one after another, until silence fell once more.
"Hold your fire," Kaen said calmly. "We mean no harm."
Seeing the rising tension, Gandalf stepped forward.
"I am Gandalf the Grey," he said quickly, "and this is Saruman the White. That is Kaen, King of Eowenría, and my friend. We come as friends. We are here on urgent business and seek an audience with your king — Thranduil of the Woodland Realm."
The grey-haired Elf narrowed his eyes.
"Mithrandir… Curunír?"
He named them in Elvish tongue — the names the Elves used for the wizards.
Clearly, even after centuries of seclusion, the Woodland Realm had not forgotten the Istari.
Both wizards bowed in solemn confirmation.
At last, the silver-haired Elf lowered his bow and gestured for his kin to do the same. The ring of blades fell away.
Kaen returned Tauriel's blade to her, murmuring:
"Forgive me. I've a wicked tongue, and too much charm for my own good. Still… your beauty is beyond compare."
Tauriel took the blade without a word, her voice cold.
"Your apology lacks sincerity."
Kaen shrugged.
"A king never apologizes."
The silver-haired Elf gave a long sigh of relief.
"I am Legolas, son of Thranduil. This path has not seen travelers in centuries. We are bound to guard it with care."
Gandalf nodded.
"We carry a grave purpose and must speak with your father. Please, take us to him."
Legolas inclined his head.
"I shall. But know this…" His eyes settled on Thorin. "The Woodland Realm does not welcome Dwarves."
Kaen stepped forward before Thorin could answer.
"That Dwarf is Thorin Oakenshield, heir to the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Rightful heir to the treasures of Erebor."
Legolas blinked in surprise, looking closer at Thorin. His voice turned low.
"If that is so… then my father will wish to see you. Though I warn you — your kin owe us a great many debts."
Thorin's expression darkened.
"It is you who owe us."
Legolas let out a bitter laugh.
"You know nothing. I may be young among Elves, but even my childhood memories hold truths your kind would rather forget. What you call history, we call wounds."
Thorin's eyes narrowed.
"What is it you mean to say?"
Legolas met his gaze coolly.
"When you stand before my father, if you have the humility to listen, he may enlighten you as to the crimes of your ancestors."
Neither Kaen, nor the wizards, nor any who knew the tangled history of Elves and Dwarves, said a word.
And so it was that, for the sake of the two wizards, Legolas agreed to guide them into the heart of the Woodland Realm, to stand before Thranduil, King of the Woodland Elves.