Roughly seven miles away from the small Elven force, the motley Kregosh tribe was in the process of sacking the lovely village of Menolyn. The raggedy band of orcs number a score of scores, and had quickly overwhelmed the village's militia of twenty seven in a hopeless battle. Yet the orcs had been shocked at the supposedly weak elves actually marching out and attacking them. Weapons they did not have in plenty, but they wielded the very fabric of existence. Stone and fire and water all obeyed the words of the Elda, and many an orc died. Yet these brave few were overwhelmed and crushed. Thus, the village was sacked. Blood crazed orc warriors ran aroud cutting down children, women, all in an orgy of death. The end had come to the ageless. And it was brutal. This was the smoke that dominated the sky, as the now 6 score orcs burned the well built elven homes.
However, all this was unknown to Elterys, but he knew something was up. Quickly whipping back towards Yveine, his eyes narrowing as he listened to her talk to her Lumens. Then he began barking orders. "On your feet! On your feet right now! Leave the fires, we march in three minutes!" Turning back to Yveine, "I need you to send your Lumens in a net five miles wide going out towards that smoke. The Guard will follow. Then stand back once we get there. I will not risk your people in open conflict." Keeping an ear open for a response, he began collecting his belongings, throwing them into his pack, and slinging it over his shoulders, until only his helmet lay on the ground. Picking it up with both hands, he placed it on his head, and thus entered a prince of battle from a bygone age. In his eyes was fire, a fiery rage at those who would dare despoil his homeland. Reaching into that sense of power and magic all elves possess, he murmured "Voce magna" and then he spaced his feet apart, lifted his spear, and yelled, his voice magnified by his spell to be a hundred times louder into the boom of thunder "DEATH! DEATH TO YE WHO STAND BEFORE THE CHILDREN OF ELDANOORE!"
Roughly seven miles away, every orc's head snapped up in alarm at the sound of that booming, god-like voice, and they nervously looked around, until their chief, a massive brute whose name sounded like a series of grunts and snorts to those not fluent in orcish, raised his weapon, a massive club, and said "Didn't we just kill some pointy eared elves? Well let's kill some more!"