One Arrow, Twice Fired

A hazy night dimmed over the sleeping woods of Thinglad, the bare branches of the trees swaying in the chilly Breeze. Daerundros frowns as she slouches a fine bit, lazily grazing over the wood with her proud, fierce Mare, which tosses it's head in pride, despite her attention being, at large, ever-vigilant against whatever be her foe, for she knew that something was moving against her. She could hear the voice of distant gurgling carrying over the wind, joining the swish of the leaves that breezed by her on this spring day, though spring was gone in Thinglad; The boughs lay in deep slumber, never to awaken again.
Presently Daerundros was made aware of another, proud canter, walking behind her own trot. It were heavy footfalls of a tired, yet proud, horse. One that did not seem to care of camoflauge and stealth, in her pride, forsaking all caution of remaining hidden to unpleasant eyes, proudly making her presence known to those present.
Daerundros was stirred with a string of amusement as her senses reached out to the foreign being, smirking at her evident desire to show off. The aura felt was one of cool, cold composed pride; An evident warrior who seemed to be hounding her very step at this moment. If not for the obviously Elvish vibe being given off, Daerundros would've assumed it was a trespasser: One of the "Horse-riders" as her comrades in Haldirith called them. Daerundros had a slight distaste for the Horse-riders from the South, disliking how they called her kind the "Dwimordene", and referred to the Lady as the "Witch from the Wood".
Yet her attention was grabbed, as she saw in one of the bushes, the crude metal-helm of an Orc peeking out from above. She stopped in her tracks, observing a while. The Orc glared back at her.
"Yrch!" she hissed.
Twang.
A gurgle resonated from the bush. Horribly vile a gurgle it was. An arrow shot straight from the Willow bow in Daerundros' arms, and a silver arrow disappeared once more into the bush. With a bottomless thud, the corpse of an orc crashed down from the bushes, pushing down branches and what not as the weight fell upon the shrub. Daerundros sprang down her steed, leaving her there to rest - she could fend for herself, obviously, and the Elvish traveller and her steed were also present - and made for the corpse.
The Foreign Elf she could feel following behind her. Unbeknownst to Daerundros the figure had her hand on the hilt of her sword, yet no aid was yet given, for Daerundros had already kicked the corpse aside with a distasteful grimace. More were about, but Daerundros could wait for the moment. Her entire focus lay sorely now upon the Elven traveller behind her, who was edging closer to her. It made her uneasy, but she turned.
She was greeted with a lush crown of dark hair, and a finely-chiseled face. The eyes that looked back at her were cold and hard, an unyielding, proud stare. The Elvish maiden was garbed in armours of the old, Ñoldorin kind. They were not remotely unique-looking, but as Daerundros took in the whole figure of this Steel-cold Elf, her vision became clouded by the image of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. This was obviously a warrior who had come from the Olden days of Glory. She was the perfect embodiement of Noldor-glory in the First Age. Immediately taken unawares, Daerundros bowed her head respectfully. They were both a beautiful and terrible image to behold, One maiden armoured in the colours of the swan, the other in an elegant blue of the seas beyond Belegaer. Both of them stood high and tall, the authority in their voices and their expressions resonating plainly on their faces. The air of nobility that surrounded them made lesser beings shrink back in awe.
"I beg your pardon for not having payed attention to you." Said she who was garbed in the colours of the swan. The other maiden smirked wryly.
"I did not speak yet." Said she who was garbed in the blue armours.
"Yet the intent was there." A plain matter-of-factly comment sounded from the other.
The two Noldor simply grinned at each other.