The man known as Ruscbald emerged from the woods, moving quickly though warily, eyes betraying no life and there was more ferocity than fear in them. He trudged a few yards up the slope. In the gathering gloom an eery silence has fallen.
Brawny hands of the large Eorling sought grip in the top of a boulder, and with a grunt of effort, he pulled himself up into view...
As he peered in the distance, something moved in the likeness of a great charcoal bear: under moonlight the fur shimmered, and beneath the sun the tips are dusted with grey.
It made the roaring noise, nothing on it would move except the rounded paws with a glossy gleam.
His expression - that of the hunter on the scent of prey - lost its fierceness, shifting abruptly to that of a man lost in a land unknown.
'Offspring of Foul-maw.' he hissed under his beard. Suddenly as weary as death, he started scrambling up the slope, whining fear and many curses.
