wargs

Most elves tend to hate Wargs. Today I learned that is not true. Most elves greatly dislike Wargs, and Hilumrekja HATES THEM. I have never seen him so angry or so full of hate. He went into a rage and killed at least seven of them, a whole pack. We are using the old Numenorian ruins the hound had been staying in as shelter. I ran off to fetch water while Hilumrekja calmed down. When I returned, he had me pulling the bones from the carcasses, and teeth. Door making more weapons or tools I imagine.

With a curved bow in his hand, he marched through the barren wasteland underneath the mask of darkness the land has given him. Soon, he shifted from being out in the open towards the cover of trees and rocks to hide him from sight. He waited, and his instincts were correct for soon, he had heard voices. Voices he recognized – one was croaky and crisp with age and weariness, whilst the other was simply aggressive and showing strength through even his voice.

                Dinengel ducked aside as the large beast bounded towards him.  He struck the ground hard, and staggered back to his feet only to see the warg turning around for a second attack. The Ranger flourished his knife quickly in the warg’s face, causing the animal to hesitate, but only for a moment. Digging it’s hind legs further into the dirt, the warg pushed off with its pointed claws and teeth extended towards the fatigued man.

                In the dark the rustling of bushes could be heard as Dinengel dashed through the forest. Heavily panting as the air passed through his scarred throat, Dinengel dodged around trees trunks and hurtled over shrubs. Some distance off the weighty cantering of heavy paws could be heard amongst a deep menacing growl.

          The dark was quickly approaching as Dinengel rode swiftly through the forested hillside. He had been riding for nearly four hours since his encounter with the Trev Duvardain tribesmen, and was now beginning to falter from his fatigue. He had managed to dress his wounded shoulder in an effective but crude fashion, though he was not sure how long it would last. Surely there would be a search party sent after him, and he had lost his sword in the scuffle at their camp.

Zorzimril's eyes blazed as she shouted at her men to stop the ranger, she knew it was one of the loathed Dunedain. He was tall and dressed in the colors of the forest, masked and hooded. The wargs snarled on their chains as the horses stomped and whinnied as one of them lost his tether and was stolen by the ranger. 

                As I reached again the foot of the mountain, the snow had turned to rain, which covered much of the landscape in a foggy mist. My eyes again came across the hill covered in dead trees, and I chose that would be my next destination.

                I chose to travel near the red horn pass, to ensure no fell creatures of the east spill over into these lands. The mountain wolves already dwell in the elf-vale, it would be good to know what path they traveled, or better yet, put an end to their deeds.

                When I had returned to my campsite, I quickly gathered my remaining supplies, and took a path heading south, in the hopes of avoiding any Dunlending scouting parties. I made my way through some craggy cliff sides, and soon I could see far across the landscape. To the west was the peaks of Caradhras, which could barely be seen, piercing high through the clouds.

Through many years wolves have been one of the biggest enemies of the free people of Bree, so it seems only natural to start with an investigation of legends involving them.