Fairlain

The fresh air filled the hunters nostrils, air he had not tasted in quite some time that had once been so familiar. His tattered cloak wrapped around his slender figure, the brooch upon his breast shining like freshly polished silver. He paused for but a moment, running his fingers across the worn, weathered wooden sign that simply read ‘Arrowhaven’.

The soft breeze rustled the leaves off the tall trees in the small village of Arrowhaven, the grass waving in its gentle wake. The stone walk way had been freshly swept it seemed, not a speck of dirt on its surface.

The hunter walked across the pathway, his boots quietly thumping across the stone. His gait was swift as he cradled the quiver of arrows he had plucked from the goblin corpses. He carefully reached for the knob and gave it a twist, opening the door and walking inside with pause.

The hunter walked outside of the gates of Aughaire, the window picking up the dust and ash that lay across most of the foul lands of Angmar. He wondered quietly to himself if these lands had always been like this, or if they were once like many of the others, lush, filled with beauty and mystery. He carefully made his way down the steep hill, knowing that these were but baby steps compared to where he needed to go.

     The evening was growing dark quickly, as Gaildrin was wandering stealthily through the uninhabited ruins of Eregion. He had discovered that some strange men from the east had been prowling these lands, and intended to find what business would bring such men so far into Eriador. With this news, he had also found that some Dunlendings had been migrating to the same region, which made the situation all the more suspicious.

The crimson hooded figure sat on his perch over looking the vast region that had been known as the lone lands. Cynraede sat through the rain as it poured off of him, his dark eyes peering out over the land as he hunted his quarry. He looked over his shoulder, behind him lay the appropriately named the 'forsaken' inn. The locals seemed to have only heard rumors of the person traveling the road alone, a small bird following behind. He knew this could only be but one person, he had found her, and she was alive.

Cynraede grasped the edge of the rock, forcing himself up and over the sharp ledge with a growl as he rolled over onto his back upon reaching the top of the mountain. His armor stained crimson from the arrow that pierced his soft leather chest piece, the barbs stuck deep within his soft flesh. He lingered only for a moment before standing and continuing to run, forcing himself onwards with guttural grunts as he pushed through the pain.