Wolves and Ice {Autumn 2912} [Elrohir]
Apr 30, 2018 16:38:54 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on Apr 30, 2018 16:38:54 GMT -5
It had been the year of the famed Fell Winter of the North; when the deep snows had fallen early, south all the way to Mirkwood, and the pass of Imladris was completely buried. The Valley had been safe and sheltered, and always well prepared for Lord Elrond's wisdom in such cases. Yet the other peoples of the northern realm had suffered greatly.
The Dunedain, and those who dwelled within the Homely House, had been of great comfort and help to the Breefolk, and to the simple halflings of the Shire; keeping them from starvation with their supplies. After the melts of the snow, the rivers flooded, destroying whole towns; destroying bridges and the Greenway.
Yet by flood and lack of food alone had not been the only things which led to demise. Great packs of wolves had descended from the north on the ices and snows; killing many in the outlying wilderness, devouring. What terrible sights had Ruivo come upon when the abandoned homesteads had been found that following spring. Treacherous creatures destroying and devouring both men and halflings having taken the brunt of their aggression. Not warriors; but simple farmers, families who had tried to defend themselves until the bitter end.
Ruivo could not help but leave Imladris. There were things to do; and he could not stay in one place for long. Here they walked, he and the young Lords of Imladris of whom he would share companionship on this venture. Strong fighters Elrohir and Elladan were; though not so travel worn as Ruivo. No mere elflings; for they had seen their share of battle in the mountain passes, and against the onslaught that had come from Angmar a millenia ago. Across the snow, deep and cold; where any mortal man would have struggled for the depth, but not so for the three elves.
“Residue of Morgoth,” Ruivo muttered, bending to look upon the snow where were the wolf prints. While it was yet autumn in the southern lands, they had traveled north to the lands of ever winter, tracking the packs which had caused such grief. If this winter were to be so terrible as the rest of the year had been, the least of their worries would be the wolves, for Ruivo had intention to destroy the great packs; if he had to make all the way to Forchel to do it.
These prints were large; heavy, no normal wolves of the wild, but things which were left over and had bred on their own in the wilds after the downfall of the Witch King's realm a thousand years past. Their numbers had grown; to something unwieldly it seemed.
The winds were cold, whipping, though Ruivo was dressed for fairer weather. He never wore hood nor cloak, even in the depths of the northlands. The air bit against his skin and numbed it. His hand tingled on the hilt of his sword. The prints showed easily the direction which this pack had traveled.
“I know the lay of land in this place,” he turned to speak to the others. “They travel here to the northwest.” He pointed the direction. “No doubt the men of Lammoth have been run off by them as well, for there is a hot spring where they can draw water all winter long without need to chip through ice. Once there was an encampment there. The wolves will stray near it this time of year, until they seek south for want of nourishment when the biting winds come.”
Ruivo breathed in deeply, smelling far off the scent of the den; the territory of this pack, he knew. “There is a cleft in the rocks by the shore of the sea. There we will cut them off, and there we shall slay every last one.” Of how many there were? Ruivo could not say. The foot prints of at least half a dozen were in front of them, though who knew how many were at the den site. Ruivo had no fear of a few shaggy beasts, however, he had fought against much greater foes in his day.
The Dunedain, and those who dwelled within the Homely House, had been of great comfort and help to the Breefolk, and to the simple halflings of the Shire; keeping them from starvation with their supplies. After the melts of the snow, the rivers flooded, destroying whole towns; destroying bridges and the Greenway.
Yet by flood and lack of food alone had not been the only things which led to demise. Great packs of wolves had descended from the north on the ices and snows; killing many in the outlying wilderness, devouring. What terrible sights had Ruivo come upon when the abandoned homesteads had been found that following spring. Treacherous creatures destroying and devouring both men and halflings having taken the brunt of their aggression. Not warriors; but simple farmers, families who had tried to defend themselves until the bitter end.
Ruivo could not help but leave Imladris. There were things to do; and he could not stay in one place for long. Here they walked, he and the young Lords of Imladris of whom he would share companionship on this venture. Strong fighters Elrohir and Elladan were; though not so travel worn as Ruivo. No mere elflings; for they had seen their share of battle in the mountain passes, and against the onslaught that had come from Angmar a millenia ago. Across the snow, deep and cold; where any mortal man would have struggled for the depth, but not so for the three elves.
“Residue of Morgoth,” Ruivo muttered, bending to look upon the snow where were the wolf prints. While it was yet autumn in the southern lands, they had traveled north to the lands of ever winter, tracking the packs which had caused such grief. If this winter were to be so terrible as the rest of the year had been, the least of their worries would be the wolves, for Ruivo had intention to destroy the great packs; if he had to make all the way to Forchel to do it.
These prints were large; heavy, no normal wolves of the wild, but things which were left over and had bred on their own in the wilds after the downfall of the Witch King's realm a thousand years past. Their numbers had grown; to something unwieldly it seemed.
The winds were cold, whipping, though Ruivo was dressed for fairer weather. He never wore hood nor cloak, even in the depths of the northlands. The air bit against his skin and numbed it. His hand tingled on the hilt of his sword. The prints showed easily the direction which this pack had traveled.
“I know the lay of land in this place,” he turned to speak to the others. “They travel here to the northwest.” He pointed the direction. “No doubt the men of Lammoth have been run off by them as well, for there is a hot spring where they can draw water all winter long without need to chip through ice. Once there was an encampment there. The wolves will stray near it this time of year, until they seek south for want of nourishment when the biting winds come.”
Ruivo breathed in deeply, smelling far off the scent of the den; the territory of this pack, he knew. “There is a cleft in the rocks by the shore of the sea. There we will cut them off, and there we shall slay every last one.” Of how many there were? Ruivo could not say. The foot prints of at least half a dozen were in front of them, though who knew how many were at the den site. Ruivo had no fear of a few shaggy beasts, however, he had fought against much greater foes in his day.