Rangers

It was the scout, Elur, who spotted the movement from the hills, a large mass of Orcs heading at a brisk pace from the north. It was his sharp eyes that could see the black billowing smoke against the dark sky, blotting out some of the starlight in the west.

"Halt! Who goes there?" Tancamir whirled around as three hooded figures dropped from the trees above, and moved to stand protectively in front of his sister. Uilossiel looked about with wide eyes. Clutching her brother's cloak in one hand, she whispered, "Who are they?"

One of the figures approached and threw back his hood. It was a Man, with clean-cut features and shaggy brown hair. He carried a longbow and bore a silver brooch upon his shoulder, shaped like a star.

          The Rangers of the North were wandering vagabonds that patrolled the boundaries of Eriador throughout the later years of the third age. They were Dúnedain, who could trace their bloodline back to the people of Númenor. 

                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.

Brenten stood atop the Hill in silence, his sharp gaze staring at every detail of the ruin that stood in the valley ahead of him. He was suspicious. He and his men had been up in these lands for months now and many times before they encountered others who had the same purpose. The memory of almost having his chest pierced by arrows still haunted him, only a fat pouch of coin, a part of their earnings, could eventually convince the men he met on that day of the profit that could be gained if they were to join up.

                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. 

                A light rain pattered down as Dinengel was traveling west through the rocky hills of the Ettenmoors. Swiftly and silently, like a gust of wind, he passed between the low trees and bushes of the region. The rain water soaking through his heavy green cloak, and his boots sloshed across the muddy ground.