The sun poured through the canopy of the trees, it's golden rays splaying out to coat patches of brown leaves and twigs, damp from the previous night's rain, in its warmth. Emerging slowly from between the mossy trunks of the Lebethron trees was a fawn. The natural white spots of its coat had nearly disappeared with age and soon would it would become a doe fit for the next season's mating. Stopping at the roots of one tree, the fawn stooped its head to nibble at some of the moss growing there. Her ears twitched this way and that, constantly listening to her surroundings and swatting away the irritating flies, yet her head remained down, seemingly content that she was safe.
The birds sang as they flitted between the branches, their calls carrying far in the stillness of the day. A little further up the hill on which fawn grazed lay a pile of ancient rubble, now cover in ivy and lichen. It could no longer be discerned what structure it had once formed, though undoubtedly it had been part of the ancient kingdom of Arnor. The deer paid it no mind. Those weathered stones had been there for many years and were now as much a part of the hillside as the trees that surrounded them. Suddenly, the deer's head shot up, it's ears darting forward, listening intently. The birds continued to sing, and after a minute or two, the fawn returned to her meal, satisfied she was in no danger.
In a flash, she hit the ground with a whine of pain, the thick-shafted arrow that forced her so violently from her legs sunk deep into her neck almost to the green and black fletching. Blood began to well around the arrow, and as she thrashed and struggled on the leafy floor, it ran in streaks down her brown fur. Thirty paces away, from behind a tree-trunk stepped a green-clad figure with its hood drawn up and a great bow in its hand. Purposefully it strode toward the weakening fawn. It had been a death-blow, a well practiced and precise kill shot piercing the main artery in the deer's neck and slowly the life-blood drained from the animal into the dirt.
As the figure approached, it slung its bow onto its shoulder and drew a fine, slender knife from its belt. Crouching down, it placed a gloved hand over deer's eyes and muttered quietly a few words as it drew the knife across the animal's throat to end it's suffering. His voice; deep, smooth and male, seemed to soothe the deer just for an instant. Warm, dark blood gushed forth and the fawn lay motionless. The figure stood up to wipe his knife on a broad leaf and sheathed it again, waiting or the bleeding to eventually stop. Finally, he bent over the carcass and, gathering it by its hooves, heaved it onto his shoulder, his bow still slung over the other, and made his way back from where he appeared.
The birds, who had ceased their trills for a while, one by one began their songs anew.
The sun had begun to sink lower in the sky and evening was approaching. He thought to himself as he made his way back to his very basic, secluded camp that he did not desire to be out in plain sight when dusk came, for trolls had come down from the mountains and were known to prowl after sundown.
Conflict had touched many places, and even here, in this barren wilderness was no exception.
War had come to the Ettenmoors.
