She had barely slept that night. There was something about the place, with the ruined towers of Amon Sûl looming nearby, that turned the marrow of her bones to ice. So Fairlain sat, feeding the tiny smokeless fire with short dry twigs, and listened to the night sounds.
She had not met anything terribly extraordinary in that place after she had set off from a night's sleep at that forsaken excuse for an Inn; goblins and wargs, boars and wolves, even she had not expected the orcish men at Naerost to be driven from that place...yet. If she could make Ost Guruth by nightfall, she could rest safely one more night, then make for the Last Bridge in one long day's journey. Giving the fading stars a wistful glance farewell, she took a mouthful of water from her water skin and spat it upon the little fire, putting it out immediately with only a few small plumes of steam rising from it. Gathering two handfuls of dirt, she covered the ashes as best she could and standing, took up her bow and her small pack of provisions.
The Sun would rise very soon and it was time to be on her way.
_______*_______
The grey gloved hand hovered over the place the fire had burned, then quietly touched the ground around the spot, delicately drawing a series of trenches woven in and through the yellowed grass. Picking up the hastily buried ashes, they were strewn lightly along each of the shallow canals, then covered in turn with another handful of the sandy soil. A soft breath then stirred the grains of sand and, save for a bare spot, it looked as though no one had been there at all.
The horizon took on a rose coloured hue, and the Woodlark sang softly as the first rays of the sun touched and woke the hillsides to their warmth. Far to the east, the slight form of the huntress could be seen weaving her way between the hills and gullies...and to the west, the flash of the red hood worn by the man that followed her.
