wargs

Thordralin sifts through the contents of his fathers' belongings. He seems alive even now, in all these objects left behind. It's a sad and gruelling task, but the Uzbad does not complain; the slow digestion of memories is just one part of the mourning process. Placed tactfully at the bottom of one wooden box is a carefully preserved letter. A letter from Thordralin, back in his caravan guarding days. Or rather, at the end of them...

Year 2518 of Third Age, autumn

Clear voices rose and fell in the starlit air. One rose above the others. It was singing in the fair elven-tongue.

In gwidh ristennin, i fae narchannen
I Calar Ithil ed ardhon gwannen
Calad veleg, ethuiannen. 
 

Everything ends.

Claws like cats,

Teeth like swords.

Graceful creatures,

Killing monsters.

Dogs from above,

Monsters from below.

Shredding hands,

She stands on the precipice. She stands upon the point of no return. The wind whips through her hair, catching her braided locks in its wild grasp and pulling threads and strands of her hair loose. The skirt of her tunic flaps wildly in front of her as she stares down the sheer drop. A sense of nausea overcomes her, and she stands upright once more so she does not have to see the bottom.

Volbjorn’s honey eyes flickered an amber glow in the light of the fire as he knelt by its warmth. He breathed slow, deep inhales with measured, prolonged exhales as he focused his mind and body on the task ahead. He knew now it was by design the little sparrow lead his steps to the town of Combe, and as he sat he began to recall the events that led him into the dark of Chetwood under the black of the New Moon.
 

This diary is dated several days earlier.

I’ve sat on this bed, in this room, for three days now. After having been chased through the Lone-lands by all sorts of fell creatures, I was attacked by a Warg. In the Trollshaws!  These are dark times indeed if such beasts would come hither to the lands so close to Imladris. 

Act III, part X: A Growing Evil in Mirkwood