I take pleasure in the hunt. It is right and fitting that I should do so, proud heir to a proud lineage. The ride out before dawn, drumming over the earth. The great hounds faithful and eager at the leash. A falcon at the wrist, wildness at my bidding. In the south the amber-eyed lion - even he - must yield his tawny crown to me. Here in the north the wolf and bear bow to my prowess.
But now - the rarest and most precious. The man-hunt.
Will against will, the scent of fear, a game of strategy, pushing nerve and thought and body to their limits. One false or stumbled move enough to bring the howling jaws of the dark to fasten on a fearful and sweating prey. Wide-eyed, supremely dangerous, eyes filled with defiance - the magnificence of a man at bay. The sweetness of mastery over such perfect prey.
I have taken all I can from her gear and dreaming. Questions, name, places. In the frosty air before dawn I mount my horse. He too is eager, the excitement misting his out-breath, his hooves sparking the stones of the courtyard with his wheeling impatience.
I have bidden my elfling a farewell. Such a tender parting - her mute-mouthed and glaring as I tell her of my quarry. The northman and the gondorian. Enough to force her escape? She is unable to prevent the curling of her fists as I give her one name in my rich, honeyladen voice. Araenion.
I pull on my dark gloves, leather as supple as a maid. As I do so a wayward thought springs to mind. I cannot help but laugh aloud as I swing up onto my horse, white teeth flashing like a wolf in the dark. When I return ... I will give her what she longs for. A bitter night she will have of it.
