Gaeros and The Order of Dol Amroth- Chapter 1

The hunter knelt, perched on a large solid bough dangerously high up amongst the canopy of trees looking down into the Chetwood. His elbow poised and his grip firm as he held his bowstring back; thumb knuckle resting snuggly in the hollow of his cheek, holding his breath as he waited patiently for the creature to pass beneath him. The hunter closed his eyes for just a brief moment, listening for the steps. A snarl then a grunt. Gaeros' eyes opened with a flutter. He made one final adjustment to his his aim before breathing out and then...release. 

The colored fletchings whirled behind the shaft as the arrow cut swiftly through the air; whistling its sweet song of death before the point buried itself deep within the neck of the beast. The creature rolled back and forth writhing in agony attempting to howl, to call out for its pack but the only sound the arrow allowed for was the gurgle of thick fluid. As it collapsed, the creature's eyes met Gaeros', if only for a brief moment; yearning, as if to ask “Please, won't you release me?” Quickly, and with another arrow the hunter answered and the vile beast was felled.

Gaeros looked down in pity at the abomination. A spawn of the warg they call Baugarch, a half-warg. He had heard the beasts at night, their howl was different, more disturbing than the common dusk-wolf of that area. Each night he moved camp, and each night they followed, He was sure of it.

The hunter wanting only to relax, leaned against the trunk of the great tree. High above in the safety of its branches. He rested only a moment before climbing down to the ground. There was work to be done. He had gotten lucky with this one; the rest of the pack would not be such easy prey he thought.

As he landed on the ground Gaeros held his head for a moment feeling a bit faint. He looked down at his wrist. He was stronger now, stronger than he had been in weeks but the bite he suffered from the bristle boar was deep. Surely, the beast was rabid. His fever had broke but still, something lingered. He was different now.

More than a month had passed since Gaeros had pledged to the Order of Dol Amroth. They had welcomed a fellow brother of the southern realm into their fold and for that he was grateful. They had even invited him to their feast celebrating the Yule. A glorious event full of fine food, music, fireworks and ale. Oh...the ale Gaeros thought. The ale was certainly plentiful that evening, a bit too plentiful. A night that should've ended with a full belly and a warm bed continued into an impromptu boar hunt with another pledge Golodhan and Desdold the merchant. The three of them hunted the Chetwood well into the early morning. It was during this hunt clouded by ale, Gaeros missed his mark and the boar charged, chomping down on his wrist, leaving an awful wound. A more sensible man would've sought care but Gaeros ever a Man of Gondor soldiered on, straight to the Inn, and into a tankard drowning in more ale. 

A woman had shown up as well Ellsa. Sweet, from what he remembered. She had warned him of neglecting his wound. They all had. That was the last thing he remembered...and then the fever overtook him.

The fever lasted ten moons and during that time Gaeros was under the strength of its spell. He had long vivid dreams. Dreams of a time long ago. He dreamt of his mother, sweet, young and fair; of his boyhood and of simple times; of laughter and love. Then a darkness consumed his vision and the shadows parted enough to see his father. Smiling and then crying. There was a dagger that shined of the purest silver, bathed in blood and then...only death, death and then oblivion. 

When the hunter awoke he was shivering and alone in a strange tent in Beggars alley. He gathered his belongings, stopped at the inn for some supplies and then left the walls of Bree, not knowing why but knowing he could not stay. Soon after he wandered into the woods searching for answers.