The uruk-hai laid dead, each with an arrow protruding from an eye socket or their necks. Some of them died in agony. It was evident by the soil around them, plowed thoroughly with their wiggling feet.
Shemkel looked at their foul-smelling blood, soaking into the ground, with distaste. His keen, elven senses were repelled by the pungent odour and grotesque shapes of the creatures. Gondorian soil was used to that, over all the years of neighbouring with Mordor, alas, lately the orcish incursions started to increase.
The elf knew very well that direct contact with Gondorian authorities wouldn't be wise, at this point. Therefore, he resorted to leaving subtle clues, hints and even written messages, every time he would come upon one of the empty outposts. The rangers had their hands full. It wasn't wise to fill their heads with too much information, not yet.
Whatever was crucial, Shemkel made sure of them to know it. The rest, though... No, they should not have a false idea of help from the elves. Lothlorien itself was still in danger. The Host of the Golden Forest managed to get a foothold on the other bank of Anduin, in Mirkwood, near Dol Guldur. Sadly, elves had struggles of their own.
No, this time the race of men might have to stand alone, at least initially.
The hunter's fingertips touched the geode shard, through one of his pouches. Yes, it was definitely time to know what was going on in Eriador. The whole Middle-earth was one big theatre of war. The Wyld Hunt struggled, every day, to piece all the reports into one image. As for then, it did not look good.
