The moon gave only a hint of pale light and there was no light to be seen across the rolling hills of the Bree-Land. Ceregadan sat cold, wrapped in his wool cloak. He had no want of a fire, the warmth would be welcome, but not the trouble which a light on a dark night such as this would bring. Leaves and dried meat was this night's supper, washed down by water gathered just before the sun buried its head beneath the world.
He pulled his hood closer to keep the cold night air from his cheeks and looked on into pitch black as he listened to the terrible beings in the distance. He was naught but a day's ride from the hill of Bree itself, and it was troubling that danger lay so close to those unknowing, rustic folk. They were no doubt full of ale by this time, laughing and making merry in their treasured tavern, or mumbling of strange happenings beyond their understanding.
Another gurgling hiss echoed from the gorge below.
Ceregadan brought his axe and knife from their resting places. A bow would be no good in this light. Every leaf and blade grasped at his attention as the barely existent wind played its taunting game. In his already exhausted state, tiredness succeeded where the cold was failing, it overcame him.
The next morning brought only faint signs of the night's goings on. Tracks. They trailed off to the west, across the Greenway and away from the small towns to the south. He knelt down to examine the footprints of the clumsy orcs, his bow already strung in hand. He expected a trail of debris and waste in the wake of what he had heard in the darkness.
Ceregadan turned away, and, looking to the west, he began to follow the trail back, to where it had come from.
