A goblin's head was stuck outside the gate and a warg-skin was nailed to a tree just beyond. Beorn was a fierce enemy. - The Hobbit, Chapter 7 - Queer Lodgings
The sun cast an orange glow over the dark twisted woods, the large mountain range that split the continent in half casting a growing shadow as the Sun set behind them. Wind swept down from the snowy peaks, bringing a chill however the thick woolen tunic that the towering man wore kept him warm as he twisted and pulled on some rope.
A low guttural growl escaped from his throat as he tied a knot around the two hindlegs of a great wolf, shaggy grey fur split open by a vicious gash along the back of it’s spine, the red of flesh a sharp contrast to the dull coat. A large axe lay to the side, over half the size of an average man with a head of steel; faded from use, blood still wet on the cloudy metals surface.
Thick muscles tensed as they pulled on the rope, hoisting the corpse upwards into the air, letting it swing from one of the large branches of the tree. The warg swayed gently in the wind, it’s jaws hung open with yellow teeth stained with it’s own blood. It suited it’s purpose well.
A warning. A warning to any warg, orc or goblin that dare come down from the peaks to enter the woodland. A warning to the filth that still loitered around despite the efforts of his ancestors before him.
A rustle came from nearby in the bushes, the leaves shaking as a small choking sound was briefly heard before once again it fell silent. The head of the lumberjack snapped to the way it came from, nostrils flaring as he drew in breaths. It was a scent that was vile, yet it brought an odd pleasure to him. Not a dwarf, it was too pungent. Not one of his own kin either, it was only one thing it could be.
His axe was thrown over to rest on his shoulder as heavy steps thudded into the soft undergrowth beneath his large boots. His breathing was like grunts escaping from his throat as powerful legs propelled him forth, bundling into the shrubbery with a high pitched squeal and a prolonged deep shout, sending birds flying from the trees around the scene.
It wasn’t long before the birds returned to the aftermath, crows and rooks landing on the branches. The warg remained where it was, his eyes now plucked from his skull from the birds that had started to feast on him, yet their focus was more on what was below. Strewn out on the grass; once green and lush now stained dark and soaked, with entrails like a ring of sausages against the root of the great tree. An arm was stretched out, laying limp with a set of legs nearby. However, the most notable part of the scene was the head of a goblin, skewered on a stake with his jaw hung open, eyes wide and yellow. His skin was torn, and sharp fang like teeth were missing here and there.
Another warning that would do well, until the birds had feasted, and another would be needed.
