[Ransom]

Volkmar Heidenhammer had awoken to the acridic smell of smoke and the bright rays of the sun. His first thoughts were on his fire from the night before. Yet, as he sat up and surveyed the campsite, he could see no fire in the clearing. Shrugging, he rose and packed his meager amount of gear on his steed, Ana. Breakfirst consisted of a few apples and a small piece of bread, for his stores were running low. Whistling to himself, he carefully scowered the campsite, burrying the firepit and scattering the twigs he had gathered.

For two weeks he had rode, comming south from Bree at the commands of his superiors. Word had reached the Dunedain of the North of stirrings among the Dunedlings, and sightings of orcs and other foul creatures. Yet their lord, Aragorn, had ordered the Shire protected. Not that Volkmar had a grudge against the halfings, save that someone had to investigate. Besides, this trip had given him some time to think. What more could a Ranger ask for?

Topping the hill did not reveal much, for the smoke had not been blown away by any wind. At least Volkmar would not have to worry about the fire spreading. He began to travel down the other side of the hill, coming upon a small stream. As he let his horse drink, he gazed downwards. Someone had crossed recently. Tieing his horse to a tree and pulling his warhammer from it's sheath, Volkmar began to follow the tracks. It lead to a low outcropping that had recently been slept in. It could not have been an ork, for orks did not travel the wilds alone. No dwarves travelled here, and Volkmar had no reason to believe that an elf would be so careless in their bedding arangements. That left two possibilities: the Dunedlings or the Rohirrum.

"Hail, fellow traveler. Do show yourself, for I mean you no harm. Perhaps you would be enclined to join me for some breakfast?" Volkmar made a show of leaning the warhammer against the rock, yet keeping it close enough to grab in an instant.