[piosenniel]

Arvedui III's post

He always liked this time of day best, and a thrill ran down his spine as the rest of the scout troop crouched among the shrubs and underbrush. The uncouth sounds of metal and iron shod moving in unison and the familiar but slightly harsh sounds of a force breaking came, filling him with mingled excitement and dread. This was a hunter's dream, this abundance of game. And yet, it was also quite disturbing that a troop he could not see the end of was moving near Mirkwood. His blue eyes flickered from one orc to another, not lingering on the grime and blackness of their arms, armor, their very skin.

Targil lithely rubbed the grey pommel of the dirk that hung by his side, taking care to make any noise in the dewy morn, grinning quietly at the prospect of the hunt to come. Well, if the captain thought it well to hunt. There was a great many of the foul creatures, but Targil had learned long ago that a good elf was worth at least twenty orcs. Perhaps he was being far too keen, and mentally berated himself for jumping to conclusions again. Whatever Calenvasa thought best to do was what he would do. Yet, of all the officers he has served with, that one was the most pensive. It tried his nerves sometimes, but most of the time the captain was right, so Targil was grateful for the exercise in patience.

A figure with golden armor passed and joined a party of about ten other similarly clad forms, apparently forming up for drill. Targil frowned. Orcs were one thing, but men were an entirely different matter. Now he gave up any thoughts of a hunt this morning. It would be folly to go after such a large party, he finally realized. His brow knotted in frustration as he sensed this troop of orcs and men were far beyond his area of expertise. So much was lately, it shouldn't have surprised him. If orcs and men were marching together, the reason for their marching had to be great, and so too must be their numbers. The group they had spotted today was probably naught more than a detachment in a host far more vast. The thought sent chills down his spine.

Quiet suddenly, he sensed his captain moving, and quickly looked over to see what was happening. Calenvasa glanced briefly around at the small band he commanded, and then motioned to withdraw further into the woods. Targil couldn't have been more grateful for the respite from the tenseness of the underbrush. He turned and tread softly back, making sure to give distance between himself and the other scouts. Relaxing and trusting his ingrained sense of stealth would protect him, Targil glanced back toward the vanishing camp, fear now being replaced by apprehension. He stopped, crouching between two roots, and looked to his captain, and then around at the others. All of them glanced nervously around at each other, each elf not daring to brake the silence, wondering what was to be done about the day's discovery.

Targil only hoped one of them knew, for he surely did not.