[Orual]

The broad brush-strokes of the sunset were fading into the uniform blue of twilight before Anson decided to stop for the night. They had been walking almost nonstop all day, and they were all weary, Anson not the least. His legs protested every step he took and his breath was labored when he finally sat down.

"I'll find some kindling for the fire," Anson volunteered, though every muscle in his body was screaming for him not to get up again. Perhaps a fire would ward away those wolves he kept hearing.

The crossing of the ford had been easy, and they had had the aid of the elves. He feared that the Glanduin would not be so kind, but that was a problem for another day, though he knew that it would not be a far-off day. He could picture the roaring, foaming white waters, and he could picture also the raft that they would have to build, and in his mind's eye it was flimsy at best. He shivered. He had a true hobbit's fear of water, and was not looking forward to crossing the river.

He had nearly a full armload of firewood when he heard a crunch behind him. He whirled around and there was nothing there, but he could have sworn that he saw a glint of gold behind the trees.

He hurried back to the campsite and deposited the wood he had collected. "Arm yourselves," he said. He drew his short sword with the others. "Wolves are behind me. I don't think that we have much time before they're on us. Peony, Luin, try to build a fire. I hope they'll stay away from that, and we'll at least be able to see when they come."

While they built the fire, Anson looked around the circle, breathing hard. Wolves had been the bane of his existance as a farmer, and now his life was threatened by them. If he hadn't been trying to breathe normally, he would have thought it ironic.

Time seemed to slow down when Anson first caught another flash of yellow. He gripped his sword until his knuckles turned white, but another one did not come until the wolf lunged.