Ragnarok had ceased to notice the remainder of his pack. His heart was turned to blood and that alone would sate him. His practiced hunter's eye caught out a hobbit separated from the rest. He knew not what these creatures were: he cared not. They were food. They were a pleasure to kill.
He had been cut in several places. A snapped arrow shaft protruded from his right haunch. He stopped a moment to pull it out with his teeth. It snapped again closer to his hide. He turned and glared and the little beasts. Blood from a cut above his yellow eyes had begun to impede his vision. They were a fraction of his size. How dare they think they could take him on and think they could survive?
He looked at the devastation about him. At least one of the wolves was down. The two remaining pups were hacked to pieces. He cared not but Nimue and Roth fought in a frenzy driven by revenge. Not grief: for Wargs do not know such a word.
A rock frantically thrown cast him a glancing blow. He turned to stare at he who had hurled it. Ragnarok pulled himself to his full height, towering over these little vermin. While all around him was mayhem. Ragnarok focused on one lone hobbit who stood facing him, apparently unarmed. The noise of battle faded from his ears. This was his prey, this little creature was his foe. Ragnarok breathed in, enjoying every quiver the little man made. Now to step forward, now to hypnotise with his eyes, now to move closer, now to breathe the same air, now to ...strike.
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Auriel
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