[Arestevana]

He rode into the forest, avoiding the first few trees and ignoring the slight rain that fell around him. His horse was moving quickly, but he was forced to slow as the trees became thicker and the woods grew dark. The rain fell harder, threatening to hamper his sight further. They were now moving very slowly, horse and rider, and were once again restrained from a faster pace as clouds began to scurry across the moon. The wind picked up, hurling the rain in all directions, drenching man and animal alike. The rain fell faster, harder, and thunder rolled across the sky. Now it was storming. The wind whipped through the trees; stripping branches, shredding leaves, snapping stems made brittle with an early frost. He rode on, through sheets of blinding, drenching rain. His mount reared as lightning struck a tree nearby, and he fell to the ground. lunging forward, he tried to catch the horse, but only succeeded in frightening in further. The animal took of, leaving him alone and with no idea where he was.

Randir rolled over in his sleep, but did not wake up.

A figure approached, almost invisible in the heavy rain. A woman on horseback. Megilien. He tried to stand, felt pain shoot through his bleeding leg, knew it was broken. The rider came closer, closer. She reined in her horse and stared down at him, seemingly untouched by the rain. He watched her face, rivers of rain water streaming down his own. She knew, and she would make him pay. Swinging down from the horse, the woman drew her sword. He closed his eyes, waiting for a sweeping blow to end his life. The sound of steel meeting bone never came, but a small moan escaped the man's lips as the blade slid between his ribs with deadly silence.

Randir woke with a start to find that he was tangled so thoroughly in his blankets that he could hardly move. Remembering his dream, Randir shivered, wondering how it was possible to feel so cold on such a warm afternoon. In a sudden surge of panic, he drew his sword and cut himself loose. Immediately feeling quite foolish, he sheathed his sword and looked out the window.

It was late afternoon, nearing evening. Randir knew he had slept for only a few hours, but he felt much better for it, and knew he should be off again. It would not be safe to stay in one place until the trail grew cold. Or until that elven lady quit following him. Randir shivered again. Then he shook his head, tried one last time to forget the dream entirely, and, on losing, went downstairs to see to the growing complaints of his stomach.

Several minutes later, Randir was seated at an empty table with a tall mug and a bowl of soup. It was good food, and he was very hungry, so the man finished it off in a matter of minutes. Handing the bowl to a hobbit lass who came to collect it, Randir turned to his mug. He took a long drink, briefly aware that someone had joined his table. Setting down his mug and glancing up, Randir was hard pressed to avoid choking. It was Megilien, and she looked extremely irritated. He immediately looked back at the table, pretending he hadn't seen her. The elf said something short and clipped in a language that definitely wasn't Westron. It was most likely high-elven, and, while it didn't sound like she was cursing, it didn't sound very polite. However, since he didn't know what she was saying, he thought it made quite a lot of sense to ignore her. Megilien spoke again, this time in Westron, and now it sounded rather a lot like she was cursing. Since Randir knew it would be both rude and childish to simply walk away, he added a polite "Good Evening, Miss" before doing so.