[Formendacil]

Formendacil was an older man, of pure Dúnedainic descent. Born in Ithilien, he claimed among his mother’s ancestors the first Dúnedain to settle Rhovanion, and descended from men who had sailed on Isildur’s own ship from sunken Númenor. His father had been a purebred descendant of the Dúnedain of Cardolan, some of whom had fled past Tharbad to Gondor in years gone by.

Formendacil was a proud man, over-proud some said, although not without reason. He was of noble Dúnedainic lineage, well read, and had the long lifespan of his kin. As a young man he had enlisted in the armies of Arthedain and served his father’s kin in fighting the Shadow in Angmar, but as he grew older, and passed his sixtieth year, he returned to his homeland of Gondor. There, he saw service in Calimehtar’s army that avenged Gondor against the Wainriders, and in doing so he came to the broad land of Rhovanion that his mother’s kin had settled. Perhaps there was some familial connection to explain it, but he fell in love with the rolling and empty plains, and after being discharged from the King’s service, he was among those who eagerly set out to resettle the empty plains.

Not everyone in the village cared too much for Formendacil. Those of Northman descent found him rather distant. The Dúnedain, for the most part, didn’t warm up to him, but to say that anyone in the village hated him would have been to exaggerate.

He was, put simply, a loner. A hard, soldier’s life, a lack of a wife and family, and a general preference for the quiet had left him content to be alone among others. The wide, open loneliness of the plains suited him.

Of those in the village, Formendacil was perhaps closest to Lhunardawen and her brother Nilpaurion. Long-time inhabitants of Osgiliath, they had abandoned the dying urban centre of Gondor at the same time that he had. No one was quite sure how they were connected to Formendacil. Lhunardawen called him “brother” at times, but Nilpaurion tended to refer to him as friend, and no one could see a familial resemblance anyway.

But be that as it may, Formendacil spent more time with Lhunardawen and her brother than he did with any of the other villagers, and it was from their home that he was walking on that fateful night…

Formendacil had been enjoying a fine dinner at the home of siblings, finished with a delicious blueberry cheesecake before he set out, alone, for his own home.

The village, inhabited as it was by only twenty people, was spread widely across the top of the hill that would someday be remembered as Dol-in-Gaurhoth. With so few villagers, all were indoors after hours, and as Formendacil walked the lonely streets between Lhuna’s home and his own, he was the only soul to be seen or heard.

He had gone perhaps halfway across the village when a blood-chilling howl froze him in his tracks. Soon, the blood-chilling shriek was joined by another, and then another. Formendacil reached for his sword (all the villagers who had a weapon went about carrying them due to the nearness of the East). Those were the howling of wolves, he knew. But they were not the local wolves that sometimes came down from the north to trouble Gurthang’s herds. Nay, this howling reminded him a great deal more of the larger, and fiercer wolves that following the armies of Angmar and that had wreaked havoc on the people of Eriador.

Formendacil paused, listening, and realized that the howling was coming from three sides. Taking to flight, he clambered up the side of Valier’s silent brewery, drawing his sword again as soon as he reached the roof. From here, at least, he had a better vantage point.

But the first things that he saw were the glowing eyes of a massive Wolf, tracking him from the roof of the nearby store belonging to Naria. The Wolf was in a crouch, ready to pounce.

And pounce it did. Formendacil dove out of the way, on his feet in a moment, sword ready to strike. But even as he prepared to combat the wolf, he was taken from behind by another of the Wolves, who had hit him with an enormous leap from the roof of the Guy Who Be Short’s Hattery.

Once the third wolf joined the others on the roof of the brewery, it was all over. Formendacil died bravely, sword in hand, as befitted a soldier, but he was no match for the three ferocious beasts, although when his body was discovered the next morning, at the foot of the brewery, broken and mangled, the severed tail of a Werewolf was found next to him.

Minutes after Formendacil’s spirit was torn from his body, a shadowy image of him appeared in one of the homes of the village. The village Seer awoke, startled.

“Formendacil!” said the Seer. “Why have you died?”

Formendacil’s spirit raised a shadowy hand, and gestured at the village.

“Them?” asked the Seer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the village gathered around the dead body of Formendacil, discovered in its gruesome fullness the following morning, Nilpaurion was the first to step forward and identify what had happened.

“Wolves,” he said definitely. “Big ones.”

“And how do you know that?” said Garin, the horse loaner always a little sceptical of the wannabe carnivore’s ways.

“I just know these things,” said Nilpaurion. He was a bit of an odd character, eating only meat and generally acting suspicious.

“I don’t suppose that this would have given it away any?” said Lhuna, carefully holding up the severed tail of a wolf.

“Not just any wolves,” said Malkatoj, “these are Werewolves that killed Formendacil.”

“How can you tell?” asked Kuruharan, ever a sceptic.

“Because they left us a message,” said the professor. She gave Formendacil’s body a kick, and a piece of parchment was clearly visible where it shifted.

“What does it say?” demanded Azaelia. The Guy Who Be Short grabbed it, and read:

Greetings, Foolish Men of the West,

You have trespassed on the lands of the Wainriders for too long. Be gone ere the sun sets this night, or another shall be culled from your numbers, as this one was. What a fool this loner was! He should have remembered that no man is an island.

And it was signed:

The Werewolves in Your Midst

The villagers looked at each other, and the bravery that had caused them to come there in the first place caused them to being muttering and dark looks started to spread among them.

“Shall we be driven out by a pack of wild wolves?” Meneltarmacil demanded to know.

“We shall not!” said Naria, loudly.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Gurthang, “we’ll hunt down these werewolves and lynch them!”

“Come on,” said short little Rune, “let’s not be so violent! No more war!”

“Be quiet,” said Amanaduial darkly, “or YOU’ll be the first one lynched.”

And so, as the brave, but foolish, villagers began to accuse each other with little or no reason, the first Day after the death of Formendacil began.

Day 1 had now begun. You may commence posting.