[Arvedui III]

Hillmen
A light breeze sifted through the trees leering over the camp at lake Evendim; Only occasionally shifting rocks disturbed the soft wind weaving in and about the wild landscape of Arnor. Fletch licked his lips in anticipation, methodically making toward the village of the wild men, if indeed it was where he still thought it was. The gnawing fear playing gleefully in the back of his mind grew as Fletch, for all the stealth he had acquired over the years, broke into a gangly run once he was well out of hearing distance of the intruders camp.

A little creek now reached out before him, a stream barren of any life by the look of it. The land was moving on, and Fletch cursed his lot, the stream, the greedy invaders he had just surveyed, and many other ills after he glanced into the useless brook. It wasn't the last time he would utter curses this day. Fletch kept along the stream for around another thirty minutes, trotting quickly given the harsh terrain. Quite suddenly, he crouched low, hands finding their way to poison shafts without his bidding. Something was moving.

Eyes darting wildly about the landscape, they came to focus on a hefty figure lumbering away from the stream, clutching something. Fletch once again relaxed and shifted his weight, glaring questioningly at the man limping laboriously away. He was clearly no Dunedain, but then why would any of Wolf's folk be here? He licked his chapped lips again and slowly began to follow. The mystery of the limping wildman became even more perplexing as Fletch trailed him.

The fellow had the sense to be silent as he went, but that seemed to be the only good sense he possessed. With neither the wit to know that someone was only a few yards behind him, nor to bother even trying to conceal his path as he went, Fletch convinced himself that the man he now followed was no man of Wolf's, but still, the figure walked toward the village, so he had to be. Is he a renegade, then? Fletch stopped, squatted, and furrowed his brow in thought, allowing his quarry to turn left and move out of sight.

Fletch's watery eyes again darted to a corner of area, and this time instead of relaxing he tensed and readied a dart in his right hand. Another large figure was making its way toward the village. Knowing that flying now would only delay the inevitable, Fletch sighed and stood up, smirking slightly as the figure realized he was there. "Ah yes, the runt." Drawled the massive fellow as he came into hearing distance. In spite of himself, Fletch felt his cheeks flush and knew then that the man would only just begin his sport. Just let it roll off you. Fletch thought. Let it roll off you like rain on stone.

"Bear, brother of Wolf. Your fire burns well, I trust." Fletch couldn't have added more contempt in his voice if he tried. "Bah!" Bear spat, ignoring the greeting and drawing himself up to at least two heads above Fletch just to look down on him properly. "My fire burns not. Have you seen them?" "Yes, and why the filthy southmen have come I do not know." Both men, large and small, seared with hatred in their eyes, although whether it was for the invaders or each other, the gods only knew. "Wolf wants you." Bear grunted. "I know." Fletch retorted. Bear then shot him one disdainful look and kept walking toward the village. Half tempted to bury ten darts in his broad back, Fletch followed, the smell of fires already starting to reach him.

Southmen in the morning and Hillmen in the evening. Fletch thought bitterly. This was not going to be a good day