[Gwathagor]

The solemn elf nodded slowly as his host, who was evidently the proprietor of the establishment, explained how the wolves had appeared in the East Farthing several days prior. It coincided far too well with the appearance of the wolf trail in the north to be mere coincidence. The hunt was finished, and now the battle would begin; likely today, or perhaps the day after. He only regretted that it had to happen here, in this peaceful country. The wounds will heal quickly, he thought, as he looked away from the hobbit, and out the window across the rolling hills and fields. There is a quiet, merry strength here; it is not obvious, but it is deep. The hobbit had just finished speaking.

"We are not fighting folk, we hobbits, you know.”

The elf stiffened. He became alert, his head high, his eyes unseeing as he concentrated, listening. There it was again. Somebody crying for-.

Before the astonished hobbit, he leapt up, knocking his chair over. "Do you hear it?", he asked, in a voice that was tense and dreadfully in earnest. "A cry for help - that way - north!", facing back towards the door of the inn. "They have come again."

His hand went instinctively to his sword belt, where it found the sheath empty. "My sword!", he cried. The light of battle was in his eyes. He paused and looked back at the hobbit; then in a swift motion he seized the jug of ale from which the hobbit had filled his tankard, emptied it in a long draft, and cast it back upon the table. "Advance payment," he explained. "Come friend, there are enemies to be met!" And he sprang out of the door, his cloak rippling behind him as he rushed like a mad wind for the hill where his sword still quivered hilt deep in the turf, eagerly awaiting its master's hands. This was not a blithe summer breeze. The wrath of this wind carried the foreboding of blood: before it and behind it and with it.