Fearaf Dulinnion saw the shapes emerge from the twilight edges of the far woods. He watched them from his tree-perch for a few long breaths, till he was sure what they were. He tested the wind once more; moving from them to him, and they were a good two leagues away. But they were crossing the trail he had been on only hours before. They would find his trail and follow it, for they had been bred by the Dark Powers to hate his kind. It mattered not that their Lord was gone, they continued on, ever fewer, ever smaller, less powerful, as his folk preyed on them... but they continued.
And Fearaf was alone.
He did not like being alone, in his few summers he had never been alone. But that, like many other things had changed. He eyed the distant shapes and shivered. He was out of reach of their jaws here in this tree, but he was not safe. If there were orcs with them, as there often were, they would bring fire. To the north lay a farm, less than a league away, but he would have to run toward the wargs to reach it. South lay another farm, farther away, too far away. And he was not sure the farmers would give him any warmer reception than the wargs. But there was that thin curl of smoke he had seen at the edges of Fangorn itself. Hunters, maybe, or perhaps, against all hope, a wandering company of Elves. At least they were not likely orcs, not that close to the Great Wood.
Silent as an owl, he climbed down the tree, adjusted his quiver and light pack, his strung bow ready in his hand. Then he began to run.
Quiet as owlflight, and nearly as invisible, the greys and browns of his leather tunic and leggings vanished in the gathering dusk. Not even the deer looked up from their browsing.
But wargs didn't need to see him, their noses were keener than any hound's.
The dusk deepened, the daybirds stilled their voices, a lone nightbird called out. An owl swept over and vanished in the treeshadow, a single squeak announced the success of its hunt.
Fearaf, Wolf Spirit his mother had called him; he was fast and tireless and loved to run in the dusk, and his eyes saw more in it than any of his folk. He needed those eyes now, the deer track he followed twisted over root and branch and rock, then dived into thicket and low tangley branch. But the deer knew the best way and he followed. He ran on, and on and on. Behind he could hear the howls that turned blood to ice, then silence, even more frightening.
The rumor of the forest spoke of strangers in the woods, of a hunt, earlier in the day.
The nightbirds stilled their voices. Even the soft treewhisper ceased. Fearaf kept an eye out for places he could make a stand.
He ran over a mushroom patch, full of the scent of turned earth and plucked mushrooms.
There were no more howls now, they were close, running hard, hunting, only the thud of their feet and the chuff of their breath disturbed the forest.
The scent of woodsmoke came to Fearaf's nose. He drew a deep breath, lightened his feet and put forth one last burst of speed.
His first sight of the fire did little to ease his heart. He catapulted over a half-rotted tree-trunk, a snarl of tree-roots and a boulder the size of a wagon. Two huge white bears charged out of the firelight, a goat let out a shriek of panic and ran straight into his knees.
Then there was the ferocious looking Dwarf swinging the biggest axe he'd ever seen, right at his head.