--Alfred Bernhard Nobel
In the Southern deserts of Arda, a girl walked back from her scoutings, alone and silently. Scouting for any Enemies or a valuable sight was a duty that was passed around wordlessly, and it had been her day to do the job. She had spotted nothing, and she proceeded to go back.
The girl was strange, even among her own kin. Haradrim by appearence, she had cat-like grace that somehow seemed frighting, yet rather fitting, despite her small body. She was dressed in the red-black war clothes that a proper Haradrim warrior wore: it seemed to be a part of her. Three visible weapons lay by her side; her sword, scimitar, and most valued of all, her glaive. If only this was to be seen she could have passed for a normal adolscent training for a warriorhood, but she was -- damaged. It was her left arm that troubled her, for she had been born with a fault. She had been teased and harrased, cast away and joined in again, and she had toughened over her sun-years.
She stopped suddenly as she caught sight of her campsite. Rather, what had remained of it.
Her eyes blazed with fire: fire both of her heart and the reflection of her home. She dumbly stood there as the scarlet waves engulfed, drowned the tents, camps, and the people into ashes. Even as she stood the smoke was getting lighter; a sign that the fire was easing up, and she walked around the campsite, devoid of any feelings except for bewilderment. She purposefully toughened her heart. She would not let any tears show or fall... It was in the training of the Haradrim.
She couldn't understand what had taken place. Her family and others had been traveling northeast to walk under the Dark Eye's order. The Dark Eye was growing stronger than it had been in the past; and the crones of the clans predicted war and success and riches for them all, if they went under the Dark Eye's rule and won the battles. Riches were needed badly among the Haradrim. The Lords of Umbar demanded more and more from the clans each day, and riches would buy power. The Haradrim were not meant to stay down like desert rats; coming up only at night. They would control the whole lands, someday, even beyond the White City, even the green places where strange, bigger trees grew with flat, crinkling emeralds on their arms. Even the shores by the wide blue-lakes that were told to be stretched into the end of the world.
Every one of the company was -- had been -- trained to a long extent; indeed, they were the Haradrims' best warriors. There had been seventy in the company, or so, most of them hardy veterans in the art of war, a few of them adolescents who had showed great promise in fighting. She had been one of them: she fought like a lioness with her glaive and sword. They had not had any Mumakil -- the war Oliphaunts -- with them, as they would slow down the journey slightly. However, even the smallest of delays could trigger things into motion that the Haradrim would not want. Such as the wrath of the Dark Eye or another skirmish, for instance.
So how had the fire managed to get them all? Fires weren't common in the desert or sparse grasslands where they dwelled. They were used sometimes, in great celebrations of some sorts, but only then, and in councils.
She thought hard. They had no oil lamps to go by at night, preferring to use their night vision and the five senses. Thus accidentally spilling fire on the cloth tents would not be an option. Anyway, if it had been an accidental fire that had caused this destruction, chances would be that the others would have not noticed it until it was too big to quench. That was slim, as every Haradrim knew the signs of fire and could escape it, if not extinguish it. Fire was greatly dealt with.
So that would mean that somebody -- an Enemy, a troop -- had caused this. But whom? She briefly was reminded of enemy individualists who tried to attack the tribes, but they were too small to do great in their company. Disagreeing with clans, they were the outcasts of the desert. What Enemy would have caused this downfall?
Men of the city up north — Gondor, she thought it was called, and its habitants Gondorians or descendants of Numenoreans — did not often stray this far. They could have spotted the large troops the Gondorians usually had before siege, anyway.
She sat down on the sand. As the flames met the grains they extinguished, unable to gain control of the desert. She smiled to herself: that was the spirit of the Haradrim. Worthless people would not undertread them…
So that would mean stranger people would have done this. Great magickers of some sort, to have destroyed the great warriors of Haradrim, including -- she didn't want to think.
She started looking around for clues that might help in this mystery, this unsolvable entangle. Muttering a short "charm" to keep herself from being harmed by anything unnatural, she started prodding around the ashes and the half-burned objects. Here was a chest that the leader of the Serpent clan had been carrying, full of scorched battle armor and a spare scimitar. (Haradrim kept weapons to their sides all the time, in case of a hasty assault.) Here was a vial… Empty… She sniffed it slightly and drew back, her nose crinkling. She never had liked the Hawk clan's remedies and healing herbs.
Oh, by Umbar. she thought vaguely as she uncovered something. Someone, to be exact.
What was it? She had never laid eyes upon like this one before. The being - a male by the appearence of him - had the hair colour of the golden sun, and his wide, empty eyes were the color of the sky. His ears were pointed into an angle that fascinated her. He wore strange clothing, a little like the clothing of the Gondorians, and he carried what seemed to be the remains of the bow. He was fair; fairer than the most of the Haradrim, even in his burnt state.
Avoiding contact with the body -- touching a corpse was bad luck -- she looked at the remains of the bow. Pity it had not been saved. It would have been a fine weapon.
But first things first. She could not let little trinkets trouble her like this. She once more looked and memorized the figure's face and body. He would have been one of those who had attacked. At least she hoped so. If he had been the only one, the rest of his kind would be as powerful as he. And if one could destroy seventy strong warriors, what could hundreds do?
The rest had fled, probably, leaving the dead with the dead as the Haradrim did. She looked around to see if she could see any strange tracks: none, but for hers. She felt a twinge of fear: these beings were more powerful than she had first thought. They had covered their foot tracks in seconds, or perhaps not even left any on the ground.
A sudden green flash drew her eyes. It was a mark of some sort, over his scorched cape. It was a brooch in the shape of a leaf, and it was crafted by emerald and silver. It was old by its looks, and had a strange symbol upon it.
She drew back. This could be a trick of some sort, and she froze. After moments of tense waiting, she dared to move again. She had a clear idea who these attackers were. They were called Elves. She remembered the time she had heard about them, from her father's brother…
"They are wizards of some sort. Most have the hair colour of the sun and eyes of many different hues. They walk upon the ground like shadows, for there are no tracks made by them. They are deceivers; they have left and joined the Dark Eye over the long years. They are not to be trusted, and to be killed immediately. But they are great wizards, and they live forever, or so it is that I hear.
"Nobody knows where they live, at least not the Haradrim. It is rumored they live up northwest, in the great tree-places called forests. They are the sworn enemies of the Lord of Dark Eye and us."
Sworn enemies. Of course… They had done this to them.
Gritting her teeth, she thought quickly. It was her duty to pay back the lives that had been taken. Northwest. She would go there and take revenge on her clan, her family and the Haradrim. It was only right she would do that. It was actually the place of a son or a male relative to do the revenge-taking, but she was the only one for leagues around. Fate's hands had led her into this. What should be shall be.
She bit her lips, trying not to let tears drop. It was harder than when she had trained. She and the others had been beaten with sticks, and they were not to cry. If they were, more pain would follow. Most had quickly learnt to control their tears. She felt silly, so unlike a Haradrim, that she felt angry at herself and forced herself to stop.
She started looking around for supplies she could pack. She had all her weapons and her war-clothes on, hair disguised to make her look like a boy. After rummaging for a long hour she found the most of the unspoiled food, hiding in the ruins like gems. Most were dried food of some sort, although she found a rare treasure of slightly sandy - but still edible - meat and gritty bread that was eaten in long marches.
She looked around for anything that might be useful in her travels. Nothing other than the food. Horses were not used by the Haradrim, and the Mumakil were far, far away, too far away to be in any use to her. She would have to make do with walking. After all, why not, she had marched longer than this before. She could surely do it. Surely...
Suddenly angry and more bewildered than ever, she slashed at the Elf's face with her glaive, causing it to bleed even more. That moment she didn't care if she touched the dead; she kicked him until all her anger was gone. After her anger spasm, the body was a sore sight: scabs and scars appeared over the already burnt skin, and parts of the body -- fingers, a foot -- had been violently cut off and dark blood was flowing into a puddle. Now the beautiful features were not evident at all, and her lips curled. He had been the first one to recieve the end of her anger.
She howled, like a desert wolf, into the cruel sun. It was her war cry. Her golden-amber eyes flashed dangerously, and her dark hair flew. The howl was full of anger and sadness, of oath and honour. It had only struck her then that what had happened had happened.
The one who has command of the Elven-traitors will die, she, who was so fittingly called Wolf, as she both had the spirit of one and was of the Desert Wolf Clan, snarled. I will kill them all!