Misfit

Chapter Six

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Third Age 2850
January 10th
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It was a strange thing to see smoke rising from the treeline in the middle of winter. Crops had frozen as early as October, ruining many harvests across the board; the Rangers had their hands full with hunting for enough game to feed those who could not hunt, as well as themselves. The most optimistic and weathered among the Dúnedain called it a 'lean year', but Culfin thought that term to be gracious at the very least.

He was a little surprised that he hadn't frozen to death yet, as it was; his winter clothes—hand-me-downs from previous Rangers—had nearly worn through, and his thin skin did very poorly in the cold. It was also a rare occasion these days that he killed anything larger than a squirrel whilst out hunting, which would hardly feed two people, let alone himself.

Still, he would have been glad if hunger and bitter frost were the only threats the people had to fear.

The sky was a dour dishwater grey that morning, stained further by the gouts of smoke churning amid the clouds like a smear of ash; its origin was a tiny traders' village near the Western border of Eriador, just beneath the Misty Mountains—or rather, what used to be a village.

The houses, barns, and shops that had once speckled the little valley had all been reduced to a blackened wasteland, the only disturbance to the grave stillness being the curls of smoke that still rose feebly up from the ground, the ghost of flames that had died out only hours ago. There was no breeze to chase it away.

All was engulfed in a heavy silence as the Rangers gloomily surmised the damage, only one thought present in their minds: We were too late.

Culfin, unsettled by both the scene before him and the bleak atmosphere, awkwardly cleared his throat and said: "One would think that these foul Orcs would take a break during the Yule holidays, at least."

This earned him a deeply distasteful look from most of the Rangers, and the others looked at him with confused horror.

His apprentice, Meluiloth—who was standing beside him—turned sharply away in a manner that suggested she would rather he did not exist. "This is not the time, Culfin," she hissed.

"Well, I can't be the only one who's sick of these creatures," Culfin muttered back. "Let's get on with it," he said aloud, starting resignedly down the hill toward the ruins. "Come on, Mel."

As his apprentice, she had little choice but to follow him, albeit not without heaving a loud sigh to make her disapproval known.

"Check for survivors," Thelerim's voice called out from behind him as the other Rangers began to make their own way forward. Culfin knew that they would not find anything living in this wasteland.

By now, he felt a little resigned to the task of assessing the damage and searching for clues—as awful as that seemed—but this was only the latest in a series of attacks instigated by Orcs, and Culfin's investigation was less about finding signs of life and more about finding evidence that might help him learn why the Orcs had grown so hostile, and how to stop them.

As things were now, the Rangers were able to defend these unfortunate settlements only half of the time—their troops were already spread so thin dealing with the frost, the raids, and their own survival that fulfilling their duty as Eriador's sole protectors had become a struggle. After all, they could not possibly be everywhere at once no matter how formidable they were.

He was careful to avoid stepping on the bones of the victims as he picked through the wreckage, his nose wrinkled as the pungent stench of smoke filled his head.