Curin dozed, his head filled with shifting thoughts that were as fleeting as fog, or a rainbow, which are ever far out of reach. He often wondered if there was some hand, or other mind at work within him, he was often distracted and at a loss. With a groan he opened his eyes, and rolled his shoulders. He had slept leaned against a great carob-tree, and its buttressed roots had left a great aching knot in his neck. Behind him, a gray-pillared cathedral of deeper shadow, was one of the few large stands of trees in the grasslands. Not quite a forest, but large enough to host more than a few wolves, plenty of deer, and -Curins' absolute favourite- quails.

Beyond his outstretched feet was the east, and grasslands rolling beyond the farthest reach of sight. Upon the horizon were strung a lone of gray clouds that were blowing further south. West of him, behind his back, was the now familiar path to the Village of Estolad, where Curin awaited the birth and training of his first horse. Curin was feeling perfectly settled in Estolad, the Stablemaster had permitted him the use of a small chamber, barely large enough for a low cot, but perfectly adequate, given it was free. But more often than not Curin desired to sleep outside. He was accumstomed to it from long years. He often found it too quiet inside of doors, without the noise of crickets, or even the whispering of the wind in his ears as he slept.

Slowly, as the sun broached the clouds in the east, the grasslands were flushed from the dirty pearl color, to a lucid sea-green. Curin stood, stretching with his hands over his head, trying to iron out kinks in his ribs. He dropped his cloak, and ran on the spot for a moment, bringing spots of colour back into his cheeks. He dragged his hands through his beard, and stifled another yawn. Crouching beside the embers of his fire he plied it back to life with handsful of dried grass and a few of the carobs' twigs. The carob-husks burned with a musky sweet smell. Curin had managed to run down a suckling pig the night before, which he caught nosing in the grasses within sight of the woods, he held the spare side above the coals now, warming his breakfast as the world also roused around him.

He whistled as lustily as a starling as he did this, and arched his back, hands on his hips. A part of him was eager to be moving again, despite the season of comfort he had enjoyed in Estolad so far. He was close to people, and near-enough to the wild that he could pick and choose which according to his mood. But as he watched the clouds, roving steadily in the east, his heart yearned to follow them. Far to the south was Yomeniampa, and his heart sang at the mere thought of that place. Even as he thought this, a shadow passed over his chest, no more than a dot. But Curin perceived it. So it was with anyone that spent years as long as Curin had in the truly wild reaches of the world. Very little went unnoticed.

Curin looked up, and there it was. His friend, or his menace, he could not decide which. The Golden Harrier that had followed him ever since he lit the pillar of fire so many years ago. He watched it wheel easily with the winds, tucking its wings close against itself, as plummteing to the ground, only to unfurl wings at seemingly the last momonet, and alight on the ground. It bent its keen eyes on him. "Hail Golden-one" Curin called out, with more than a little of his frustration with the beast in his voice. Its expression was a perpetual frown, a scowl even. Curin at times felt terribly angry beneath that unflinching scrutiny, that morning was a particularly keen example. "What?" Curin threw his arms up in exasperation. "What do you want of me? What is it? Why for all the good reasons on earth do you follow me?" Curin paled, and scowled himself. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer to that. Long ago, when he lit the fire, he had made a silent vow to follow more closely the ways of the Lady of Life. The long years had washed that fervor thin, it was true. "It's pretty easy for you isn't it?" Curin yelled with renewed frustration. "You're a Golden Harrier! Everyone respects and reveres your kind don't they? Anyone would do anything for your kind, hoping to curry favor with the Lady. Look at me! I've tried you know! I've tried to dress nice, I've tried to fit in. But I don't. I never have." Curin lurched threateningly at the Harrier. "Why don't you just leave me alone! Go! Just leave me in peace!" Even Curin was aware of the gritty emotion in his voice, as all his fears and disappointments for himself came rushing to the fore. He slumped to the ground, arms wrapped around his knees, his hair hanging down over his face.

So it was with him. smoldering beneath what little contentment he ever felt was a burning sea of doubt, and loneliness, and failure. He stared up at the Golden Harrier, yelling louder tha he intended to"What do you want from me?" The Golden Harrier turned its head calmly, as if expecting something, settling its wings more comfortably against its sides. It seemed someone was coming.

((any doubts or questionsPlanning forum))

Dawn was approaching.

A small group of deer was fleeing across the hills and plains of Salquedor Grasslands. There was one buck, a few doe, and a couple of fawns. They all had a fair, brownish-golden coat. Where once they would have shone with a soft luster, their coats were now tarnished with foliage and dirt. One could tell by their reduced speed and appearance that they were fatigued, nigh to complete exhaustion. At first glance, one might wonder why they were running so quickly.

But then...

Then came the howls. Unearthly, almost demonic howls. The baying of the wolves grew louder as they began to gain on their prey. Deer were known for their speed, but wolves were infamous for their endurance and stamina. There was a pack of about fifteen or sixteen, and one of them stood out. Whereas most of the pack was dark in color, this one was a bright, rich red, with crimson markings. He was slightly larger than the rest of the pack, and seemed to be the leader. The pack drew closer and closer to the small herd of deer, and their doom seemed nigh. The first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon as the pack at last was closing in. The fawns began to stumble, and the does attempted to keep them going. Unfortunately, the seconds of delay would cost them.

In a burst of ferocity, the wolves lept upon the doe and the fawns, bringing the weakened animals down with sheer power and numbers. But the remaining buck was not free yet. The blood-red wolf, and three others, left the doe and fawns for the rest of the pack, choosing to go after the buck. The buck made it to the top of a hill, and at last, had to stop. The four wolves stood only a meager ten feet away, carefully and cautiously planning their strike. The buck, a beautiful twelve-point buck, lowered his head, readying a defense. It was breathing hard, due to exhaustion, and the wolves knew it. The blood-red wolf hunched down low, the other following suit, and for a moment, one could have sworn that the red wolf smiled maliciously. In a sudden lunge, the crimson wolf lept through the air, fangs bared. The buck then immediately tried to gore the red wolf with it's antlers, but to no avail. The red wolf was a Chaos Wolf, and though powerful in his own right, he grew still strong the more wolves and lupines that were near. Grasping the inside antler of the buck with his teeth, he maintained a death-grip on it, as the buck attempted to shake loose the red wolf. As the two tussled, the other wolves saw their chance, and dived for the buck's belly and throat. Tearing into the flesh, they made short work of the buck, as the red sun rose over the morbid scene.

The red wolf ate a little of the buck-meat, and then left the remainder to the pack. There was something far more important on his mind. Moving at a calm but purposeful pace, he made his way to the south. After about a fifteen minute's trip, he could see a stranger in a green cloak standing in the fields as if waiting for someone. His eyes were a grey-green, and his short hair was dark brown. Walking to his side, the crimson wolf sat on his haunches, looking in the same direction as the stranger. After a few minutes, the Atani calmly said, “So, how was the hunt... Sercë?” The wolf, to whom the name evidently belonged, turned his head to face that of the Atani. Of all the wonders in Lothlomendil's creation, the wolf spoke! His tone was deep and rough, like the musings of a grizzled soldier, but riddled with sarcasm. “Terribly. They'll never be able to eat. I think they might just be skin and bones before long.” With a slight chuckle, the Atani, still gazing to the northern horizon, replied, “Terribly for the deer, perhaps; and I can assure you, they'll be nothing but bones before long, with that large a pack. Glad to see you're as straightforward as always, Sercë.” The wolf chuckled and started to retort, “Well, with the hunting skills of th--”

"Hail Golden-one!"

Sercë was interrupted by the sound of yelling. Curious peaking in their minds, the wolf and Atani made their way in unison towards the source of the call. They saw a man by a campfire, with a bird nearby. The cloaked Atani whispered under his breath, “A Golden Harrier.” The stranger continued his yelling and commotion. “What? What do you want of me? What is it? Why for all the good reasons on earth do you follow me?” Frustration was evident in the man's voice, and Sercë chuckled, whispering to his companion, “Sounds like this guy has a few bats in his belfry. Or in this case birds--” The cloaked Atani cut Sercë off, whispering, “Shh...” “It's pretty easy for you isn't it? You're a Golden Harrier! Everyone respects and reveres your kind don't they? Anyone would do anything for your kind, hoping to curry favor with the Lady. Look at me! I've tried you know! I've tried to dress nice, I've tried to fit in. But I don't. I never have. Why don't you just leave me alone! Go! Just leave me in peace!” The cloaked Atani and his wolf companion were just about to hail the man, when he yelled even louder, “What do you want from me?”

Quiet as a leaf falling, the two made there way to the man. Standing behind him, they made their presence known. Sercë said in a most sarcastic tone, “Oh, why don't you keep going? I'm sure just one or two more outbursts, and it'll open its beak and tell you plain as day!” Due to their position behind the man, unless one knew that Sercë could speak, it would seem as though the cloaked Atani was speaking.

The golden-harrier stared at Curin unflinchingly, not remotely concerned by his threatening actions, and certainly not at his shouting. It watched the approach of who-ever it was coming, and since it seemed unconcerned, Curin trusted that it must also be safe not to worry. In a moment Curin could hear booted feet, and the steps of something four-footed, and slightly lighter.

“Oh, why don't you keep going? I'm sure just one or two more outbursts, and it'll open its beak and tell you plain as day!”

He blushed to the ears with humiliation, dropping his chin, and rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. He looked from the corner of his eye. Behind him, he could just see booted feet, and the huge paws of what he guessed to be a massive hound. He considered what he could possibly say to soften the blow of his embarrassment.

Truth was Curin had perhaps spent too much of his life completely alone. There were long periods of time when this had perfectly suited him, but, as it is said: a man becomes like his friends; and Curin had become all too much like Curin. He was occasionally inclined to speak his thoughts aloud, unaccustomed to having to guard these in the event someone might hear them; long ago, without any company, he had allowed himself to rant out his fears and frustrations. Of course, in the wild, there really is no one to hear you. He realized he must seem perfectly insane.

Slowly he turned, a bashful smile still seen through the depth of his beard. What he attempted to do was to conceal his misgiving for the wolf, if indeed a mere wolf was all it was. The colour if it was like long-fallen pine-needles, that have turned all to copper, and crimson. Its' eyes bored up at him all too knowingly. He could not help himself, he took a step back, though he had the sense, and good-sense he deemed it, to keep his hands well away from sword-hilt, or that of the axe.

Curins' eyes glittered with humour, he knew when he'd been had. He smiled at the man he assumed had spoken, with a flicker of doubt, at that, toward the wolf. "You know, now that you mention it, that probably won't be worth a fig of help, would it?" He dropped his head, and chuckled, too humiliated for words. "It's this mystery, the Golden Harrier. It follows me everywhere I go. For years now. I have been wracking my thoughts all the while as to why. Who sent it? Did I do something to attract it?" Curin looked back at the Harrier, which unfurled a wing and preened a wayward feather back into alignment. He shook his head, it was too full of notions and suspicions which were all every bit as implausible as the next."Don't worry, the fit has passed, I am myself again. Curin, of Neiruthaun at your service, master...?"

“You know, now that you mention it, that probably won't be worth a fig of help, would it?”

Sercë's whole frame lurched, as he fought back an amused snort. Rolling his feral-yellow eyes, Sercë thought sarcastically, Naaah... Do you think... perhaps... Surely it would work, wouldn't it? Upon receiving a brief but meaningful glare from the cloaked Atani, Sercë turned to face the man once more. One could have sworn that a faint muttering came his direction. He took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, a brief shudder ran through his body, smoothing his crimson coat. Hoping that Sercë was done with his sarcasm, the cloaked Atani turned back to face the stranger. He was about to ask the stranger what his problem was exactly, but the man spoke of his own volition, before the he could. “It's this mystery, the Golden Harrier. It follows me everywhere I go. For years now. I have been wracking my thoughts all the while as to why. Who sent it? Did I do something to attract it?” The Atani's green eyes gleamed with curiosity, and a hint of pity for the man. The stranger shook his head, and said, “Don't worry, the fit has passed, I am myself again. Curin, of Neiruthaun at your service, master...?”

The cloaked Atani smiled beneath his hood, and he reached for his hood with weathered hands, pulling it back. “Kyermë Órëráca, of the field.” His voice was slightly deep, but had a smooth, melodic sound to it, like the trickling of a stream through a mountain gully. Kyerme's skin was as smooth as the water, and as soft and rich as the earth. His leaf-green eyes, flecked with grey and blue, shone with the light of the rising sun. His hair was a deep-rich brown, and fell to his eyebrows, and about half-way down his neck. His expression was difficult to read, but it seemed to flicker with a hidden playfulness and kindness.

Kyerme continued, a slight smile on his lips,“I have no need for your services, although I can assure you the gesture of kindness is greatly appreciated. It is rare to find such humility in travelers of the wild.” Kyerme's soft smile shifted to a look of sorrow and pity, “All too often, they brandish their blades, proclaiming their own glory, and draw their own doom to them.” As quickly as his expression had changed, it returned to its former calm yet cheery nature. “But I digress. As for my services, I have devoted myself to Arda; but I know naught of your purpose. If they should align, then we may walk together, so to speak.” Kyerme's voice lowered, and his tone became grave and low. “But if they do cross, you would be wise to stand down.”

A slight smile broke across his visage once more, and Kyerme continued his reply. “Formalities aside, You seem to be suffering from a bit of a nuisance. Perhaps a bit of company could help?” Kyerme slowly sat down, not making a sound. His eyes turned from Curin to the Golden Harrier, and he looked at the beautiful avian, admiring its graceful frame and healthy caramel plumage. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Kyerme began to make a series of small clicks and whistles, as though he were speaking another language. The golden harrier cocked his head to the side, and returned to tending to it's feathers. Pausing for a moment, Kyerme looked intently for a moment, and made some more clicks and whistles, with an inquisitive tone. The golden harrier returned Kyerme's noises with a squawk, and then proceeded to ignore him, at least for a time. Kyerme leaned back, and rested his chin on his folded hands. Kyerme thought to himself, Well, that went rather well. If only it were possible to understand a bit more of what is going on. Perhaps the man will reveal it in time. Still, I might have a favor to ask before I help. Yes, he seems like a warrior. Perhaps he could help with a little “nuisance” of mine own. I only hope that he proves up to the test.

Curin smiled easily while the stranger introduced himself. In particular he related to the remark about most wild-farers proclaiming their own dreadfulness and glory. He rolled his eyes in perfect agreement, and dragged a hand over his face: if only wiping away all of that lot was so easy. “Formalities aside, You seem to be suffering from a bit of a nuisance. Perhaps a bit of company could help?” The ranger, if that is what he was, said with a natural grace and confidence Curin found more charming than all the slick manners in the world.

There was something in the mans' instant statement of alignment and character that reminded Curin of the way wolves greet. A half circle of one-another, while they catch oneanothers' scent, then closing they brush noses, even if perfectly friendly, give a half-hearted growl. But, it was clear to Curin, the man had passed through long hardship, and had enjoyed very little company for a long time.

Curin didn't resent anyone a long moments hesitation when they first met him. He must appear a total barbarian! Even Curin would be the first to admit that, dressed as he was in pelts that he had trapped and cured himself, and in fibers that he had spun and woven with his own hands in the wild. His copper-highlighted hair must appear a very dirty brown, given that he had been putting of a proper wash for a sunny day, which it appeared it was going to be. First he would do the rounds of his traps and snares, and do all of the cleaning out and dressing down. The meat, more than he could carry each day, was to be sold to the butcher in Estolad, to help pay for his horse. Squirrels, rabbits and hares, fattened wood-pidgeons, eels; Curin had a snare for them all, and it was making him a solid income. Estolad had been good to him, but, even as he turned his sight to those roving clouds in the east, Curin wondered if it was time to be moving along again.

Curin was about to speak when the man, Kyermë Órëráca, turned his interest to the Harrier, and seemed to have a knack of making the birds own kinds of calls, which was a marvel. Curin had heard of Clans of men in the north that bred and kept such birds as messengers, and perhaps the traveller had some of their skills. Still, the harrier answered with a squawk, and seemed to ignore him every bit as much as he ignored Curin.

"Company?"Curin settled nearer to his fire. "Is always welcome. Here," he passed over half of the side of the suckling-pig. Curin tore into his cut of the meat, wiping the juices out of his beard with a sleeve. "Your hound, he looks like he could do with a good meal himself. Feeling a bit gaunt on it master?" Curin threw the last of his meat to the crimson wolf-hound.

By this time the sun was properly getting up, and the last of the dawn mists were all evaporated. In its place was an increasing balsam of the grasslands scents. Penny-rose and yarrow crushed underfoot, and the early borrage giving off the fragrance of dusty honey at the woods edge. Curin sat up, catching sight of his favourite bird there in the grasslands. The little kingfisher of Salquedor, its back as bright as darkest jade, its breast white as new fallen snow. His deep love and gratitude to these tiny birds was because they had first revealed to him the presence of the freshwater crayfishes in the brooks. He could not help but smile, they cheered him so deeply. "You're right, a bit of company is just the thing. Say, friend, you have the look of having come far, and at pace. Are you pressed to reach a place. I know Salquedor very well now, by sight, and by the stars; I know every copse of trees, down to the last fattened hog, and every river. Are you in a hurry to reach somewhere? Is there some way I can help?

Kyerme was lost in his thoughts for a moment, as he pondered the mystery of the Harrier, and how to obtain the services of this kind stranger. He seemed to be very hospitable, and friendly. Curin struck him as the lone wolf, the independent warrior, free from bonds of servitude, a free spirit roaming the plains. As Kyerme studied the man, he could not help but sense a hidden nobility, an inner fire that burned with him, like a covered lantern. Perhaps the shades might lift with the rising of the sun. He was jarred from his thoughts, as Curin said kindly, "Company is always welcome. Here..." Kyerme watched with a curious smile as the man took a bit out of the pig that was roasting over the fire. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, causing Kyerme to raise an eyebrow out of amusement. "Your hound, he looks like he could do with a good meal himself. Feeling a bit gaunt on it master?" Sercë thought indignantly, Hound! A hound! How dare he refer to me as if I were some common alley-dog! I ought to bite him, just for that! Sercë lowered his head, sniffing the meat. Gingerly picking it up with his teeth, he gently tossed it in the air towards Kyerme. Reaching up, he casually caught the meat, as if it were nothing unusual. Taking a bite, Kyerme exposed two canine teeth slightly larger than that of an Atani, though not to the length of a vampire's. Calmly holding up the piece of meat, he explained to Curin, “He's already eaten his fill, friend. A lovely buck it was. There wasn't much left after he and the pack were done. You see, he often hunts with the local wolves, for exercise and food. Sometimes he'll bring me some, other times there isn't enough. But we manage well enough. You seem to be a capable hunter yourself.” Kyerme motioned with a laugh to the roasting pig, and the furs that Curin was clad in.

Quietly enjoying the generously-given meat, he savored the rich flavor of the smoked pork, and looked about him, seeing the sun shining on the grass. It was like the gleam in a child's eyes, when she first wakes, glittering with eagerness, shining with joy. Once Kyerme had finished his morsel, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes. The sweet smell of the grass filled his nostrils, as did the luscious perfume of the blooming flora that crowned the fields, as a magnificent tiara accents a fair princess. And indeed, how beautifully was mother nature arrayed! Like a maiden off to court a fair lad, so did the earth seem to be showing her beauty to the clear, blue sky above. Kyerme watched as birds flew in the heavens above, free of the cares of the world below.

Kyerme looked down, and saw that something had caught Curin's attention. It was a kingfisher, a beautiful little bird, with green and white plumage. Creative little buggers... Kyerme thought with a laugh, meaning it as a compliment, for they were indeed clever hunters. Once more, Curin spoke, this time asking him of his purposes. “You're right, a bit of company is just the thing. Say, friend, you have the look of having come far, and at pace. Are you pressed to reach a place? I know Salquedor very well now, by sight, and by the stars; I know every copse of trees, down to the last fattened hog, and every river. Are you in a hurry to reach somewhere? Is there some way I can help?”

Reaching down, Kyerme plucked a blade of grass, about as long as his finger, and put it to his lips. He seemed to be chewing on it for a moment. Then, holding it in a most peculiar fashion, he formed a sort of flute or whistle with it. Taking a deep breath, he let loose a soft, rich call that seemed to echo through the hills. For a moment, all was silent, but after a few seconds, similar calls began to be heard. But they were no echoes, for they grew louder as time went on. At last, one could see three hawks flew from the sky, lighting on Kyerme's outstretched arm, and on his shoulders. Turning his soft, green eyes to each of them, Kyerme could not help but to smile with fondness towards the creatures. He whispered softly to them in soft, deep whistles, calls, and faint clicks. They seemed to return his fondness, and spoke to him in like fashion.

Kyerme and the three hawks turned their eyes in unison to Curin, a remarkable similarity in their gazes. Kyerme then said, “You say that you know Salquedor down the the last hog, every grove, every stream. I too know these lands well. I know the feel of each blade of grass, the the top of each hill, the flow of every rill, the windings of every trail. I know every creature, from the rabbits in the fields to the gryphons in the skies above, and they know me. I know every one of the fox's litter. I know every chick in the eagle's nest. I know every wolf in the many packs. I am of the field, where my true people are. Not the people who built Estolad, but my brothers who roam the plains, and my sisters who labor to feed their young. In fact, allow me to introduce you to one of them. Curin, this is Sercë.” He motioned with his eyes at the crimson wolf, who was now lying down. Sercë stirred, and sat up, his gaze alert, and firmly locked his eyes with Curin's. Kyerme continued, “Sercë, Curin.” Sercë nodded his head in some semblance of a bow, and of all wonders of nature, spoke in the tongue of men, “A pleasure.” Kyerme then whispered to the hawks, sending them on their way, and telling them where they might perhaps find good hunting. Turning his attention to Curin once more, he said, “As for my fatigued appearance, it is of no hurry to travel, but the rigors of aiding my brothers against the more belligerent wanderers, both creature and man. As for help, it would seem that there is a problem, which you might be able to help with.” His voice became more pleading, and urgent, as he continued. “There is a large group of hunters to the north, and they have established a large camp. Even owlbears have been brought down by their strength and numbers. I am no warrior, and my family does not wield the Curse of Men, that of killing-steel. Perhaps with our combined efforts, we might be able to shatter their wretched stronghold. But what service of mine could I render in return?”

Curin was rubbing his face with his hands, so he might have been mistaken, but he was certain, as Kyerme sampled the pork, it could be seen that his eye-teeth were elongated. He held the piece of meat, and pointed at Curin with it as he spoke."“He's already eaten his fill, friend. A lovely buck it was." Kyerme nodded down at his companion, who had resumed resting, seemingly dozing but for the watchful twitch of his ears. "There wasn't much left after he and the pack were done. You see, he often hunts with the local wolves, for exercise and food. Sometimes he'll bring me some, other times there isn't enough. But we manage well enough.”

Curin looked down at the restful wolf, and nodded at the trail of his own thoughts. Quite aside from the blood-red pelt, it was clear that this wolf was more than he seemed. Any strange wolf to a pack, that Curin had ever seen, was harried out of the packs' territory. For this wolf to be able to rally foreign wolf packs to himself, that was something beyond Curins' experience."You seem to be a capable hunter yourself.

"Aye, I have hunted for my health and survival for many long years. I am more of a trapper, truth be told. I carry no bow. Though beware my sling. I have slain bears, in need of the good skin, with naught but my sling." Curin held up the simple thong of leather, which did not look remotely dangerous, let alone deadly. "But I only hunt at need, and by the code of wolves, which I'll ask you to pardon me while I recite, I realise you'd probably know a great deal more than me: but here it is, such as it was taught to me: the wolves do not hunt recklessly, nor prey upon a mouthful more than is needed. They single out the weak, and the frail." Curin smiled, blushing a little, now that he had done it. "So it is that they make all creatures stronger, and quicker. I was taught that when I was four years old." He laughed at himself.

Then Kyerme did something Curin always noticed of people, and always respected the utmost. He stopped talking for a moment, to just look around him. He had met few people that ever did that. Once, when he was younger, and thought he was more unique, he had thought perhaps he was the only one that cared to notice the living world in its every day splendor. But here he watched Kyerme just look around him, with pleasure and relish. At Curins offer of help and guidance, he thought he perceived a glint of mischief in Kyermes' eyes, and Curin smiled too, awaiting what Kyerme had planned, who made a cunning whistle, whose sharp call split the air.

Then, as Curin had been told as he was put to bed as a tiny child, he witnessed a beastmaster summon wild hawks out of the sky, who flew to him, and who understood his speech with them. Curins smile was open, as as fascinated as if he was still three years of age. It was the stuff of legends! Kyerme, his eyes bright, turned to Curin and introduced himself more fully. “You say that you know Salquedor down the the last hog, every grove, every stream. I too know these lands well. I know the feel of each blade of grass, the the top of each hill, the flow of every rill, the windings of every trail. I know every creature, from the rabbits in the fields to the gryphons in the skies above, and they know me. I know every one of the fox's litter. I know every chick in the eagle's nest. I know every wolf in the many packs. I am of the field, where my true people are. Not the people who built Estolad, but my brothers who roam the plains, and my sisters who labor to feed their young. In fact, allow me to introduce you to one of them. Curin, this is Sercë.”

The wolf stirred, and even bowed, and true enough, spoke with the gift of a beastmasters chief familiar. "A pleasure." Said he.

“As for my fatigued appearance, it is of no hurry to travel, but the rigors of aiding my brothers against the more belligerent wanderers, both creature and man. As for help, it would seem that there is a problem, which you might be able to help with.” Curin perceived an unrgency, and a deepfounded pain in Kyermes' expression then, and the smoldering of a deep fire. He knew that fire, he pitied this elf's enemies. “There is a large group of hunters to the north, and they have established a large camp. Even owlbears have been brought down by their strength and numbers. I am no warrior, and my family does not wield the Curse of Men, that of killing-steel. Perhaps with our combined efforts, we might be able to shatter their wretched stronghold. But what service of mine could I render in return?”

Curin knew just what kind of men Kyerme was speaking of, calling themselves hunters. They were nothing more than a plague, like a disease that sweeps through, killing everything in its wake. Curin knew, with as much bitter suffering as the creatures they killed, what it was like to be caught in their ptah. The cycle of life was obliterated in their wake, some of the forests never recovered from the abuse. And over the years, would gradually wither, and die. Worse: some even resorted to burning down reaches of forest to flush out more prey. If Curin found out that his own hand was responsible for something like that, he would cut it off. His hands itched to hold his axe and his sword. Kyerme was right, it could not be condoned.

Once he had almost starved to death traveling through a vast forest, all because every living thing had been stripped out of it by such hunting practices. It was the short-sightedness that enraged Curin. If you hunted a forest until all your prey was endangered, or in the case of these hunters, extinct, where would you hunt next year? Where would your grandchildren hunt?

"I know of the sort you speak. And I am quite comfortable with steel. I will come with you. We will not speak of what you can do in return yet." Curin could not resist turning his sight to the Golden Harrier, "For I do not know if I am ready to receive such aid. Come, do not let me delay you a moment. If you would set out, I will run behind you. But let us stop, one night, in the village; so I can gather my weapons, and some supplies.