Belenos
The early morning sunshine is weak and does nothing to warm Súraumo's body. It had been warm deep in the lair of the Dark Skins where he had remained for many days after defeating the Balrog, feasting on the fallen and gloating over his victory. Finally though, what corpses he could find at the end were rank and putrid, more likely to pop and spurt their liquefied guts out between his teeth than provide any sustenance to a hungry belly.
Painfully he had made his way back to the surface, hobbling with difficulty on his maimed foot, pausing regularly to delicately lick away the evil smelling ooze that seeped from it with every step he took. The injury from the Balrog's whip was not his only concern, however. It seems that when he had stumbled on it and fallen in the Dark Skin Temple, he had somehow wrenched that limb as it twisted under him. Now when he tries to use it, bone seems to grate painfully on bone as the limb refused to rotate at the joint. It had needed only the shortest of time back out in the crisp high mountain air for Súraumo to realize the cold of the northern mountains was not what his injuries needed. Taking to the air he began to wing southwards.
Despite the injuries he still carried, the old dragon's heart was light as his wings beat strongly through the high mountain air. Long days of easy gorging on food was a rare pleasure, and he felt fit and well-rested as he skillfully navigated the wind currents between the peaks and valleys. Being airborne took his weight from his injured foot and shoulder, settling the shooting pain down to a dull throbbing. The rhythmic heave and flex of his muscles as he flew worked the last of the stiffness from them and, uncharacteristically for him, he indulged in some frivolous ducking and weaving between wisps of cloud, the leathery membranes of his wings fluttering and whistling as the air currents whiffled across them.
From time to time as the day wore on Súraumo would tuck one wing in and flex the other wide to alter his course slightly as he followed the landmarks he had noted on his journey north with the creature of darkness and shadow. Winter was losing its grip upon the land below him, albeit reluctantly. Pockets of snow lingered in the high sheltered valleys, but more and more the green was winning the battle, somehow finding strength from a sun that seemed as yet weary and weak from the long, cold months of snow.
The old dragon liked hunting at this time of year. During the warmer months the game spread out and scattered, wandering at will through the lush green lands, but as yet they still clung to the sheltered pockets of new grasses, gathered together as they sought the warmth and grazing hungrily after so long being forced to dig in the snow to reach the grass. In some winters past he had even seen deer gnawing at the bark of trees in their hunger. So it is as he flies he studies the ground carefully, ever the predator in search of prey.
The sun by now was halfway down the sky on his right as it made its way to the western horizon, sending shooting barbs of light into his one good eye. Blinking, his eye watering, Súraumo nearly misses the herd of deer that were gathered on the edge of a forest far below him. Even from this height he could see the delicate twitching of their ears as they endlessly search for signs of danger. Their soft tails, like white flags against their tawny hides, twitch nervously even as their heads lower, and they tug greedily at the new shoots of grass. They need to be alert to danger to survive. They need to eat to survive. So often he had seen them wage this eternal inner battle.
Instinctively he flexes his forepaws in anticipation of swooping and snatching a brace of warm wriggling bodies. Pain shoots up his left leg, and his breath hisses angrily. There will be no silent swooping death from the air in this hunt. Although Súraumo can easily kill any prey from a distance by using his fire-breath, it was his preference not to. It does the hunter no good to torch an entire forest for one meal. It destroys the very thing that sustains his prey. A dragon who regularly hunts with fire must also regularly journey long and far in search of prey. But this time, Súraumo was already planning to travel long and far, and his current injuries leave him little option.
Thus, his strategy decided, the old dragon circles out wide to approach the grove again, taking care to keep out of the line of sight of the deer below. As he does so he notes the air pressure around him instinctively, for sensing wind direction is as second nature to an airborne dragon as breathing. Good, the slight afternoon breeze he senses is blowing across the glade and is unlikely to carry the scent of an approaching dragon to the herd. He gives a few more strong beats of his wings to gather speed before folding them close to his side and silently spearing downwards, angling across the open glade. His tail and neck outstretched, his wings close against his body, there is not even the flutter of a membrane to warn his prey of his approach. Halfway across the glade he opens his evil-smelling maw and shoots forth a jet of fire. He maintains the jet in a steady stream, weaving his head back and forth a little to cover any who may have had the presence of mind to flee.
At the same time as he snaps his jaws closed to cut off the flow of fire, his wings flare wide and full, back-beating swiftly to break his forward plummet before he reaches the tree line. He hovers a moment, back arched and upright, resplendent as only so large and ancient a dragon can be, before lowering himself gently to the ground. He ignores the crackling flames in the undergrowth nearby as eagerly he snuffles the air, searching out the distinctive odour of charred flesh to lead him to his meal. He hops forward on one forepaw as he snakes his neck out and swiftly gulps down the fallen deer. His blind eye waters a little in pleasure, for the herd has foraged well and had already begun to fatten after the deprivations of winter. This was a good hunt.
Salivating heavily as he gobbles down a fat buck, he raises his head and snuffles around, seeking any he may have missed. By now the flames around him have burned to smoking wisps, for the new spring growth is too damp and green to burn well. He hops forward deeper into the forest to nose among the cinders and then jerks his head back in surprise. Those were not deer! Cautiously he edges forward. Dwarves! There before him, entombed in their charred skins were the bodies of several dwarves. Swiftly Súraumo snakes his head around, ears flicking, nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air, eye bright and seeking, but there are no others nearby.
At last he turns his gaze thoughtfully back to the dwarves at his feet and then looks back toward where the herd of deer had been grazing before his arrival. So the dwarves had been hunting deer, but now the hunters had become the prey. His snout crinkling in pleasure at the unexpected irony of the dwarves' fate, he takes one of the charred bodies and chews on it leisurely as he thinks on their presence in the forest. Where had they come from? Dwarves did not usually stray far from their settlements when they hunted. They were not like those long legged elves of seemingly endless stamina who thought nothing of running all day in pursuit of quarry or enemy alike. No, theses had to live somewhere nearby. But where?
Súraumo stopped mid-bite on his third dwarf as the answer dawned on him. Of course! The settlement he and the Balrog had raided on their outward journey! He thought about the day's flight and the landmarks he had seen. Yes! It was near here! He had known some had escaped them during their original attack, scurrying down tiny corridors neither he nor the Balrog could penetrate, and here was living proof it was so. He tilted his head and looked thoughtfully at the last body before snapping it up and crunching on it merrily. Something told him there were more where these came from. Something told him that tomorrow, tomorrow there will be good hunting again indeed.
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