The Fellowship of the Ring Werewolf

[E.N.]

In the shadow of the night, those evil forces who escaped the reckoning were driven by a festering malice and anger at seeing Lurtz fall. Their fury, a cold and burning coal, demanded vengeance for their fallen. Thus, they strode forth from their dismal lairs, their tread heavy upon the earth, seeking blood under the innocent sky.

In the shadowed verges of the Greenwood, where the light struggled to pierce the ancient eaves, they spied their quarry: Legolas, son of Thranduil, the Sindarin Elf whose watchful eyes held the clarity of starlight. The enemy started toward him.

The keen-eared Elf heard their coming and his hand, quick as a striking serpent, snatched up his trusty longbow. His heart, however, chilled within his breast. As his nimble fingers sought the quiver that should have hung at his hip, they met only empty air.

A sigh, no heavier than a passing breeze, escaped his lips. The doom was upon him, and no swift shaft would turn its tide. With the grace of a weary King accepting the end of his reign, Legolas cast his bow to the forest floor. He knelt there, in the silent glade, and turned his gaze upon the onrushing darkness, accepting the shadow that hastened to embrace him. His solemn duty to the Fellowship came to an end

Edward the Barber, Legolas of the Woodland Realm, is dead