Disclaimer: I am not associated with J.R.R. Tolkein or his works in any way professionally.

Author's Note: Please read and review this (and be nice!).

In the night, when the Sun hid her face and the Moon was hidden by clouds, they crept through the woods.  Silent, almost invisible, save for a flickering shadow, distorted among the trees.  They were Makwraiths and they resembled the Dead.  Among Men, they were called the Half-Dead, for they were invisible to the naked eye, until their true name was spoken.  And then, they would be visible.  Even wizards could not see them.  Their one other weakness was that Elves could see them, even when they were invisible.  Because of this, many towns employed an Elf night-watcher when Makwraiths were believed to be walking. 

            These Makwraiths sped through the forest, following a very odd Company.  They were dark when visible, and barely human.  Actually, they seemed to resemble insects, with dull black armor that fit together like a centipede's segments.  Some, like those following the Company, rode skeletal ghostly steeds.  Their steeds were like horses, only with a skull for a head and liquid blackness for a body.  Within their eye sockets burned a hint of Hellfire. 

            The Makwraiths had been only recently dispatched by their king, but catching up with the Company was no problem.  Their steeds, called Heilres, had the noses of bloodhounds and the speed that rivaled that of Shadowfax, the wizard Gandalf's horse. 

            The Company was gathered near the forest, huddling near a small fire.  There were eight of them, a mix of creatures.  Once there had been nine, but the Man Boromir had been killed by the Orcs when the Ring was being brought to Mount Doom.  There was Frodo the Hobbit and Gandalf the wizard talking quietly to one another.  The Hobbit's worried face shone red as he glanced at the fire.  Gandalf sighed through his long beard and continued talking.  Samwise, another Hobbit, sat next to Frodo, listening intently to their conversation. The other two Hobbits, Pippin and Merry, chattered to each other, their clear voices hushed, except for an occasional laugh.  Aragorn the Ranger stood with his back to the fire, facing away from the forest, watching for any creature foolish enough to challenge them.  Legolas the Mirkwood Elf lay on his back near a tree, his fair hair and face light faintly by the fire.  The last, Gimli the Dwarf, sat silently by the fire, brooding. 

            "Where do we travel to next, Frodo?" Aragorn's voice broke the night air.

            Frodo looked up from the fire. "Who knows?  Wherever we are taken."

            "Ah, it has been a long time since we have traveled together.  Is it not nice to just travel for once and not be going somewhere?" Gandalf asked simply.

              "Then what is that worried look I see on your faces, Frodo, and you Gandalf?" Legolas replied. 

            "It is nothing, just a rumor I have heard.  Wargs are said to be gathering in the woodlands." Gandalf answered.

            "You call that nothing?" Sam cried.

            Aragorn laughed. "It is nothing.  We have handled worse than Wargs."