Crossing the Plains of Rhovanion
The words of the two women wash over him as a breeze, but like a breeze, they carry the scent of their concern. It is not their welfare that concerns him, any more than all creatures of the world concern him, but the tone arouses his senses. Something does concern them.
"Mordor... yet different... a blend of old and new... new blasphemies that taint the land, corrupt the living, invoke the dead," he mutters.
Once again in his hybrid deer form, he turns his head to the southeast, his sight penetrating the distance like the sting of a bee penetrates the skin.
"Orc-but-not-orc. More than Orc, less than Orc. Vile and foul, their very touch is anathema to the living. Their mere presence corrupts the air, carried on the winds for all to sense."
There were clearly times when Tavaro seemed to exist on another plane, or perhaps it was that his own senses were perceiving other times and places. As if coming out of a reverie, he shakes his hand and turns his gaze back to the others in his company.
"You call them gorgun. And perhaps that is how they started, but they have been corrupted beyond all that is natural."
"Black be their skin, red be their eyes, with extra limbs and extra size. Should they but touch a wolf, the wolf will be transformed into a warg--the only beast that could be a suitable companion for their kind."
"The wolves are too close to nature, so easily fall prey to nature's corruption."
"Four and twenty gorgun will soon turn this way, for even as I sense their corruption, they will surely sense our purity, which is as anathema to them as they are to us."
"This be not a battle we can avoid, nor should we."
"Ah, there it is! The source of the corruption, the architect of their vile construction!"
Tavaro transforms into a giant eagle and takes wing into darkening sky.