Another day, another place
Veron sits quietly in a clearing just outside the southern borders of Mirkwood. Storm clouds are gathering in the distant north. It is, however, deathly still where Veron sits. There is no a trace of a wind, nor the sound of a beast. His usually alert eyes are focussed on a place far, far away. His thoughts race back to a time in another clearing such as this one, nay, not quite like this one. It was a day that Veron would never forget. That day, his life had changed - suddenly, irrevocably. "How did it come to this?" he thinks to himself.
Veron had grown up in a comfortable little house in Umbar. Father Duron had made a name for himself as a seasoned scout and guide, a name that was recognized as far as the desolate jungles of Far Harad. And so they all came to him, the pleasure seekers, the adventurers, the fugitives.
Veron started helping out with his father's preparations while still a wee lad. The lad was a tireless worker and was well liked by the customers - they that walked in with swords, bows, tents and torches. Veron soon fell in love with their weapons and their ways. Mother Liriel soon passed away - seemingly, to husband and son, of a broken heart - and so it came to pass that Veron stood in front of Duron one day and confessed his desire to wield a bow with skill and to roam the wilderness in a carefree manner. Duron, then, reluctantly agreed to take Veron along on one of his trips.
Many a mile did father and son walk, and many a wondrous sight did they come across - mumakils, giant trees, endless deserts, and dense forests that the sun dared not penetrate. Veron was living his dream. He began to suspect that he could understand the language of beasts without quite knowing where that skill came from. He could make - with a few comforting sounds, a gesture or two, and a kindly pat on its back - a charging bull cow down, and to instill a feeling of such loyalty in a wolf as to make it defend him against a raging bear at the cost of its own life. Many a season passed thus.