And wake him they do. He knows he hasn't slept long. His small campfire has not yet burned itself out, though it is dying. The ancient trees creak in the wind, but his sensitive hearing makes out another sound beneath the rush of wind and rustle of leaf and branch: the low crackle of something creeping through the undergrowth.
For a moment longer, the Ranger feigns sleep. One hand closes around his bow, the other slides slowly to his arrows and closes around one of the shafts. The faint sound of sneaking movement from the shadows on the far side of the fire pauses.
Now, he thinks, and springs suddenly to his feet. The arrow is nocked and bowstring drawn back to firing position so fast that the Ranger's hands blur.
Twin points of red light bloom in the shadows across the clearing. Whether they are eyes that only reflect the dying fire or glow with their own angry light the Ranger doesn't know.
Stand ready but wait to see what manner of creature stalks through the undergrowth.
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