A Rainy Night at the Pony

Got a song, a tale, some news of far off places or Orcs gathering? Step up and loose your word hoard.

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Greg
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Greg »

I'm enjoying this thoroughly.
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

(Glad to hear it, Greg!)

So for a good while the Ranger told Daffodil stories from his youth; his first trip to Rohan, the ceaseless patrols that ended more often than not in boredom, but he had been in enough battles that her pen flew across the pages as he described the heat of combat.

"My stars!", she exclaimed, as he ended another short tale, "you alone, against a band of goblins, and all that swordplay!" She held her quill aloft and stabbed at the air several times, making swishing noises as she did.

The Ranger looked at her with amusement.

"I hope you did not describe my form as such", he chuckled, "though in truth sometimes style and form have no place when the fight is hot and heavy. Let me show you something."

He took the sword from his lap and lay it with his belongings near his sleeping charges. Reaching behind his back, under his long cloak, he drew out a long knife, or a short sword, broad bladed with a sharp stabbing point. The furniture was old, scratched and heavily used.

"The eket", he said, "a weapon of our distant past. It is said that men spent their whole lives devoted to the study of its use, learning the dance of the eket. Duels of honor were fought with it; sometimes a single thrust would end in death."

He held it in one hand, at eye level, his forearm and elbow rigid, the blade straight and unwavering.

"The proper stance for the eket, more or less", he said, "is the blade at the ready, your eyes locked on your foe, looking for him to waver, and then" he stabbed so quickly that the blade flashed like lightning in the firelight, "you have him." He brought the blade back, and then lowered it.

"Your...eket, you have slain with it?" she asked.

He nodded, studying the blade in his hand.

"Many times", he said, "orcs and fell things."

"Men?" she asked, almost afraid to hear his answer.

"Yes, and I am not glad to say it, for more often than not the hearts of lesser Men are swayed by evil thoughts and deeds. I have not slain a Man who did not wish me death. I have shown mercy and constraint as much as any of my kin. Even in these dark days I have stayed my hand when I could have easily dealt out death. Just last evening I threw out a pickpocket from this very inn, whom I could have slain, but what would have been the point of shedding blood over lost coins? Better he crawl in the mud and think on his circumstances than be mourned by some forgotten mother at the roadside. Something sets its will against us, the Dunedain, something uses Men like pawns, slowly gathering forces and strength, waiting for its time to strike." He fell silent for a moment, and then sighed.

"But all days may seem dark, from time to time", he said, slowly sheathing his eket, "as my eyes grow older and dimmer it may be harder to see the fairer things of the world. But your eyes are young and brighter, and perhaps your days are as summer. Do not let an old man's melancholies dampen your heart. Remember, Daffodil, when things are at their worst, you must always keep a stout heart. That is how darkness creeps into our lives, through our hearts."

"How do you know if your heart is stout?" she asked, setting her book down.

"Oh, you know, and I can tell you this, Mistress Underhill, hobbit hearts are as stout as they come! I have know many of the Little Folk, and all of them have had the stoutest of hearts. A hobbit in time of war is a thing to see! Your time will come, as it does in the lives of all, when you will know your courage."

She smiled, trying to imagine brave hobbits in battle and not running for the hills.

"I should imagine that war is terrifying, even for a Man as you."

"Oh it is, but what needs to be done is done", he replied, "and we Rangers few call to each other so that that our hears may stay bold even in the darkest of times."

"How do you call to each other?" she asked.

"Our battle-cry, 'Lacho calad! Drego morn!", he said, his voice low, "if I were to shout it, Rangers far and wide would come to my aid, and as brothers we would fight to the bitter end."

"Those two didn't jump up", Daffodil said, pointing to the sleeping pair on the floor.

"Bah, those two are worn out, had them helping to repair roofs and shoring up walls for the past two days. Idle hands lead to empty heads, you know."

"So my father says. So, your battle-cry, what does it mean?"

" 'Flame light! Flee night!", the Ranger said, with a flourish of his arm, "so that the Enemy would know who stands against it."

She nodded solemnly.

"Do you call any other names?"

"Elendil we sometimes shout in battle, and if our hearts grow heavy the name of Elbereth lifts the spirits of all. No lesser thing may hear her name and stand."

"Elbereth", she said softly, the firelight dancing in her eyes, "her name sounds like a whisper."

"Many times I have called her name", he said, as if in remembrance, "and she has given me the strength to carry on. Keep her in your heart, Daffodil, and you will never be overcome."

"Elbereth", she said again, a smile crossing her face, " my dear Ranger, and here I thought your kind were of few words and you have given me almost a book's worth!"

"One never knows what is in the flask until it is opened and sampled", he replied, "and speaking of sampling, where is that ale?"
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
kaelln

Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by kaelln »

I thought this was where it was going. Excellent! If I was going to make any suggestions at all, it would be to add a line such as: And in the days to come, Daffodill sought out the Rangers that came to the Inn and collected their stories as well. Or something like that. Really good stuff, man!
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Peter Remling »

Ken: Really enjoying the stark Ranger with the innocent hobbit exchange. Very well played out.
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

(Thanks Kaelin and Peter!)

--------------------------------------

Soon he spotted over the sea of people the famed pretty girl with the long brown hair, carrying a great pitcher of ale in one hand and several mugs in the other.

"Finally", he said, but no sooner was the word out of his mouth than she turned and entered the parlour, where the shouting of dwarves could be heard.

"Lost her to the longbeards", he muttered, "I expect service to be a bit sluggish from this time forth."

Daffodil giggled and then asked,

"Who is Elendil?"

"Elendil? You do not know?" Daffodil shook her head. The Ranger rummaged through his pouch and held something in his hand.

"What do they teach you in that hobbit school of yours?" he asked.

"Hobbit things, of course", she replied.

"Here", he said, holding out his hand, "is the image of Elendil, first High King of Arnor." Resting in his palm was a large silver coin, tarnished and well-worn, but the image on it was clear. Daffodil could make out a noble visage, his crown like the wings of a sea-gull. She touched it as if it would crumble.

"May I see it?" she asked. He nodded in reply and she held it in her small hands, feeling the weight, turning it over and marveling at the artistry, a great ship that rode a crested wave, curved letters in the language of the Elves under the relief.

"How old is it?", she asked.

"That coin is ages old, from the royal treasury, I was told. It was given to me by a Ranger who was the oldest of his kin, back in those long ago days. The kingdom of Arnor is no more."

"Arnor?"

"The land of the King", said the Ranger, "the lost kingdom. All of these lands, and the Shire, were once a part of the North-Kingdom. Would you care for a song of Arnor?"

"Oh yes!", she said, taking out her quill and book, absently placing the coin in the pocket of her apron.

"It is an old song, and it is in the mode of how we pass on things that ought to be remembered", he said. Then he began, his singing voice deep and melodic.

(Translator's note: The following is the song as transcribed by Mistress Underhill, and put to verse as best as possibly by myself. I am no musician, but I thought the words could fit with an existing tune, so I chose 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald'.)

The Wreck of the North-Kingdom of Arnor

Many songs have been sung and many tales have been spun
o'er the lost nation of Arnor
that land long ago where the cold North winds blow
was the home of men of valor
o'er the sea they rode waves from homes now sea graves
in ships that bore white sails
Elendil their King of whom the harpers would sing
was the greatest of the Faithful.

Their ships made berth in Middle-earth
a nation without a home
A Kingdom was won and two nations begun
to replace the one under sea-foam
Gondor southwards lay and there Elendil's sons would stay
while their father made his home northward
Between the Blue Mountains bold and the Misty Mountains cold
was found the North-Kingdom of Arnor!

Many years had past since Elendil had last
saw his home in the North-land
for armies were raised and alliances made
as the Free Peoples made their stand
Elendil's life ended in strife
with Sauron the Dark Lord
Isildur his son then fought and won
the Ring which he now bore.

Lost was he and his sons numbered three
in the Fields of Gladden
Lost was the Ring and men would then sing
by the banks of the Anduin
that the King had been lost and had paid the cost
of his terrible burden
his Precious one day would find it's way
to it's Master the woe of men.

In the North lay the gloom called by men Carn Dum
One of the Nine Rings it's master wore
Evil grew and the terror that men knew
was called the Witch-King of Angmar
The Men of the North were then called forth
to battle the servants of Mordor
Centuries would find the brave Dunedain
in the last battle of that lost war.

Gondor's aid was asked but they were tasked
by the Wainrider's raids
so Arnor stood alone when the winter sun shone
on the armies of Angmar unafraid
King Arvedui's banner flew when the North Wind blew
and his soldiers prepared for war
The Dunedain fought for the last time
the wreck of the North-kingdom of Arnor!

King Arvedui died in the icy tide
in the Bay of Forochel
late came the ships that would loose Angmar's grip
the south winds billowed their white sails
The Army of Gondor would ride with elves by their side
and the King's banner held high
The Witch-King rode from Fornost so bold
by no man would he die.

The battle was met and when the sun set
great was the victory of Gondor
The Witch-King rode away having lost the day
back to shadow-haunted Mordor
The North-kingdom was past and at last
came Arvedui's heir Aranarth
first in line of the Chieftains of the Dunedain
the Rangers of the North!

We wander far under the stars
and wait for the return
of our King foretold by Malbeth ages ago
The Flame of the West will again burn
Rangers we are who wander far
from the Shire to Rivendell's door
known we Rangers are by our star
the heirs of the North-Kingdom of Arnor!

Daffodil could not help but clap as he finished, causing some to look their way. Some looked more than others.

"Your King is returning", she said, as she returned to her writing, "and your people have waited so long and endured so much."

He nodded.

"Much toil and hardship have the Dunedain faced, but still we stand. There are many who would see us pass into ruin and vanish from the world, but we endure, for our time is near."

She stopped writing, and looked at him. There was something about the way he sung the song, how he looked off in the distance, a slight lifting of his chin, and the misting of his eyes. He was no drunkard, no vagrant, no layabout who begged for coin to buy drink. This man, she thought, is the descendant of the great Men of Numenor, the last of that noble race, who wander because they chose to, who protect and defend because it was their duty, to their lost land, to their birthright, to their future King, whom they serve unto death. Her own eyes began to mist up.

"Daffodil, what is the matter?", he asked, reaching out with his hand to cup her chin.

"Nothing", she said, trying to smile through the tears, "it's just that...that..."

He smiled and nodded.

"Your people", she finally managed, "are the most poetic that I have ever heard of."
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Jon »

Mirimaran... Amazing! You really do sound like Tolkien. It felt like I was reading the Fellowship of the Ring again!

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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

My thanks, and any word-craft I possess is but the palest of shade compared to the Professor. I have done my best, good readers, to translate and put into narrative the tale of Daffodil and the Ranger, but as I was working hard the other morning at translating, I find the story grows dark, and it took courage to drive on and finish the next installment. Take heart, friends, as Daffodil must, for while the road grows dark we must be faithful to the end, and be prepared...I will post soon.
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

----------------------------------

The Ranger nodded, deeply honored by her compliment. As the hobbit girl wiped her tears, the mead and sweetmilk finally arrived, the old barmaid taking her time stepping over patrons who decided that anywhere was a good place to sleep as any. Daffodil took hers with a quiet thanks and sipped. Her eyes rolled as she exclaimed,

"This is wonderful! Simply the sweetest of all sweetmilks. It's positively...sweet!" and went back to her sipping. The Ranger looked to the old maid, who said,

"It's from the barrels in the basement, the Yule barrels, mind you."

"It's two weeks since Mayday!", he exclaimed, "child, you should slow down drinking that!"

But Daffodil, her lips so pressed to the mug that they were whiter than the sweetmilk, was lost in her sipping. Few things stop a Hobbit from eating, or smoking, or napping, but for one young hobbit lass, it was sweetmilk.

"Honeycakes", said the old maid, holding out a basket filled with golden brown cakes sprinkled with sugar.

"Honeycakes", intoned Daffodil.

"Might want to count the fingers", said the Ranger to the maid.

She swatted him with a bony hand and then moved off, slowly. Daffodil began to eat, drink more sweetmilk, and eat again.

"So, no worries about the suitors then, I see", joked the Ranger, quaffing his ale.

"Let them come", she said, her cheeks full of honeycake, "and I will send them on a quest for honeycakes and sweetmilk, and if any fail to meet the standards set by the great public house of the Inn of the Prancing Pony, then let them go on their way and find a Bolger girl to marry!"

The Ranger had a great laugh at that, and she returned it, great peals of laughter brought on by the long sitting sweetmilk.

"This is grand!", she exclaimed, "for what is better in the whole of the world than good company and good sweetmilk?"

She stood, putting her mug on her stool, and did a formal bow to the Ranger.

"My dear sir, you have been more than accommodating to me this evening, and for that, I thank you", she said, "but I must take a well-deserved respite. Please excuse me for a moment or two!" With that and a giggle, she made her way towards the back of the room.

"Hobbits!", he said.
------------------------------------------------
Daffodil hummed merrily as she stepped around the sleeping and the drunk. She paused briefly in front of the parlour where the Dwarves made merry. She peeked inside to see the pretty girl with the long brown hair dancing on the long low table, her bare feet moving in step with a trio of the bearded Dwarves playing fiddles and flutes. One looked toward the door, saw the young hobbit girl, and waved. She smiled, nodded, and went on her way, determined to stop inside on her way back. She made a turn, and then walked down a long narrow hallway toward the lavatory, lit only by two small lamps. She was almost to the heavy wooden door when she noticed a pair of Men standing along the door frame. She slowed her step, thought for a moment about going back, but both bolstered and compelled by the sweetmilk she went ahead.

"Good evening, sirs", she said, as she reached for the door. Both Men, dirty, unshaven, their hoods and cloaks damp and stinking, nodded at her, and then exchanged grins.

"Evening, miss", said one, his face half hidden by the hood, but even in the dim light she could see that he carried a large welt against his cheek.

She pushed the door open and entered the washroom, the flagstones cold against her feet. The washroom had become an impromptu cloak room as the walls were covered by wet dripping cloaks and hoods of all shapes, colors and sizes. One small window sat high on a wall, and a single lamp lit the shadow-haunted room. Beyond were two doors, for Big Folk and Little Folk. She went on into the lavatory and a few minutes later she returned and was about to leave when the two Men stepped inside, one closing the door behind him and blocking the exit.

"Sirs", she said, fear building in her voice, "one side, please. I have business to attend to."

This brought harsh laughter from the pair.

"Business, she says", chuckled the one with the welt, "well now, ain't that a coincidence, for we have business of our own. With you, missy."

"I have no truck with you!", she said, now getting angry, "one side, I say!"

"Oh, but you do, my young Hobbit", he replied, "you want to get out of here, you gots to pay the tax."

"Yeah", said the other, "the tax."

"Tax my hairy foot!", she spat, "I've no money for layabouts!" It was then she remembered the silver coin in her apron.

"I reckon you do, that pretty bit of coin that old fool lent you. I saw it myself in the common room, and I seen you pocket it. So up with it, or it's out with you." He drew his finger across his throat, and his companion made a most unpleasant sound.

"No", she cried, "it is not mine to give!", and then tried to run about the man. He snarled, reaching around and grabbing Daffodil, who fought and struggled, but the big man held her fast.

"I wanted to be nice, wanted to make this all business like, but you had to go and do that", he huffed. Daffodil stared in horror as the man pulled out a rough forged knife from a hidden sheath.

"No, help! Help!", she screamed, but the man did not seem concerned.

"Sorry love, nobody's gonna come for you now", said the ruffian as his mate leered over his shoulder.

Just then the door flew open, and standing in the doorway was the Ranger, his eket drawn, his breath laboured. The thief let go of Daffodil, who backed away quickly.

"What is going on?" the Ranger growled, and then he pointed at the man with the welt and cried,

"You! Did you not learn from the last lesson I taught you?", for in truth this was the same cutpurse he had thrown out the night before.

"Threatening one of the Little Folk, and a child at that!"

The Ranger was old, but quick. His left fist sent the cutpurse's companion flying as his right hand grabbed the thief by the throat and pinned him to the wall. He set the blade of his eket to the man's throat.

"Did you think that I would not hear the child? I, who know the languages of beast and bird, old as I am, can still hear a child in danger! I should just bleed you here", said the Ranger, "but I will not slay a Man, even a lesser one as you, in front of the child. I will take you to the Watch."

But then Daffodil shrieked, for from the wall of cloaks something moved. At first she thought it was another thief, but then in horror she saw it was something far worse, for it moved like a shadow of a man, wrapped in a cloak, or a cloak wrapped in shadow.

"Behind you!", she screaming, pointing and backing away.

One long hand, the fingers like branches of a dead tree, touched the Ranger and with a cry he stumbled and then fell heavily to the flagstones, his eket clanging on the floor. The cutpurse grabbed his companion, and meant to run, but the thing of shadow stopped them.

"You would have your revenge, yes?" it hissed. The men stood dumbly but then both nodded, their eyes as dull as cattle.

"Then take it! Kill the Dunedain! Kill the Halfling! Take your gold and silver! My Master wishes it!"

The men then drew their rough knives, their minds clouded and driven by madness, and behind them the thing in shadow began to laugh.
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
Jon
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Jon »

seriously, you should get some of this stuff published one day.

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Mirimaran
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

*My thanks, Dirhael. Who knows, perhaps one day I will get some things published, but for now I am happy that others are enjoying the story!*
-------------------------------
Daffodil trembled as the men advanced, their movements wooden and jerked, as if they were puppets on a string being worked by the thing in shadow. They stepped closer, looming over the comatose form of the Ranger. She began to panic, fear rising in her as the shadow began to grow stronger, the ragged edges of its form stretching like tentacles.

The Pony had its share of shades and haints, those who had passed away inside the ancient walls of the Inn, and for one reason or another decided not to find the halls of their fathers. But this thing of shadow was unhomed; never did it know a physical form, set to wander the lands of the world, looking for those it could control and corrupt, twisting the minds of Men and setting them on the paths of madness and terror. The Pony had made a fine hunting ground, and all of Bree had know its presence. Now one of the Dunedain lay before it, the hated enemy of its Master, and it was pleased.

"Kill! Kill! Kill!", it chanted.

The men raised their knives over the prone, helpless body of the Ranger and prepared to strike.

"NO!", screamed Daffodil. She stood, her legs unsteady, her two small hands grasping the worn hilt of the eket, the blade pointed towards the Men.

"You will not touch him!", she cried.

The thing laughed again, and the Men echoed in a drone.

"Foolish halfling", it spat from the darkness that was its face, "you have no power to stop me! Pray that your death is quicker than his! For the Dunedain will die slowly, and feel all that is done to him in my Master's name, and then you will have your turn!"

Then it began to grow again, and all of the far wall was covered by its shadow.

Fear built in the girl, making her fingers tremble, but she forced her feet to move forward, one small step at a time, until she stood beside the body of the Ranger.

"You will not touch him", she said again. She brought the heavy blade up, as the Ranger had shown her, and set her stance. The blade of the eket was near half her length, and she struggled with the weight, but she held her with all her might.

"I am no Ranger, nor one of the Dunedain, but I call for them now!"

"Lacho calad!", she cried, "drego morn!"

The cutpurse lunged forward with his knife. It was then that Daffodil struck, and if she had faced an opponent her own size, or had been of the Dunedain, the blow would have slain the man, but as it was she stabbed deep into his thigh, sending him screaming and crawling on the floor.

The other reached for her.

"Lacho calad!", she cried again, finding new strength, "drego morn!"

The man retreated with a deep gash on his arm. Both men huddled in the corner, shrieking now as they saw the hobbit girl with the knife, and the thing in shadow, his spell undone.

"Cursed halfling!", it cried, "his death will be by your hand then!"

Suddenly it gathered itself up, flew at the girl, and wrapped her in shadow.
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Greg
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Greg »

I feel like the reel just fell off the spool in the movie theater, and the new guy that's stuck running it is fighting to get it back on while we're all dying in anticipation. More, more, more!





When you have the time, of course. ;)

I'm having my wife read this. I LIVE for tavern scenes. I don't know what it is about them. If we had an old-fashioned tavern around here, I'd be there every night, just people-watching and listening in for grins. My favorite part of every D&D campaign has been interacting within taverns and inns along the way (drives my old DM crazy sometimes *chuckles*). I would quit my job to spend a week in the pony.

Oh...thanks for the signature, Ken. I had to remove a few words and throw in some "..." due to the character limit on signatures, but I absolutely fell in love with that line.
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Mirimaran
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

Awww Greg, thanks! I am so glad that you and others are enjoying the story! I am quite flattered that you liked the line as well! It looks great in your signature line 8) I actually do have the next installment, as I got to do quite a bit of writing yesterday, but I am holding off on posting for just a day or so. Hoping to have something lined up, you know 8)

I love tavern scenes as well, and the Pony scenes in FOTR (book and film) are some of my favorites. As I think about it, I guess that some of my love of inns and such come from being stationed in Germany, with the gasthaus and all. I am sure an anthology of 'Tales of the Prancing Pony' would be well read. I know I would love to read what others would tell of adventures there!
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
kaelln

Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by kaelln »

Just catching up, and man, this is great!
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Mirimaran
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Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Mirimaran »

Here is a small update of the story, friends...more to follow!

---------------------------------------------------------------


It felt to Daffodil as if she were standing at the bottom of a deep, gaping pit. All around her was darkness, and as she looked up she thought she could see two faint eyes looking down at her. She felt herself shrinking, as the darkness began to gather. Tears flowed down her cheeks as the darkness became a prison. She thought for a moment she could hear in the distance the sounds of shouting and running, but then there was nothing but silence.

The silence did not last long, for she heard a scratching, like that of her cat wanting inside, and then a terrible knocking that seemed to echo into eternity. She turned and saw before her a round door, like the one of her home. She was puzzled for a moment, and then in a sudden realization she knew what the door was.

'The door of my heart', she thought in horror, 'and it wants inside!'

She ran to the door, and pushed against it even as the smooth oak boards began to bend and bow. Sobbing, she threw all her weight against the door as small tendrils of shadow began to make their way under the door and through the cracks.

'No!', she screamed in her mind, 'I will not fall to you!'

There was laughter from behind the door as the knocking and scratching grew louder, so loud that she fell sobbing to her knees, holding her ears. Despair filled her, a deep and painful loneliness that made her feel as if she were the only hobbit in all the world, all her friends and family wiped away. Daffodil felt like an empty vessel that darkness was pouring into, and she knew that when it was done, the death of the Ranger would only be the first terrible deed she would do under the thing in shadow's bidding.

'No', she sobbed, her voice growing faint and fading, as day slowly gives way to night. There was a great crack as the door shattered, and Daffodil curled into a ball as the shadow laughed again, but this time it was not his laughter she heard, but her own.

'Please', she sobbed as she felt herself drift away, 'someone help me. Please.'
"Well, what are you waiting for? I am an old man, and have no time for your falter! Come at me, if you will, for I do not sing songs of dastards!"
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Greg
Urush bithî 'nKi ya-nam bawâb
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Joined: Tue Dec 02, 2008 8:50 pm
Location: Eriador; Central Indiana

Re: A Rainy Night at the Pony

Post by Greg »

Whoa.



Dude.






Whooooooah. I'm kinda freaking out, now. Poor little Hobbit girl...
SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!
Now the sword shall come from under the cloak.
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