The Wight could not control himself. One verse too many. Sweeping out his blade, he ran the poet through. Let's see you make a rhyme with this! O untimely death...
Feeling invigorated, he was surprised to find himself swept up in some semblance of a dance by a simply hideous spider-creature. Its spinnerets swirled and its fangs oozed ichor as they swept about the glade.
Suddenly, he heard someone scream "...a play-wight!" He looked over his shoulder to see the coalescing figure hovering by the body of the poet. Well, this party was certainly looking up! Excusing himself from the vile clutches of the exquisitely foul spider (and promising a second dance later) he approached the Play-wight. "Hello cousin..."
__________________
Beleriand, Beleriand,
the borders of the Elven-land.
|