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Bêthberry · 09-28-2002, 02:56 PM

From out the dark shadows stepped Bethberry, in answer to Lassiël's call. Around her neck a simple medallion, thronged with leather, shone with a pale aura, but it oft was hidden in the folds of her cloak as she walked. She walked around Estelarion and Menelduliniel, Elenna and Revanas and Ransom. She caught Gamba's eye and Cami's nod, couldn't see the Neekerbeeker, saw Maika kiss and run with Cuthalion overcome. She looked to see that the Fox was guarding Rowan. Shadows of dusk cloaked other guests.

Let me warm--or, rather, chill--my audience first before the tale be told, fair and welcome guest. Then we shall see who will remain to hear it.

Come hither, guests, and huddle close, for the trees will harken also to my words and as they lean in, beware the branch that, twining and shivering to this tale, would lay claim to your courage.

This is a tale to honour this night, September 28, for it happened not far from here.

Plates were pushed aside, mugs forgotten as the picnic guests shuffled forward, rubbing shoulder to shoulder for reassurance.

The story is "Fog", said Bethberry, her strongly coloured voice, a contralto, carried forth on the night-chilled breeze.

The whispered tales had been true and they had heeded them not. In a cold and clammy, dank, dark barrow, four grim hobbits lay frigid, sword across their throats, in thrall to the Barrow Wight, stone chilling their marrow, a darksome snarl misting the air, a cruel arm scratching the surface of their hope and throttling it.

Bethberry stopped, swallowed saliva to coat her dry throat, and continued.

None of them then snickered at the nonsense verse as Tom bested the Barrow Wight.

Dead silence met the sudden end of the story, followed by a few chuckles and laughter.

The laughter was not taken up by the Old Forest. There was something in the story of the Barrow Downs, however short, which kindled the memories of the trees. They shook themselves awake, as if from a long sleep....

(OOC: I shall be asking Mithadan to close this thread at midnight tomorrow, September 29, Grey Havens Day.)

[ September 29, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

09-28-2002, 02:56 PM	#145
Bêthberry Cryptic Aura Join Date: May 2002 Posts: 6,003	From out the dark shadows stepped Bethberry, in answer to Lassiël's call. Around her neck a simple medallion, thronged with leather, shone with a pale aura, but it oft was hidden in the folds of her cloak as she walked. She walked around Estelarion and Menelduliniel, Elenna and Revanas and Ransom. She caught Gamba's eye and Cami's nod, couldn't see the Neekerbeeker, saw Maika kiss and run with Cuthalion overcome. She looked to see that the Fox was guarding Rowan. Shadows of dusk cloaked other guests. Let me warm--or, rather, chill--my audience first before the tale be told, fair and welcome guest. Then we shall see who will remain to hear it. Come hither, guests, and huddle close, for the trees will harken also to my words and as they lean in, beware the branch that, twining and shivering to this tale, would lay claim to your courage. This is a tale to honour this night, September 28, for it happened not far from here. Plates were pushed aside, mugs forgotten as the picnic guests shuffled forward, rubbing shoulder to shoulder for reassurance. The story is "Fog", said Bethberry, her strongly coloured voice, a contralto, carried forth on the night-chilled breeze. The whispered tales had been true and they had heeded them not. In a cold and clammy, dank, dark barrow, four grim hobbits lay frigid, sword across their throats, in thrall to the Barrow Wight, stone chilling their marrow, a darksome snarl misting the air, a cruel arm scratching the surface of their hope and throttling it. Bethberry stopped, swallowed saliva to coat her dry throat, and continued. None of them then snickered at the nonsense verse as Tom bested the Barrow Wight. Dead silence met the sudden end of the story, followed by a few chuckles and laughter. The laughter was not taken up by the Old Forest. There was something in the story of the Barrow Downs, however short, which kindled the memories of the trees. They shook themselves awake, as if from a long sleep.... (OOC: I shall be asking Mithadan to close this thread at midnight tomorrow, September 29, Grey Havens Day.) [ September 29, 2002: Message edited by: Bethberry ] __________________ I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.