The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum - View Single Post - A Ride to the Dark Side--RPG

Bêthberry · 01-16-2003, 12:26 PM

There was riding, riding, terrible determined riding that endured without end until the horses were nearly winded and almost crippled. And the riders were stiff with cold, with fatigue, with clenched tension throughout their bodies. Hooves struck the ground with thudding force, reverberating up their legs, their whithers, their flanks into the riders' legs and hips and backs, grinding bone against bone and joint against joint with each jolt.

Sometimes the ground gave way, and the crusted rim of frozen earth collapsed under the weight of the horses. This did nothing to ease the tension; it merely added new worry to the pursuit, that a horse would stumble or an ankle turn, or a rider fall.

Sometimes the wind blew, hollow and echoing across the broad plain, sweeping down from East Emmet and colliding with the damp fog-encrusted air which drifted over from the Nindalf. Sometimes ice crystals hung in the air around the riders and horses, so both were covered in a mantle of pale white reflections, producing ghostly figures which hunkered down over the land until the sun produced a pale yellow light which glimmered sickly in the crisp air.

They passed evidence of two camps, men hurriedly making a fire and then dousing it, feet and hooves stomping the ground into a pulp of earth and moss and stone. The last fire had still been warm to the hand even though the pursuers could not yet see the thieves in the distance. Yet the air shook ahead of them, as if some disturbance lay there for them to capture. And they were angry with each other, angry that they could not rest, angry that they could not catch up quickly, angry that they were no longer sure these thieves could be caught. Few words were spoken even during the short stops to determine the thieves's direction and none at all while riding.

The Mering Stream ran chilly into the Entwash, running too fast yet to be frozen. It was crossed with little difficulty as the pursuers drove on into Anórien. The bitter irony of its name, Sun-land, was lost on them as off to the southwest the White Mountains glistened with frozen peaks.

[ January 16, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ]

01-16-2003, 12:26 PM	#62
Bêthberry Cryptic Aura Join Date: May 2002 Posts: 6,003	There was riding, riding, terrible determined riding that endured without end until the horses were nearly winded and almost crippled. And the riders were stiff with cold, with fatigue, with clenched tension throughout their bodies. Hooves struck the ground with thudding force, reverberating up their legs, their whithers, their flanks into the riders' legs and hips and backs, grinding bone against bone and joint against joint with each jolt. Sometimes the ground gave way, and the crusted rim of frozen earth collapsed under the weight of the horses. This did nothing to ease the tension; it merely added new worry to the pursuit, that a horse would stumble or an ankle turn, or a rider fall. Sometimes the wind blew, hollow and echoing across the broad plain, sweeping down from East Emmet and colliding with the damp fog-encrusted air which drifted over from the Nindalf. Sometimes ice crystals hung in the air around the riders and horses, so both were covered in a mantle of pale white reflections, producing ghostly figures which hunkered down over the land until the sun produced a pale yellow light which glimmered sickly in the crisp air. They passed evidence of two camps, men hurriedly making a fire and then dousing it, feet and hooves stomping the ground into a pulp of earth and moss and stone. The last fire had still been warm to the hand even though the pursuers could not yet see the thieves in the distance. Yet the air shook ahead of them, as if some disturbance lay there for them to capture. And they were angry with each other, angry that they could not rest, angry that they could not catch up quickly, angry that they were no longer sure these thieves could be caught. Few words were spoken even during the short stops to determine the thieves's direction and none at all while riding. The Mering Stream ran chilly into the Entwash, running too fast yet to be frozen. It was crossed with little difficulty as the pursuers drove on into Anórien. The bitter irony of its name, Sun-land, was lost on them as off to the southwest the White Mountains glistened with frozen peaks. [ January 16, 2003: Message edited by: Bethberry ] __________________ I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.