Nozhdrul could smell the others moving about in the cave. The Orc's odor was faint, from the back of the cave. That Easterling was there, too. Nasty smelling fellow. Soon, he knew, he would hear their voices rising one above the other, trying to have the last word about the prisoner.
Pah! Let them argue! As long as they left him alone. He pulled his cape around him as he sat, knees pulled to his chest, on the ledge outside the cave. He eased his back against the rock wall, and stretched out his legs in front of him. Wrinkling his nose in anticipation, he pulled the two, week old hawk’s eggs from the small bag at his waist and sniffed at them. They were ripe, with an enticing scent.
He broke them open, one at a time, slurping down the soupy interiors, then ground the shells between his sharp little teeth. Nothing like eggs for breakfast, he thought to himself, as he burped in satisfaction.
[ February 11, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
__________________
‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
|