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Imladris · 02-26-2004, 02:24 PM

A twig snapped, a sword glinted in the filtered sunlight. Lira crouched on the limb, barely breathing, and hoped that the hobbits wouldn’t do something foolish to bring attention to themselves. She pushed herself against the trunk of her tree, hoping that her dirtied green dress would go unnoticed against the bark.

With a flurry of feather, Corn, his black beak stained with blood, silently landed beside her. He was weary, and he swayed unsteadily upon the branch. His tail feathers drooped, and his eyes were glazed as he stared back towards Fornost. Lira frowned in puzzlement, but then she realized, as she heard the clashing swords, the cries of men, the echo of retreat, that they had been defeated. She faltered and a tear trickled down her cheek. Who had died, and who had lived?

A man strode through the copse, dead leaves crunching under his heavy footfalls, and paused, his black eyes glittering. With a mocking smirk, he called out, “Do you think that this rotten wood can save you, you little runts? And do you know what will happen once we find you? We’ll bind your wrists tightly with rough rope so that it will bit into your skin, causing the blood to ooze from the wound as if a burning fury were cutting you with a heated blade. You will be tied to a stake, your back bared to the leather strips of whip. Broken pottery and glass will be bound in the tails and they shall strike your flesh deeply. If you’re lucky, the wounds won’t get infected. But, after we finish breaking your bones, burning your flesh with heated metal, and starving you, you’ll be killed on the alter as a sacrifice. They’ll bleed you like a stuck pig, except that you’ll be alive, writhing in agony.” He snorted and then laughed coldly. “Maybe we’ll stuff the fat little weasels with herbs and bread until they can’t eat no more and then cook them for ourselves!”

Lira gagged and drew the bow close to her ear, aiming for his heart. With a silent elvish prayer, the arrow with a chilling hiss, sped from the string and buried itself deep into the hunter’s heart.

02-26-2004, 02:24 PM	#160
Imladris Tears of the Phoenix Join Date: Jun 2003 Location: Putting dimes in the jukebox baby. Posts: 1,453	A twig snapped, a sword glinted in the filtered sunlight. Lira crouched on the limb, barely breathing, and hoped that the hobbits wouldn’t do something foolish to bring attention to themselves. She pushed herself against the trunk of her tree, hoping that her dirtied green dress would go unnoticed against the bark. With a flurry of feather, Corn, his black beak stained with blood, silently landed beside her. He was weary, and he swayed unsteadily upon the branch. His tail feathers drooped, and his eyes were glazed as he stared back towards Fornost. Lira frowned in puzzlement, but then she realized, as she heard the clashing swords, the cries of men, the echo of retreat, that they had been defeated. She faltered and a tear trickled down her cheek. Who had died, and who had lived? A man strode through the copse, dead leaves crunching under his heavy footfalls, and paused, his black eyes glittering. With a mocking smirk, he called out, “Do you think that this rotten wood can save you, you little runts? And do you know what will happen once we find you? We’ll bind your wrists tightly with rough rope so that it will bit into your skin, causing the blood to ooze from the wound as if a burning fury were cutting you with a heated blade. You will be tied to a stake, your back bared to the leather strips of whip. Broken pottery and glass will be bound in the tails and they shall strike your flesh deeply. If you’re lucky, the wounds won’t get infected. But, after we finish breaking your bones, burning your flesh with heated metal, and starving you, you’ll be killed on the alter as a sacrifice. They’ll bleed you like a stuck pig, except that you’ll be alive, writhing in agony.” He snorted and then laughed coldly. “Maybe we’ll stuff the fat little weasels with herbs and bread until they can’t eat no more and then cook them for ourselves!” Lira gagged and drew the bow close to her ear, aiming for his heart. With a silent elvish prayer, the arrow with a chilling hiss, sped from the string and buried itself deep into the hunter’s heart.