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Old 03-05-2004, 08:30 PM   #44
Tears of the Phoenix
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Join Date: Jun 2003
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Tolkien Aeron's first post

First Post

Aeron pushed himself against the Inn’s barn, trying to huddle in the shadows. His stomach contorted into a twist of hunger, and he gasped. Cautiously, he peeked around the corner. They have not found me -- yet. He remembered the baying hounds, the sound of tearing cloth as he scampered through the forest like a hunted cony.

A weak smile flitted across his face and he rummaged in his pocket for something: a thing of beauty, a thing of worth, a thing that was priceless. It was a necklace: the chain was fine gold inlayed with beads of pearls. At the end was a scarlet tear: a ruby that hung heavily from the chain. He clenched it in his dirty palm and grinned. He had been careless, and how he was fleeing for his life from the wealthy merchant he had stolen it from. Leaning against the barn, blowing his black bangs from his eyes, he caught sight of a rope stretching from a cottage window to a dying oak. Breeches of varying sizes hung from it, white blouses fluttered listlessly in the whispering breeze.

A keen glint flickered in his brown eyes, and he slipped from the shadows and jogged to the to the clothesline. With a furtive glance, he pulled a pair of trousers and a white, roomy shirt from the line and crept back to the stables. After hiding the clothes in a bundle of straw, he grabbed a wooden bucket and made his way towards a pump. He filled it as fast he could and, with as little sloshing as possible, carried it back to the barn. Tearing his clothes off, he poured the water over him, scrubbing his skin vigorously with his knuckles as he did so. That ought to keep the hounds off my scent… he whispered as he washed the grime from his body. Shivering, his teeth chattering, he changed into the freshly stolen clothes, transferred various belongings from his old clothes to the new, strode back to the line, and replaced his torn, ragged clothes. As soon as he saw they were hanging safely on the line, dangling as if they had been there as long as the others, he wriggled his eyebrows at them, grinning. “You’ll be in good hands now. Some dame will patch them with loving hands and you will no longer have to brave the terror of forest thorns.” With a mocking snicker at his farewell, he strolled lazily down the dirt way, keeping a sharp eye out for a thing to eat.

Whistling a Gondorian marching saw, he observed each passerby minutely. He had never before been the town of Minas Arnor, the Tower of the Sun. He scratched his scalp absently: it itched, as if a million little legs tripped merrily along it. He must remember to have his sister, Gwyllion look at it. Ah, little Gwyll…she would be happy about the necklace and bury it somewhere in the weed ridden yard. Or under the rotten floor boards of their humble hut. He wondered where else she hid his loot -- what she did with it. With a broad smile he shrugged it off. As long as rich merchants strutted the streets of Gondor, they would not starve. As long as farmers raised their chickens and their cows, they would be in no lack for meat or frothing milk. He smiled, chuckling quietly.

He ran is fingers through his hair, scraping the skin with his nails. Narrowing his eyes, he surveyed the fingernail: there was a small mound of dirt and dead skin, but it seemed to be moving…or something (maybe many things) were moving in the mound. With a shrug, he wiped the gunk onto his new trousers and continued on his way. He’d have to find a hat to add to his disguise, just in case one of his pursuer’s had followed him to the Tower of the Sun.

A girl, a basket of crimson roses hanging from her arm, was speaking with a jolly, red faced man. His ruddy cheeks were smudged with flour, and he leaned on a wooden roller. She was sneaking pieces of dough and popping them into her mouth, giggling all the while. Subtly he changed course and drifted towards her, snagging a rose as he passed by.

He laughed and twirled the green stem through his fingers, cleverly avoiding the thorns that protruded from the smooth, slightly knobby surface. A young lad strode quickly by, a simple hat upon his head. It was made of a soft brown material, but it hung low on his brow, as if he was hiding underneath its shadow.

Casually turning around, Aeron leisurely followed the boy down the straight streets of the city and wasn’t too upset when he turned aside at an inn called The Seventh Star. The lad went to a table where there were two others while he himself went to the bar, to see if he could get a bite to eat and mug of ale to drink. As he ate, he kept an eye on the table and the men that sat at it. He could have stolen any number of hats, but that particular hat was just the right shade of brown and it was always more fun and clever to steal from a person than from an establishments who sold hats.

“Your meal will be six pence, young sir,” the serving girl said, her red lips formed in the usual business smile.

Aeron cocked his head at her, rummaged in his pocket, and pulled out a handful of small coin. “Keep the change, lass,” he said as he leaned on the counter and smiled at her.

A flush washed over her pale features, and a light of reality glimmered within the smile. With a neat curtsey and a murmured thank you, she put the money in a drawer and stared at him. The smile had faded, replaced with a slight curve of her lips. Her eyes were wide and round and it was as if she was wondering shy he had given her such a substantial tip.

At the annoyed call of another customer, the girl rushed away, leaving Aeron alone. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, and he saw her leave for the kitchen with an exasperated roll of her eyes. As soon as the hallway had conveniently swallowed her up, Aeron glanced quickly to see if anyone was paying particular attention, jogged his empty cup with his elbow and watched with satisfaction as it clattered to the ground behind the counter. Launching himself over it, he kneeled jerked the door open, and grabbed the pouch of money. With nimble fingers he poured the coins from the pouch into his pocket. From the other pocket, he pulled a handful of pebbles and, with a stifled giggle, put them in the sack. With a gleeful grin, he put the pouch back. Standing up, he made his way near a table where the lad with the nice hat and the others were drinking and chatting. “Just a matter of waiting,” he whispered to himself. Stealing a hat had to be handled with a certain amount of delicacy after all.

If you don't like it, just let me know and I will edit it or whatever.

I'm sorry it wasn't a unicorn. It would have been nice to have unicorns.

Last edited by Imladris; 03-07-2004 at 09:43 AM.
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