[piosenniel]

Pickings had been slim since the war ended. The battle fields made such lovely buffet for the black clouds of crows and ravens that frequented them. And now they had been tidied up and that high-minded King (and selfishly short sighted, in his opinion) who sat now in Gondor had put an end to most of the strife that offered the dark winged battle field followers their easy pickings.

Even the little, bright, gew-gaws that had fallen from the slain had been cleared away, which aggravated the crow no end.

There he sat, on his one remaining good leg, his beady black eye fixed on the Inn just up the short path through the greensward. A number of passersby, visitors to the Inn, had made their way beneath the tree he sat quietly in, unaware that he was cataloguing each and every pretty, shiny bauble that caught the long rays of the failing sunlight. Silvered buttons, and ribbons fluttering as people hurried by. Stones hung about necks on glittery chains and shiny brooches called out to him. His head was dizzy with the wealth of possibilities he had stumbled onto . . .

Camlost fluffed out his feathers, appearing much like a ragged black ball, as he gripped hard the slender branch with his left talons. He preened himself with his yellow beak, arranging each feather carefully into place, before settling down for the evening.

‘Tomorrow,’ he thought, ‘tomorrow, I’ll case the place.’