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Old 11-22-2006, 08:28 AM   #273
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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Rôg reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a bright yellow scarf. It was one his sister had made for him, knowing his love for those bright little birds of their homeland. With a few quick wraps he’d secured it across his mouth and nose. And pulling up his generous hood he brought it forward far enough to deflect at least part of the swirling sands.

The hornets had gone back to their nest, safe from the wind’s stinging debris. Were the situation that his friends and new acquaintances not been so dire, Rôg too would have gone to ground to wait for the sandstorm’s passing. Instead, he lowered his head and trudged with a quick determined step toward where the others were waiting.

Lindil he could see was arranging his meager troops to meet the slavers’ onset. Eyes narrowed, Rôg looked about for Aiwendil. He was not among the fighters. Rôg cast about, looking this way and that as his steps carried him away from the ragtag warriors.

Ah! There was the old man – a covey of women and children taken under his wing. He and they were preparing in their own way to defend themselves if the slavers broke through the fellowship’s armed ranks. Rôg slipped in among them, gathering a few of the younger children in, pushing them in amidst the safety of the larger group.

The others were bringing out their little slings and sharpened planting sticks in preparation for their defense. Rôg’s hand patted along his belt looking for his knife. A smallish weapon, but at least it would be something. Pat as he might, he felt nothing. You bubble-headed fool! he growled at himself. And look, you haven’t even your walking stick to knock the foe about.

He rubbed at the gold stud in his left ear. Some sand perhaps had irritated it he thought at first. His scalp prickled as he touched the flat little oval, whether in anticipation of the coming battle or in dread, he could not tell.

‘Well, if I must,’ he whispered as if to the keening wind, ‘I will. I’ll try to be discreet. Though really I’d rather not at all, if you don’t mind.’ He pulled his hood a little further forward, readying himself for whatever might happen in the attack and the defense.

For just one moment, in a brief lull in the sand and wind’s duet, he thought he heard the rasping voice of the old woman from the eastern mountains. ‘Step up, little one!’ And then only her amused laughter fading on the wind as it rose it force again.

Last edited by piosenniel; 11-25-2006 at 01:44 PM.
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