Ekatran should be calling his name soon. That was the procedure prescribed by rule. The one called would walk slowly down to take his place beside the other Hunters. A custom whose design it was to strike fear into those chosen as the Hunted, each wondering how that Hunter might find them out, might kill them.
In other years he had walked down without looking to the right or left, his eyes fixed on the spot where he was to stand. Silence followed in his wake, and the man next to him would edge away as he took his place, turning quietly to survey the assembly.
He watched as Ekatran's hand dipped into the pot for the names. A silent wish went out from him that his name would not be called.
And then a grim smile played about his lips, knowing that it would not be so.
[ April 11, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘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'
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