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Birdland · 12-06-2002, 11:03 AM

Elfred Thistle had been shepherding in the lands around Bree since he was nothing more than mere stripling, some 70 years gone. He knew every inch of this country, from the windblown heights of the Weather Hills clear to the edge of the Old Forest.

If there was a stray from the flock, or a bit of fine pasture, then Elfred would find it. So the fact that he was now looking for over twenty strays was a source of pain and worry in his heart. The strays were part of a flock over 200 which had been driven and scattered the night before by a pack of wolves.

No he thought, Not wolves, not by a long sight. For mere wolves would not have stolen a flock of over two hundred wethers and driven them off, canny as any shepherd and dog. A wolf pack would have singled out a couple of stragglers, and left the rest.

A good majority of the flock was found dead, with broken bones and throats ripped out. A small portion had been found huddled in a small dell some five miles from Bree, lame and torn, exhausted and trembling, barely able to make the trip back to the safety of the town, Indeed, a few had been so far gone that they had been slaughtered where they were found to put them out of their misery.

And twenty were still missing. And along with the twenty, Tig, Gaffer Heathertoes fine sheepdog, who had run off into the night, following the flock with which he had been charged. The loss of the flock was a disaster. The loss of Tig was a misery.

So Elfred continued on, as he had since first light, searching every beck and covert for any sign of the missing wethers. He was following no trail. That had petered out long ago. If was as if the flock had been lifted bodily from the earth into the skies.

Nop, Elfred's best friend and finest sheepdog, ranged ahead, searching for any hint of a scent in the poor, rocky soil of the Weather Hills. A massive, rocky outcrop stood before them, one of many that topped the rolling hills of the area, like a statue placed on a pedestal. Elfred was down on one knee, checking a bare patch for any hint of hoof or paw print, when suddenly he heard Nop give voice to a heart-rending whimper, a sound seldom to be heard from the brave little collie, even after being kicked by a cross ram.

"Nop, good sir, what's wrong?" said Elfred, stumping over to the dog. And it was then that he saw the blood, a sticky pool lying at the bottom of a rock outcropping.

Elfred's reluctant eyes followed the clotted track of red slowly up the cliff face to it end, some 12 feet above. And there he saw the head of Tig, eyes glazed in death, mouth frozen in a gaping tooth-baring snarl, as if he were still confronting the enemy that had slain him.

"Oh, Tig. Tig. How can I carry this news back to the Gaffer?" said Elfred with sadness and horror. Then with a sigh, he slung his crook over his shoulder by its leather loop, and started scrambling to the top of the rock. Nop paced worriedly back and forth at the base, whining all the while, then scouted his own path to the top.

And it was there that they found the rest of the herd. Or Elfred had to assume it was the herd. The only way he could know all twenty were here was by counting the heads. All twenty had been ripped from the bodies and arranged in a circle around the killing field. As for the bodies, there were none really. All that was left were clotted lumps of meat and wool, scattered over every inch of the top of the outcropping. Even in the cool of the coming evening, the smell of death was overwhelming. All the winds of Middle-earth could not wash it away.

Nop threw back his head and let loose with the most unearthly howl, as if calling on the gods of the canines to witness what had happened here. Elfred stood shaking, grasping his crook until the knuckles were as white as his face, while the winds of the Weather Hills dried the tears that streamed down his face.

Then pulling himself upright with a long-drawn breath, he turned and, calling Nop, headed back down the cliff as fast as he could, to carry the news of the disaster back to Bree.

[ December 06, 2002: Message edited by: Birdland ]

12-06-2002, 11:03 AM	#7
Birdland Ghastly Neekerbreeker Join Date: Dec 2001 Location: the banks of the mighty Scioto Posts: 1,751	Elfred Thistle had been shepherding in the lands around Bree since he was nothing more than mere stripling, some 70 years gone. He knew every inch of this country, from the windblown heights of the Weather Hills clear to the edge of the Old Forest. If there was a stray from the flock, or a bit of fine pasture, then Elfred would find it. So the fact that he was now looking for over twenty strays was a source of pain and worry in his heart. The strays were part of a flock over 200 which had been driven and scattered the night before by a pack of wolves. No he thought, Not wolves, not by a long sight. For mere wolves would not have stolen a flock of over two hundred wethers and driven them off, canny as any shepherd and dog. A wolf pack would have singled out a couple of stragglers, and left the rest. A good majority of the flock was found dead, with broken bones and throats ripped out. A small portion had been found huddled in a small dell some five miles from Bree, lame and torn, exhausted and trembling, barely able to make the trip back to the safety of the town, Indeed, a few had been so far gone that they had been slaughtered where they were found to put them out of their misery. And twenty were still missing. And along with the twenty, Tig, Gaffer Heathertoes fine sheepdog, who had run off into the night, following the flock with which he had been charged. The loss of the flock was a disaster. The loss of Tig was a misery. So Elfred continued on, as he had since first light, searching every beck and covert for any sign of the missing wethers. He was following no trail. That had petered out long ago. If was as if the flock had been lifted bodily from the earth into the skies. Nop, Elfred's best friend and finest sheepdog, ranged ahead, searching for any hint of a scent in the poor, rocky soil of the Weather Hills. A massive, rocky outcrop stood before them, one of many that topped the rolling hills of the area, like a statue placed on a pedestal. Elfred was down on one knee, checking a bare patch for any hint of hoof or paw print, when suddenly he heard Nop give voice to a heart-rending whimper, a sound seldom to be heard from the brave little collie, even after being kicked by a cross ram. "Nop, good sir, what's wrong?" said Elfred, stumping over to the dog. And it was then that he saw the blood, a sticky pool lying at the bottom of a rock outcropping. Elfred's reluctant eyes followed the clotted track of red slowly up the cliff face to it end, some 12 feet above. And there he saw the head of Tig, eyes glazed in death, mouth frozen in a gaping tooth-baring snarl, as if he were still confronting the enemy that had slain him. "Oh, Tig. Tig. How can I carry this news back to the Gaffer?" said Elfred with sadness and horror. Then with a sigh, he slung his crook over his shoulder by its leather loop, and started scrambling to the top of the rock. Nop paced worriedly back and forth at the base, whining all the while, then scouted his own path to the top. And it was there that they found the rest of the herd. Or Elfred had to assume it was the herd. The only way he could know all twenty were here was by counting the heads. All twenty had been ripped from the bodies and arranged in a circle around the killing field. As for the bodies, there were none really. All that was left were clotted lumps of meat and wool, scattered over every inch of the top of the outcropping. Even in the cool of the coming evening, the smell of death was overwhelming. All the winds of Middle-earth could not wash it away. Nop threw back his head and let loose with the most unearthly howl, as if calling on the gods of the canines to witness what had happened here. Elfred stood shaking, grasping his crook until the knuckles were as white as his face, while the winds of the Weather Hills dried the tears that streamed down his face. Then pulling himself upright with a long-drawn breath, he turned and, calling Nop, headed back down the cliff as fast as he could, to carry the news of the disaster back to Bree. [ December 06, 2002: Message edited by: Birdland ]