Carl sat drinking his half mug of old jenever. He would be warm as toast by the time he got halfway through it, he thought. And too numb to care if he drank the whole of it. This line of reasoning in mind, he split the last quarter mug between Hal and Gaddy, and got up to walk around a bit.
Ole was seated on the far side of the group, speaking to Bullroarer and Branda. Carl joined them, waving off the offer of an additional drink. They were speaking quietly among themselves about the plan Bullroarer had in mind to get them through this especially hostile section of the journey. With Wargs to the south and the other to the north it would be perilous negotiating this stretch. His dark thoughts were made darker as he looked about the huddled companions. ‘We cannot survive another attack. We are too tired and too many of us still suffer from injuries.’
He waited until Branda had finished replying to a question from Bullroarer. He seemed to be saying that the more he thought on the plan, the more sure he felt it would work. Carl leaned toward hi and put his hand on Branda’s arm, drawing his attention.
‘Excuse me, Branda, but I have heard the vague hints about a “plan”, and I welcome the thought that you feel there is something to get us safely through from here to Rivendell. But, to be honest, I have some misgivings about anything getting us past the fell foes that await us. Will you tell us what you mean to do?’
Carl had spoken loud enough for all the companions to hear his words. Voices hushed, they turned their eyes and ears toward Branda.
[ January 29, 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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