Nozhdrul watched as Skaibad took his frustration out with his blade. He was feeling lucky not to be sitting any closer to the easily irritated leader, having seen him dispatch several Orcs in previous campaigns with a minimum of slices and stabs. And that just for eyeballing him when he’d barked out another string of ridiculous orders.
Mmmm! There were two Easterlings guarding the prisoner now. Three distinct Man odors were sieved through his nose and analysed. One of them had no fear about him, no scent of heavy stress. It was a calm, alert smell . . . a waiting smell. The other two stank of stress. The first he identified as the prisoner, the second two as the Easterlings.
He eyed Skaibad, sitting there gnawing at his bread. Scuttling a little closer to the scowling leader, he offered him a strip of rabbit jerky from a pocket in his voluminous, and disreputable cape.
‘Ever wonder how them ugly Man warriors would taste spitted and roasted slow over coals?’ He nodded with his chin toward one of the overbearing Easterlings. 'I do.'
He held out the dried strip of meat to Skaibad, and bit into one of his own.
[ February 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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