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Éomeléo sauntered through the forest. He had meant to go west but somehow he had found himself in the southern part of the forest. He did not know this so he kept going. The place had an inviting quality, which concealed its evil ways very well.
He was hearing unnatural noises and becoming more and more scared all the time. "The forest itself is wicked" he muttered, as he tripped over an inconspicuous root. This then happened another three times, and Éomeléo got very suspicious.
"Aargh!" he screamed, out of the blue, as he noticed a horrific sight just ahead of him. There was a tree, honest to goodness, walking towards him. He stopped dead in his tracks, which made it even easier for the company of Huorns to surround him.
For Huorns they were, black of heart, and devastatingly powerful of body. Despite not being familiar with Huorn expressions, the Gondorian could tell that they were angered. Why? Who knows.
Anyway, they growled a bit and generally made Éomeléo's teeth chatter. Surely it cannot end this way! he thought. Not here, not in a big, dark forest, and not at the hands of anthropomorphised trees. That would be just too tragic. And ironic. In a way.
Anyway, one of the Huorns laughed a deep, bellowing laugh, walked over to Éomeléo, and picked him up. Then they engaged in a game of catch with our hero. Very cruel and unusual. Éomeléo was hurt and lonesome and scared and more than a little peeved.
But the trees became too rowdy for their own good. One of them threw Éomeléo so hard and far, that he missed his buddy, and their 'ball' was sent flung past the brutes into a tree branch. It wounded Éomeléo, but he had enough wits about him to cling on to the branch. Just as the slow-witted Huorns were trying to figure out where on Middle-earth their prey was, the blue-clad southerner was dashing down the branches and through the other trees. He did not stop running until he was out of Mirkwood.
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