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piosenniel · 02-12-2006, 04:04 AM

‘Well now, who’s going to notice a little brown wren?’ the bird thought to himself. ‘I can slip in as quick and quiet as any old shadow. I’ve only to keep my wits about me and my beak shut. And ‘twill seem that naught but some old brown leaf drifts from bough to bough.’

The effects of the mead were all gone now, and wren’s little black eyes were glinting with possibilities of some heroics on his part. He had heard, somewhat from Owl and somewhat from eavesdropping as he hid in the rafters of the Inn, the plans the two-leggeds were hatching. He wanted to be in on the carrying out of them. Perhaps someday a wren would be the main character in a story of bravery against an awful foe; the sort of story told from parent to child down many generations.

It was always the eagles and hawks and ravens and such that played great and notable parts in what few battles he’d heard stories of. Why couldn’t a small bird be counted among the principals, the champions of the hour, he wondered. And why couldn’t that bird be he?

‘I can fly as well as any,’ he boasted to the breezes as he flew over the Inn’s fence and toward the forested foothills. Below him, along the bare wintered ground, he could see other of the animals fanning out, taking up their watches as owl had suggested. He shivered for a moment deep within his coat of feathers, thinking how awful it would be to be bound to the earth . . . unable to take wing.

He got, finally, to the line of trees which stood at the edge of the foothill forest. With only the barest of fluttering noises he landed on the middle layer of branches of one of the taller trees. Wren pressed his body in against a small clump of brown, withered leaves and stood stock still, his little eyes roving about as he took in the forest floor below. From his vantage point, he could see the bare, snowy ground, the rocky outcroppings between the forest and the village’s wall.

“Well, so far, so good,’ he whispered to himself, noting nothing ominous in the scene spread out before him. ‘Not too hard, at least for someone such as I . . . this being a hero . . .’

02-12-2006, 04:04 AM	#94
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,786	‘Well now, who’s going to notice a little brown wren?’ the bird thought to himself. ‘I can slip in as quick and quiet as any old shadow. I’ve only to keep my wits about me and my beak shut. And ‘twill seem that naught but some old brown leaf drifts from bough to bough.’ The effects of the mead were all gone now, and wren’s little black eyes were glinting with possibilities of some heroics on his part. He had heard, somewhat from Owl and somewhat from eavesdropping as he hid in the rafters of the Inn, the plans the two-leggeds were hatching. He wanted to be in on the carrying out of them. Perhaps someday a wren would be the main character in a story of bravery against an awful foe; the sort of story told from parent to child down many generations. It was always the eagles and hawks and ravens and such that played great and notable parts in what few battles he’d heard stories of. Why couldn’t a small bird be counted among the principals, the champions of the hour, he wondered. And why couldn’t that bird be he? ‘I can fly as well as any,’ he boasted to the breezes as he flew over the Inn’s fence and toward the forested foothills. Below him, along the bare wintered ground, he could see other of the animals fanning out, taking up their watches as owl had suggested. He shivered for a moment deep within his coat of feathers, thinking how awful it would be to be bound to the earth . . . unable to take wing. He got, finally, to the line of trees which stood at the edge of the foothill forest. With only the barest of fluttering noises he landed on the middle layer of branches of one of the taller trees. Wren pressed his body in against a small clump of brown, withered leaves and stood stock still, his little eyes roving about as he took in the forest floor below. From his vantage point, he could see the bare, snowy ground, the rocky outcroppings between the forest and the village’s wall. “Well, so far, so good,’ he whispered to himself, noting nothing ominous in the scene spread out before him. ‘Not too hard, at least for someone such as I . . . this being a hero . . .’ Last edited by piosenniel; 02-12-2006 at 05:15 AM.