[piosenniel]

Rôg looked down at the ground as he scraped his toes back and forth in the dirt. ‘Horses, you know, are prey animals. They have their eyes fixed on either side of their heads to watch for attackers. They spook easily in the presence of a predator.’ He nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘And one with the smell of blood about him would send them into a panic.’

He looked over to where Aiwendil stood, leaning on his staff. ‘A two pronged thrust might be best. Making the response from the slavers a divided one.’ He laughed a little, more of an undignified snort, really. ‘Horses and food – a sure strike at the belly of their little company.’

With a stretch of his arms above his head and a flex of his backbone so that it popped satisfyingly, Rôg grinned at the old man. ‘The one I think I can handle. The other I was hoping you could provide.....some smoke and fireworks?’ He raised an eyebrow at Aiwendil. ‘I recall the King speaking of one he knew who could light up the skies with his little magics. We won’t need something quite as dramatic. Just some well placed fiery splashes near the cook and supply tents. And smoke to make a nice murky atmosphere. Lindir can look for some signal that the slavers are engaged by our little show and then proceed with the rescue. What do you think?’

The question, really, was more of an afterthought. Not waiting for Aiwendil to answer, Rôg hastened to gather up their own packs and supplies. The old fellow had a crafty look about him, he thought, as he left him leaning on his staff, brows beetling in anticipation of the night’s undertaking. Rôg was sure his companion would come up with something appropriate to the task at hand.