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piosenniel · 03-09-2003, 04:00 PM

He could not be far away, she reasoned. He was on foot. . . . unless he has sprouted wings like some balrog of old and flown off to safety . . . the thought amused her for a moment, then she clamped down firmly on this image and put it from her mind. This would not go well if she approached with such an attitude.

She sifted through her mind, thinking on all the places she had walked to in her early days at the Inn. Where could a mead-sick man get to in a hurry without arousing the suspicions of neighboring Hobbits? She recalled her late night visits to the Bywater Pool. A peaceful place under the moonlight. Where she had met the fox some months earlier who had delivered Bird’s letter. The dark of night hid the surrounding areas from her view, as she remembered. Only once had she gone there during the day- to retrieve a cloak she had left there when the night had grown warm. The day, in the harshness of its light, revealed less pleasant sights to her. To the north of the pool, what had been only rounded dark hillocks under cover of night were now revealed as rundown, unused burrows. They seemed sad somehow, haunted by old memories, and she had wondered that they had not been rebuilt for use by the growing number of Hobbit families.

She circled up along the western edge of the pool, toward the burrows, hoping to see some sign that he might have gone there. She kept well under the cover of a small copse of trees that grew on this side, cautioning ‘Falmar to step lightly. The burrows were in sight, and she dared to leave the protection of the trees for a closer look. ‘Falmar nickered softly, shaking her head in their direction. Tied outside one of the burrows, the one nearest the stream that fed into the pool was a cart and pony from the Inn. Her brow furrowed at this. So, he had been smart enough to borrow a cart. Or more likely, someone from the Inn had shown him sanctuary and taken him here.

Pio dismounted, telling ‘Falmar to wait for her beneath the trees. She took her knives and placed all of them in the leather satchel hanging from the saddle. Around the back of the deserted burrows she went, quickly and quietly, until she came round the one where waited the patient pony.

She rubbed her neck, taking a deep breath, then stepped up to the closed door and rapped firmly on it, speaking in a voice loud enough to be heard by the one she heard moving within.

‘Lorien! It is Piosenniel. Open the door, please. Let me enter. I have come to make what peace I can between us . . .’

[ March 09, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

03-09-2003, 04:00 PM	#154
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	He could not be far away, she reasoned. He was on foot. . . . unless he has sprouted wings like some balrog of old and flown off to safety . . . the thought amused her for a moment, then she clamped down firmly on this image and put it from her mind. This would not go well if she approached with such an attitude. She sifted through her mind, thinking on all the places she had walked to in her early days at the Inn. Where could a mead-sick man get to in a hurry without arousing the suspicions of neighboring Hobbits? She recalled her late night visits to the Bywater Pool. A peaceful place under the moonlight. Where she had met the fox some months earlier who had delivered Bird’s letter. The dark of night hid the surrounding areas from her view, as she remembered. Only once had she gone there during the day- to retrieve a cloak she had left there when the night had grown warm. The day, in the harshness of its light, revealed less pleasant sights to her. To the north of the pool, what had been only rounded dark hillocks under cover of night were now revealed as rundown, unused burrows. They seemed sad somehow, haunted by old memories, and she had wondered that they had not been rebuilt for use by the growing number of Hobbit families. She circled up along the western edge of the pool, toward the burrows, hoping to see some sign that he might have gone there. She kept well under the cover of a small copse of trees that grew on this side, cautioning ‘Falmar to step lightly. The burrows were in sight, and she dared to leave the protection of the trees for a closer look. ‘Falmar nickered softly, shaking her head in their direction. Tied outside one of the burrows, the one nearest the stream that fed into the pool was a cart and pony from the Inn. Her brow furrowed at this. So, he had been smart enough to borrow a cart. Or more likely, someone from the Inn had shown him sanctuary and taken him here. Pio dismounted, telling ‘Falmar to wait for her beneath the trees. She took her knives and placed all of them in the leather satchel hanging from the saddle. Around the back of the deserted burrows she went, quickly and quietly, until she came round the one where waited the patient pony. She rubbed her neck, taking a deep breath, then stepped up to the closed door and rapped firmly on it, speaking in a voice loud enough to be heard by the one she heard moving within. ‘Lorien! It is Piosenniel. Open the door, please. Let me enter. I have come to make what peace I can between us . . .’ [ March 09, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ] __________________ Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.