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Old 09-17-2006, 02:35 PM   #189
Novnarwen
Ghost Prince of Cardolan
 
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Join Date: Apr 2003
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Eirnar

I’m not his puppy, Eirnar thought angrily. He wanted to run after Khamir, beat some sense into him and finally cut his throat if he dared come with any suggestions again. It wasn’t fair, nor right; not even half of the remaining ex-slaves had weapons, and those who had, could hardly fight. Either they were youngsters, too hot-headed and eager to be beneficial in a fight, but most importantly too inexperienced - or they were men like him, too tired to fight, even for freedom.

He shook his head violently, stomping around in circles. "Guard the camp," he mimicked. Did Khamir not feel slightly responsible for dragging them out here into nowhere and nothingness in the first place, and now, all of a sudden, he was leaving them? How could he demand anything of them, he who was getting cold feet and running away, before whoever had attacked them came back? If they came, no one could save them. He was escaping from a responsibility they all shared, taking care of the old, Aedhild and those too weak to do much, but for an instant of a moment, Eirnar thought rightfully so; when the others eventually would open their eye, awake from their reverie and see what really was going on, Khamir would be ripped into pieces and stomped into dust.

He wanted to shout. Not even at the plantation, staring up at the giggling Orcs as he lay on the hard, cold floor, hands and feet tied, waiting for that final blow that would knock him senseless had he felt more imprisoned. Never had he even considered comparing the two lives, slavery and freedom, but at that moment he could hardly distinguish between the two. Trapped between staying, what was right, and leaving to pursue ones ego, he did not even attempt to hide his frustration.

“Let him go, that fool of a Southron” Aedhild shot in, on the verge of tears. “Do you think he will… bring them..t-t-o us?”

Slightly surprised by what seemed like logic reasoning for once, he stared at her, unable to utter a word. He too had considered it; given Khamir’s background, Eirnar was being rightfully suspicious, but he dared not second her suspicions at this point, not even when seeing Khamir about to wander off.

“Will he come back?” she asked silently, almost whispering, as if afraid someone else would hear here.

“Who knows whether the cursed Southron will come back… For his sake, I hope not,” pausing, he cast a glance at the curled up figure of the woman, hugging her knees tightly, rocking back and forth. “And who knows what will become of us,” he muttered.
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