Noticing he was not being watched (for once), the Barrow-Wight shambled quietly toward the keg with a lustful look in his soulless eyes. He had spent a long, lonely Age in his pilfered tomb, and not for centuries had those he had entrapped carried with them anything more than a skin of warm water to quench his endless thirst. Memories flooded back to him of those days when rich noblemen had still foolishly passed his door. They had always, at the very least, had a small barrel of mead or a jug of fine Dorwinion. ‘Very polite of them,’ he thought, as he fingered the diamond ring of one of those victims. It was not quite the right size and it chafed his bony knuckle.
As he neared the keg, he was overcome by a sudden dilemma. Should he have a frosty brew, or should he abduct and sacrifice the obviously tipsy Frodo Baggins?
Oh! The choices we must make!
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The Barrow-Wight
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