The Barrow-Downs Discussion Forum - View Single Post - The Revenge of the Entish Bow

The Squatter of Amon Rûdh · 04-16-2003, 01:09 PM

Far to the North, in the wide grasslands for which Men have no name, or at least not one that they have remembered to jot down for the rest of us, roam great herds of wild horses. To these freebooting equine anarchists the very name of 'Mansbane' is an honour, although not many people come by to award it since the blonde fellow had his head stove in.

We run now, via the suspension of your disbelief (we can suspend it for you, but you don't want that), in the company of one such group as it moves to pastures new. The leadership of the herdlet has recently changed, and at its head run two figures who may be familiar to some, for they were later writ large in the legends of the plains (how and in what language or letters is a mystery even to me: people who ask awkward questions come to bad ends). Side-by-side run the great black stallion with flowing mane and sarcastic mien, and the lissom and noble mare, and all others keep a respectful distance from them as they take it in turns to read the map, for a mating pair that can decide on a route together and follow it successfully is a rare thing indeed.

At this stage the pace of the herd is easy, since recently they have been visited by horse-dealers, who have attempted to take some of them back to the Wight City for sale, and some of the horses are still trying to remove pieces of skull from their hooves: their new leaders are not friends to the race of Men, the name for whom in the complicated semaphore of their kind is the same as that for "wearisome irrelevance". In this language, as opaque to humans as the workings of domestic appliances, they speak fondly to one another, exchanging whinnies of endearment.

As they sweep by, we may notice that the map they bear is of unusually fine quality, writ in red and black and in a Dwarvish hand. Those with eyes of unrealistic sharpness might also discern that it bears a message for the reader: "In this style 10/-6d. Haggles to be directed to C. Dives". The horses move on at a speed beyond narration and into a golden sunset.

[ April 17, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]

04-16-2003, 01:09 PM	#183
The Squatter of Amon Rûdh Spectre of Decay Join Date: Jan 2002 Location: Bar-en-Danwedh Posts: 2,177	Far to the North, in the wide grasslands for which Men have no name, or at least not one that they have remembered to jot down for the rest of us, roam great herds of wild horses. To these freebooting equine anarchists the very name of 'Mansbane' is an honour, although not many people come by to award it since the blonde fellow had his head stove in. We run now, via the suspension of your disbelief (we can suspend it for you, but you don't want that), in the company of one such group as it moves to pastures new. The leadership of the herdlet has recently changed, and at its head run two figures who may be familiar to some, for they were later writ large in the legends of the plains (how and in what language or letters is a mystery even to me: people who ask awkward questions come to bad ends). Side-by-side run the great black stallion with flowing mane and sarcastic mien, and the lissom and noble mare, and all others keep a respectful distance from them as they take it in turns to read the map, for a mating pair that can decide on a route together and follow it successfully is a rare thing indeed. At this stage the pace of the herd is easy, since recently they have been visited by horse-dealers, who have attempted to take some of them back to the Wight City for sale, and some of the horses are still trying to remove pieces of skull from their hooves: their new leaders are not friends to the race of Men, the name for whom in the complicated semaphore of their kind is the same as that for "wearisome irrelevance". In this language, as opaque to humans as the workings of domestic appliances, they speak fondly to one another, exchanging whinnies of endearment. As they sweep by, we may notice that the map they bear is of unusually fine quality, writ in red and black and in a Dwarvish hand. Those with eyes of unrealistic sharpness might also discern that it bears a message for the reader: "In this style 10/-6d. Haggles to be directed to C. Dives". The horses move on at a speed beyond narration and into a golden sunset. [ April 17, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ] __________________ Man kenuva métim' andúne?