He edged closer to the exit and slipped out as Ekatran called another name. A guard at the outer entrance to the Hall stepped forward to challenge his leaving, then stepped back as quickly when Rhûnnaro fixed him with a cold stare. Walking with a measured step back to his quarters, he ran a list of things he would need through his mind. He rummaged through his closet and hauled out his pack and the double one for the pony.
Weapons, rope, dried foods, two skins of water went into one pile. A change of clothes, his cape, the small brown book in another. Four small bags from beneath his bed went into the pony’s packs, two to each side; the food in one pack then, the water skins in the other. At the bottom of his old leather pack went the brown book, and over it went his clothes and cape, carefully folded. His bedroll he placed next to the packs, near the door. On his bed, laid out in a row were his weapons. A methodical man, he would pick each one up in order, girding himself for the Hunt when it began.
He hurried quickly back to the Hall and slipped in, stand as far to the back as he could. The slaves had been summoned, and now would come the Hunters.
[ April 11, 2003: Message edited by: Envinyatar ]
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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