Bewildered by everything going on around him, Carathon ran off and sat crosslegged on the damp grass, deciding to stay there until he was called. After a while, he decided to do some writing, so from his bag he took his only possesion, a large, leather bound brown book. The leather was cracked and dirty and the pages were bent, torn. He took up his pen and wrote. His spelling and handwriting left a lot to be desired, but it was just ledgible.
Throndun stol sum vegtabals and a gil cort him. He is very angree. Ozaraceles is stil bein horibel and Hemlilek stoped him from hitin me. I wish i cud leev her but if i did they wud cach me and beet me hard. I shud gust stay her til they ar dun doin wot they ar doin and then hop they let me go. I got sum flowrs for hem but i havnt givn them to her yet becos she mit be angree. I hop my speelin has goten beter or maybee not becos no on can reed this.
Having slowly and labouriously written this out, Carathon placed the book carefully in his bag. Then, he jumped up, placed his bag on his shoulder and ran back to join the group.
Still, he had no idea what was going on, so he hung round hoping some one would explain things to him. Oz had been stabbed somehow, and he came up close and leant over somebodys shoulder.
Sarry! I'm just like, really confused!Is this better?
[ September 25, 2002: Message edited by: Phoenix Solitude ]
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If nature made you a giver, you are born with your hands and heart open, and though your hands may sometimes be empty, your heart is always full, and you can give things out of that.
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