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Old 12-04-2003, 04:23 PM   #197
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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1420!

Rôg

Oh Anduin, what sights you see!
In every vale and dell
The Elder and the Younger fill
Your shores, and secrets spill
Of home and flight, of peace and war
of victory and death's knell,
Alas! could we but read your runes,
What stories could we tell?


The old man chuckled, and thumped his cane to the rhythm of the girl’s tune. He murmured the last two lines, slightly out of tune . . . a weird echo of sorts to her own singing of them that made the fine hair on Rôg’s arms prickle.

‘There’ll be no secrets spilled here,’ he said to himself, drawing up the hood of his cloak. His dark eyes blackened, the pupils widening to accommodate the shadows now thrown over his face. The man, Baran, he had called himself, listened appreciatively to the girl’s song. The thick fingers of one hand tapped on the table’s top, while his other brought the apple in its grasp mouthward, to be sundered by one chomp of his strong jaw and sharp teeth. Yes, he would like apples, thought Rôg, watching the man closely, as he applauded the girl’s song.

He turned back to the fire, sipping at his ale, and watched the flames wrap hungrily round the logs, their ever changing shapes dancing wildly in the thick, hot air. ‘Why has such a one come south, Dester’ edre?’ he asked the old man quietly.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 5:12 AM December 10, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]
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