I'll Come Back, When You Call Me.

Frodo Silvertongue · 11-26-2011, 06:44 AM

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Indeed! wc; 541

The horse trusted no one but Frodo. Strider was ornery, untrained, and unpredictable. It took a trained horseman to approach him and an expert to ride him. Strider had gypsy blood, strong and true, running through his veins, and he was one of a kind. The equine had been born well and bred well, but had suffered just as Frodo had, and often Frodo wondered how Strider had survived all this time. To be brought from suffering was an impossible task in the horse's mind, and it was only loyal to one man, the man that had brought him up. The white horse snorted. And it was white. A horseman could tell you again and again that white was not a true horse colour, that a horse was not white but gray, but you looked at Strider and saw white. A pristine, glittering coat he had, with no spots of darker white or even dirt. How he managed to keep so clean was unknown, but the horse's ravishing beauty came at a price.

Strider got nervous when the female approached, the pales of his eyes showing. He was not phased by the rabbits thrown casually over her shoulder; this was usual to see, because Frodo was a skilled hunter. But the fact that a stranger was approaching him and his boy was frightening. Impulsively, he let his ears clasp firmly against his skull, and he stopped short, staring at the fey. The equine snorted and reared, cantering a protective circle around Frodo and bucking in-between strides. Perhaps this would scare her away.

At this point, the wolf on the ground stirred with a moan. Two pale eye lids snapped open suddenly, and the startling green-blue eyes were revealed. The first thing Frodo did was instinctively put his fingers around the ring that lay on a chain around his neck. And then he tilted his head, just a little, letting out a groan to see a wild Strider rushing around madly, and a wolfdog by their side. Lasto beth nin. Cano an dregad. he muttered to Strider, a soft voice in a harsh manor. His voice was always softer when he was speaking the ancient tongue. The horse protested by stamping a hoof on the dirt floor, but then was still. Frodo tilted his head a little more once he was sure Strider would wait, and examined the female. Her form was blurred, and he could not tell whether she would hurt him or not.

His voice was broken as he addressed her, and held back. All in all, his rough chords were strange. He had lost some of his country, gypsy-like twang over the months, and picked up some of a sea-legged accent from his days on the ship. But the country was still there, and he sounded very different to most. If you're gonna kill me, make it quick, eh jeeves? Be a nice little snickersnee and lay off the handy-cuffs. And I'm wantin' a nice proper burial, under-the-neath of the dirt and all that. Get it? Got it? Good.the mixed up mumblings of a half-dead man did not usually make much sense, thought Frodo as he struggled to keep his eyes open. And with that, he passed out again.

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