The Eleventh Hour

Frodo Silvertongue · 11-29-2011, 07:24 PM

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Word Count :: 598 Rejoining, hopefully. Note' (if Ralla see's this), the occurrence described at the end of the thread, where Frodo left his guide because he was too eager, has not been played out yet but is what will happen, hopefully, in the Frodo and Ralla thread. I just wrote it because I did not want to powerplay Ralla taking him here, and was eager myself to rejoin :p

Desired Profession Path: Hunting

NPC's: Strider (horse), Pantalaemon (rat, not yet discovered).

It was funny to think that the lively man had once been trembling on the floor, welcoming death with open arms.

Oh, how long had he stood pondering his possibilities, weighing up every little detail of his past, wallowing in thought. How long he had studied and analysed every single piece of his life, pools swirling with intense emotion that even the wisest would be unable to decipher. It was a terrible thing to be on the breach of insanity when only a few moments before you were perfectly sane. But he had done it, had he not? He had burned up every little bit of knowledge, every jigsaw-puzzle piece, and slotted everything together. His mind was complete, and made up. It all seemed to be falling into place now, everything suddenly made sense and it was not confusing anymore. Frodo had came from a land where everything was unsettled and killing was regular, murder a thing of right. But he’d escaped, and done the thing he’d set out to do. He had come back; come back to what he liked to call home. He was learned, his mind hosting a large array of intellect now. He felt invincible. As if nothing could defeat him.

Mr Silvertongue was less cautious, ripe with the confidence that he’d fulfilled traversing back to AniWaya. And so, instead of taking the used path, a commoners passageway, he had slunk beneath the canopy of trees, darting in and out of the shrubs, jumping over fallen logs and leaping the rivers and streams, breath barely escaping his maw as he was quick footed and sure on the darkened, dusty ground. As Frodo neared his destination, his footing began to pick up the traces of mud, of dirt underfoot, and he realized with a sniff that he was close to a place he so fondly remembered. Not clearly remembered, not through pictures in his mind, but the remembrance in the womb of his heart.

His eyes peeked up from his curly coat now, his pelt mostly an onyx black, yet his face a mixture of colours- like paints swirled together on a pallet. The golden and black faced boy swept away auburn hair and gave a low whistle, and his horse caught up with him in a thrice. He’d traversed the rest of Serena Reserve on foot, with the horse Strider mimicking his path like a shadow. Always a shadow. In his right mind, the horse would always let Frodo think he was the leader. But the equine thought very differently about the matters of leading and following.

And it was on the stroke of midnight that Frodo and the horse arrived at the borders of AniWaya. It had once been their home, but only for a short while, and Frodo felt it wouldn’t be so pleasant just walking in uninvited. The youth had ran the short distance from the end of Serena Reserve all the way to this territory marker; at a low, typical werewolf crouch he stood now, basking in the darkness and shadow.

Ralla had been his guide a couple of mintues ago, but he’d been too eager, and at the last moment of the journey, he had ran off. He hoped the lady would not take it as an offence, and surely she would realize why he had been so fierce in his leaving her. She would be thanked for her efforts later. Frodo was a cloaked figure, drenched in shadow, next to a white stallion laden with bags that were strewn hastily onto it's saddle. His fingers drifted up to his throat where he toyed with the ring on his neck, and thought of the future. Yet now his intense, green gaze surfaced the area, in a mighty, mighty sweep. And he was fierce, and alive, and waiting.

.

Image courtesy of Scott Hudson **; Table by the Mentors!

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