How Do You Pick Up The Threads Of An Old Life?

Frodo Silvertongue · 12-19-2011, 12:15 PM

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GASP.

The way Vesper had responded to his only friendly attempts at contact made him tremble just a little. Frodo was just a boy, barely out of his teenaged years. Often referred to as a boy despite being quite matured, he lived up to this title, especially at this moment. He continued backing against the tree and was beyond taken aback when she approached with a snarl, refusing to believe there was a Makesthai here. The young man stared at her blankly with pain quite evident in his emerald optics, and his fingers drummed against the bark of the tree nervously, scratching at the brown material with all his might. She came closer and Frodo was just thinking she was about to lunge at him when a horse came between him and her.

His first thought was that the horse and it’s rider were to be his saviour and he looked up graciously, eyes a little damp, but then harsh words in a language he didn’t recognize - but could only think of a hostile - were thrown nastily at him, and the whole world seemed to freeze as a stick was thrust into his stomach, immediately knocking the air out of him. He fell to his knees, eyes wide and watering blankly as he struggled to register what had happened. The pain was ludicrous. Quickly orientating himself the man attempted to clasp one paw around the staff that was hanging above him, and he tried to jerk the thing out of Helote’s hand or maybe even pull the man off his horse. It was simple instinct, a defence mecahnisim that was causing the reaction to fight back. Frodo knew nothing of fighting. They expected him to run from their borders now, but how could he, winded and on the ground like a slave? Trembling the man looked around, for any sort of escape route. However, Vesper and Helotes might not let him go so pleasantly now he’d tried to fight back…

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