Over the misty mountains cold.

Frodo Silvertongue · 03-25-2012, 07:15 AM

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Word Count :: 873 Most of it's rubbish...skip to the last paragraph if you want xD hover over for translations.

Frodo’s mind had been somewhat confused lately. He felt no longer like a hapless individual, an innocent without a clue about anything. But now he felt as if his moral beliefs had been taken away from him, and he felt as if he’d done something bad, something terribly bad. He’d gone two years of his life without sleeping with a single woman; he meant to have it be special, when it happened to him finally, with someone he loved, his mate. But no, he had lost his virginity on a drunken night, and then once again slept with yet another woman a couple of nights after. He’d always laughed at the wolves that slept around, but did this make him one himself?

Yet, it was odd. Why did he regret what had happened? He was single, after all, and had no commitment to anybody. So why was there an angry side of him just ready to spring out? He had tried to stuff this angry side, so far, deep down inside him, but yesterday he had screamed in his sleep and woken up to find his own vicious scratch marks on the wall of his hut. However, things seemed a lot better now. He had been promoted to a skilled hunter; something he’d wished for, for quite a while indeed. And now at least he could do something, something worthwhile. Other times he had hunted like a zombie, as was routine, but this time, Frodo vowed he would enjoy it, like he used to.

Dressed in his cloak and shirt, bandana and ring-necklace tied safely around his neck, Frodo arrived at the stables… for what seemed like the millionth time in his life. The Enagayahe Kanati hummed a soft song to let the horses know he was there as he ventured to the stall that was Strider’s. Rohan had unfortunately been trained up and given away to his friend, Caprica, and there was an empty stall where the bay mare had once been. This made Frodo slightly unhappy, and he wondered if he would be punished for giving away what had once been a communal horse. He would make up for it, though. He had his eye on a herd of wild horses not far from AniWaya already.

My boy. Frodo spoke fondly, the white stallion marching up to him over the stall door, pushing his muzzle into Frodo’s open palm. Lle merna aut farien? he asked softly. Many were confused by the way he spoke to horses. As far as Luperci were concerned, there were two types of speech; low and high. But the “elvish” Frodo had learnt from the gypsies was a sort of go between, a mix of the two. Strider, and other horses, Frodo had found, found it easier to make sense of the beautiful language than they did with full-on English, and even if they didn’t understand it, the words were calming all the same. Strider would respond to the strange tongue in low speech. Frodo had only just come to terms with low speech, but he was quite fluent in it now. It was quite easy, when it came down to it, with mainly just using body language. After all, low speech was in the heart of every Luperci’s body- they were all animals before the virus, as they were still animals now.

Strider agreed to Frodo’s request in low speech; he loved hunting just as much as Frodo did. And so Frodo opened the stall door and gave Strider’s pristine white coat a brush down, before going over to the riding gear that hung on the wall. There was a saddle, in supple leather, that hadn’t been used for months. But while looking at it, Frodo decided he and Strider would go on quite a long trip, to get his mind off things. They could camp out, over the borders, and look for larger and better game over the hills. And so he threw the saddle over the horse, tightened the girth, and packed the saddlebags full of grown vegetables and meat for the journey. A horse looked odd with a saddle but no bridle, though, and so Frodo added a spare bridle; one without a bit. He didn’t need the bridle; he was an experienced enough rider to guide Strider with his hips and words, but it would make him feel a little steadier.

And so the man led his horse out of the stables, pausing just as he got outside. Frodo looked to the horizon, still humming a little song to himself as he stood outside the stables. And then he remembered the words to the song he was humming.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold,

To dungeons deep and caverns old,

We must away, ere break of day,

To seek our pale enchanted gold.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,

While hammers fell like ringing bells,

In places deep, where dark things sleep,

In hollow halls beneath the fells.

By the time he had finished his song, he had already mounted his horse and rode all the way to the edge of the territory. The man continued to ride, past the border, occasionally halting here and there to admire the scenery.

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

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