A Battle of Bows

Frodo Silvertongue · 04-07-2012, 06:09 PM

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Yaaay. wc; 488

The young wolf crouched in the undergrowth.

His tail was held in a somewhat dominant position, as it always was when on a hunt. Fingers flexed, eyes narrowed, and with a subtle twitch of his lips, he was focused. He slipped his left hand up and down his bow once or twice, running fingers over the smooth wood, polished and oiled beyond count. And then the hand perched upon the string of the bow, and he tightened his grip, and adjusted his aim. All the while, Frodo’s heart was beating in his skinny chest, yet he somehow remained calm. As usual. He never grew tired of the wait, or the chase, and finally the kill. No matter which order these steps went in, they always led to one thing; a nice meal at the end of the day, and a well rewarded nap. Frodo lusted for these things and so his pulse quickened, as did his mind, and slowly, gently, he drew back the string, and-

SCREEEECCCHHHHH!

The doe he had been after bolted, darting away so fast, it was as if she’d used a teleportation device. Frodo cursed and dropped his bow; right onto his knee, and he “screeched” himself. Muttering and grumbling, the boy turned around to see who had ruined his hunt. There stood his horse, Strider, bare and white, looking very, very guilty. Wha’… Frodo muttered, wondering why his horse had made such a noise, when he knew, he knew how important hunting was. And then, with a jolt, Frodo saw the squirrel up in the tree, its tail curled and brow wrinkled. Now, Frodo was able to put two and two together. Strider hated squirrels; perhaps even more than he hated badgers. Just the look of one was enough to make the horse spook and cry out.

Shaking his head, Frodo picked up his bow swiftly and shot the squirrel from the tree. It had, after all, taken a part in ruining his hunt as well. It would no way near make up for the loss, but Frodo would eat it with some sort of pride. First though, he marched up to Strider. Bin’ trackin’ up tha’ for three days, Strider, you follow?! Do tha’ ter me ‘gain and I’ll…and I’ll… he half-shouted, though not that angrily. I’ll do somethin’ , that I will, to be sure I tell yer, wee piece of dynamite you! he growled, and the horse looked away; a gesture he had learnt from living around wolves to show submission. A submitting member of the pack never looked his uppers in the eye. Content with what “discipline” he had shown, Frodo then packed the squirrel away for safe keeping, mounted his horse, and kicked onwards, further into the depths of ethereal eclipse. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be a chance in hell that they’d come across something worth the time and the effort.

Frodo Silvertongue

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