Flying in with the Snow is (winterhawk) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-02-20 00:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | door: lord of the rings, frodo baggins, plot: switch |
Who: Chetan
What: Wrong place, Right time.
Where: on the edge of the Old Forest
When: Pre-dawn Monday morning.
Warnings: None
Silence
Almost asleep
Quiet whispers of night
Soft echoes, sound, become a part
Of you.
Bounder: The Bounders were an organization of hobbits charged with patrolling the borders. Along with the Shirriffs-service, they were charged with responsibility of keeping strange persons and creatures from entering the Shire and making trouble. They wandered or perhaps patrolled parts of the Shire and its borders as part of their duties. They deferred to the Shirriffs-service and were probably deputized able-bodied hobbits that were charged with helping them in their job. By about the time just before the War of the Ring, their numbers had increased due to reports of strange folk entering the Shire and were busier than ever before.”
“WINTER!”
The yell pierced not only the hollow of land, near the forest, where the word was shouted from but the creek bed and into the swell of land near the road that housed one of the bounders. They lived near enough to the East Road to help keep the unsavory types from entering The Shire and yet far enough away so as not to disrupt the flow of traffic between the Gray Havens and the lands to the east.
“FEAR, FIRE, FOES, AWAKE”
The words crackled and groaned through the round windows and flung themselves to the ears into the dark head lying on an arm, resting on an open book. Black ink spilled stained the table where a quill had lost a battle with the blade of a pocket knife in a frustrated attempt to shape it into a functional writing instrument. My head lifted up and dark eyes went darker with each word. Too many years of working in the Black Hills on my uncle’s ranch had instilled that sudden wakefulness when something was invading the cattle ranch. I was halfway into shoving coat and jeans on before even getting to the door, and grabbing the bow and quiver of arrows that sat next to it before I realized who I was, and where I was at. Chetan Winter. I am still me. My dark coat and night shirt flapped dust wafting up into the air behind me, speaking of the number of times that we had been called out of our homes on nights like this.
The door crashed open with a bang, and I sprinted up the creeks rise toward the blaze of torches breaking the still blackness of the night. Already I could see the dark shapes on the edge of the forest where two other Bounders were fighting another pride of Igmutaka which had come down from the northern mountains. They had learned how to jump the forest’s High Hay wall and had taken to attacking the small clustering of cattle and pigs that the Master of Brandy Hall was keeping.
I already had an arrow notched and ready to draw even before I had reached the gathering of hoes and pitch forks that they were using. “Inhale full, exhale half, draw to your anchor, center, loose.” I paused to make sure of my sights before letting loose the arrow into the sides of one of the large cats. One of several, I didn’t stop and drew and fired a second and then a third. “Inhale full, exhale half, draw to your anchor, center, loose.” - Just the way my uncle in the Black Hills had taught me. - His voice going over each step again and again echoing in my ear. I hear him with each arrow I loose. And each target I choose. No mistakes, do not throw away arrows needlessly. And a fourth, that was all I could fire off before I had quit my run, and reached to join the fracas already spiraling into a fierce fight of metal and claws.
A pipe formed into the head of the hatchet. In a fight like this it was good to have your own tooth sharpened and ready for use. And the hatchet did just that. Leaner and taller than most I was able to get in closer with my hatchet then those with a pitchfork. And I had to be ever mindful of an accidental blow from the side along with the deeper claws that might tear through the heavy canvas of my coat. Still in a fight like this you do not feel any marks until after it is over and you see the scrape down the arm of the sleeve. We had killed five this night, before the rest of the pride had given up for what was remainder of the night. Two of which were downed by an arrow. Ai. Only fifty percent. I think I need a bit more practice. No doubt, tomorrow there will be the same need.
“You need to get that arm stitched up and drowned in a vat of alcohol before you go back in for what remains of the night.”
I laughed suddenly, more of a release of tension then finding humor in Solly’s words. “Ai, what little there is of that! You have to make it quick however, if you are going to apply the stitches. I have to welcome the morning.”
“You and that cracked ritual, I think it just gives you a reason to smoke in the mornings."
“As if I need a reason to do, THAT!”