"We all know how dangerous it is to talk like this",
said the half-elf, as his eyes shimmered green in the half-light
of the small copse of woods. Lit only by the crescent moon,
two small hobbits looked around nervously, lest they be seen
or heard; as the four figures sat beneath the ancient Dolmen.
But the magic of the Dolmen should protect them; or so they
had been told by their aunt. Sparrow-cloud put her arms around
the hobbitlings, and hummed softly to ease their fears.
Fallah's eyes broiled like the wild sea, as he recognized
the tune his old friend hummed. It brought back terribly evocative
memories of the wars fought between the half-elves and the
hobbits. How such beautiful people, the hope of the world,
had battled each other, had almost destroyed him. As the meloncholy
musings of Sparrow-cloud deepened into his soul, he silently
heard the words of her song in his mind's-ear:
the dead, need not regret,
for a rose that is sliced from its roots,
will still emit the aromas of life
to inspire those battling in cahoots
with the bloody glory of living strife.
had gathered thus besides the Dolmen some few nights in a
row now. It seemed such a terrible risk, as the ogres had
forbidden anyone to leave the village at night. But Fallah
and Sparrow-cloud knew, that this was the only way to teach
the hobbitlings the power of the Wyrd Runes. These arcane
engravings, had been begun to be sleightly lit by the moonlight
as they formed their message on the edge of the Dolmen.
Fallah watched the Dolmen. It was an ancient rock, shaped
somewhat like a mushroom, almost natural-looking, but not
quite. One could sit under it as a shelter, or even clamber
on top of it, and use it as a vantage point. But its real
power lay in the Wyrd Runes engraved around its edge. And
those could only be seen by moonlight ... Next