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Post by areruthalion on Feb 16, 2005 18:57:31 GMT -5
A lone figure stands amidst a great circle of orcs, his bow in hand his hand hovering over the quiver gifted by fangorn himself. He turns and walks over to the small pile of logs by the roadside and withdraws a small vial which he pours onto the branches, muttering words of power flame leaps from them, as hot as any fire, but the wood does not burn. He takes a log burning with the mystical fire and throws it into the festering sump of corrupted flesh which alights and speaking more words of power the wych-flames die down leaving the branches as ashes, immediately a sapling appears and branches into bloom. He then begins to sing;
A tale of sorrow and of gloom, The defilers of lorien forest burn, So goes the fate of all kind, Who would do damage to me and mine.
I am the bow that sits on my lap, As I begin to pay fangorn back, For the grouping of shafts that last e'ermore, And on my way I travel at home.
The woods are my love, my soul, my fire, These invaders would burn and stoke my ire, But straight and true the arrows flew, And now they burn their souls should do.
As once I slaughtered dwarven-kind, The black arrow a creation of mine, Gifted to the house that slew the great Smaurg, And I pass forgotten e'ermore.
He turns to go from this scene taking pity on the sapling and sprinkling a few grains from a small box. "grow tall, grow strong and grow mobile little one. The orcs come from all round so you should be wary of any sound."
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