Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings. This should be blindingly
obvious. I'm not profiting from this, and in fact, my heroine Maerwyn may
turn into a Mary Sue of the worst variety. We shall see. Reviews and
constructive criticism are welcome.
She held her breath, staring into the dark corner before her, a pair of baleful yellow eyes glaring back at her. The little girl stood stock- still, though her face itched due to the presence of the copious amounts of hay sticking into her brownish hair, giving her a strong resemblance to a particularly filthy blonde porcupine. Something moved in the corner, and the girl dashed forward, making a desperate (and ill-advised) grabbing motion toward the owner of the yellow slit-pupil eyes. She received a beautiful set of clawmarks on her arm for her pains, and the cat took his opportunity to shoot out of the loft, leaping to a pile of wooden crates in one corner and from thence to the ground, rounding the corner out of the building with frightening speed.
"Rats," said the little girl, rather put out at losing her favorite pet—or victim, as the case so often was. She checked her arm, which had already begun to drip droplets of blood onto her beaten up, mudstained trousers. She was going to get into trouble for that one for certain.
On the other hand, she reasoned to herself, there was no use in getting into trouble without having the fun that went along with trouble in the first place, was there?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout from below. "Maerwyn! Are you torturing that cat again?" A stocky man covered with dust and dirt from the stables stood looking up at her, in all her scratched-up, hayhaired glory.
"... no," answered Maerwyn truthfully. She hadn't managed to catch the cat, after all.
"Well come down. You were supposed to be back at the Hall by noon, or didn't you remember you had guests to clean up for?"
"Guests? Oh, you mean the Steward and his retinue," the girl said, giving the "r" in retinue an exaggerated rolling sound.
"Yes, I mean the Steward and his retinue," answered the older man, scratching the back of his head. "You had better go, or your nursemaid'll have an attack of the nerves again."
"Oh, HER," scoffed the little girl. She put a hand to her brow and in a mocking voice said, "'Your hair! Ruined! Your dress! Ruined! Your stockings! Undarned! I... I think I shall faint! Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I ever tell your father!'"
"Don't you mock your elders, girl. Not even if they are silly. And get out of that hayloft or I'll have to come and bring you down held over my shoulder like a sack of flour."
The little girl frowned sullenly, but slithered down the ladder to the ground with all the acumen of a professional acrobat. "Well all right then. But if they make me wear that lacy pink dress again I'm going to... I'll... I'm going to put a toad in the Lord Steward's wineglass tonight." She stuck her tongue out at him, and then dashed out of the stable, nearly bowling over the little stableboy on her way back to the Hall.
She held her breath, staring into the dark corner before her, a pair of baleful yellow eyes glaring back at her. The little girl stood stock- still, though her face itched due to the presence of the copious amounts of hay sticking into her brownish hair, giving her a strong resemblance to a particularly filthy blonde porcupine. Something moved in the corner, and the girl dashed forward, making a desperate (and ill-advised) grabbing motion toward the owner of the yellow slit-pupil eyes. She received a beautiful set of clawmarks on her arm for her pains, and the cat took his opportunity to shoot out of the loft, leaping to a pile of wooden crates in one corner and from thence to the ground, rounding the corner out of the building with frightening speed.
"Rats," said the little girl, rather put out at losing her favorite pet—or victim, as the case so often was. She checked her arm, which had already begun to drip droplets of blood onto her beaten up, mudstained trousers. She was going to get into trouble for that one for certain.
On the other hand, she reasoned to herself, there was no use in getting into trouble without having the fun that went along with trouble in the first place, was there?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout from below. "Maerwyn! Are you torturing that cat again?" A stocky man covered with dust and dirt from the stables stood looking up at her, in all her scratched-up, hayhaired glory.
"... no," answered Maerwyn truthfully. She hadn't managed to catch the cat, after all.
"Well come down. You were supposed to be back at the Hall by noon, or didn't you remember you had guests to clean up for?"
"Guests? Oh, you mean the Steward and his retinue," the girl said, giving the "r" in retinue an exaggerated rolling sound.
"Yes, I mean the Steward and his retinue," answered the older man, scratching the back of his head. "You had better go, or your nursemaid'll have an attack of the nerves again."
"Oh, HER," scoffed the little girl. She put a hand to her brow and in a mocking voice said, "'Your hair! Ruined! Your dress! Ruined! Your stockings! Undarned! I... I think I shall faint! Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I ever tell your father!'"
"Don't you mock your elders, girl. Not even if they are silly. And get out of that hayloft or I'll have to come and bring you down held over my shoulder like a sack of flour."
The little girl frowned sullenly, but slithered down the ladder to the ground with all the acumen of a professional acrobat. "Well all right then. But if they make me wear that lacy pink dress again I'm going to... I'll... I'm going to put a toad in the Lord Steward's wineglass tonight." She stuck her tongue out at him, and then dashed out of the stable, nearly bowling over the little stableboy on her way back to the Hall.