Author's Note:
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Gríma
He pulled his sword free and peered into the forest. He made a mistake. Many of their folktales forbade them from entering Fangorn Forest and those that did were called forest.
The forest air was dense and heavy to breathe in. No life fluttered among the trees. And yet the forest felt oddly alive. It was gloomy and dark. Even in the light, he doubted the sun bore through the patchwork of leaves.
There was a rumble around him. He looked frantically. Boughs bents and trunks creaked. He felt restlessness inside him. Something approached and he knew not what.
There was an audible creak of a dry twig. He turned around, waving his sword in the air.
An old man stood before him, bent with age. One hand clutched a white staff like a claw and other clutched his robes. At first he thought the robes were white in colour but when he looked closer, it was a myriad of colours blended in such a way that it seemed white. The man's hair was long and it was white with streaks of black. His beard was the same.
"Welcome, son of Rohan," the man crooned softly. Gríma's sword lowered a fraction in surprise. The place was ominous and only the man was the friendliest he found among them. The man freed his robes and reached out, palm up in invitation. "Lower thy sword. There is no need of it."
The man was right. As if in a daze, he lowered it until its point dug in the ground. The man gave a slow smile. To Gríma, t seemed calming and honest.
"Come with me. I have proposal that shall suit thee."
The man turned and began to walk. Gríma followed, sword dragging in the soil until darkness enveloped him.
