Chapter 4 – The Merry Finches Sing
The three novice warriors stared at the slightly wiggly path of footprints, as still as three boulders covered in moss and left in a valley for years on end. Their wide eyes ran over the prints, searching for clues, just as Astaler had taught them how to do not very long ago.
"Who do you suppose it was?" asked Caranthon at last, hardly moving her lips and speaking in a whisper.
"Do you think it could be those poachers?" replied Celrin after a few moments. There was another pause, and only the trickling of the stream could be heard and odd sounds now and then echoed from far away in the trees. From close by, a finch twittered away to anybody who was listening, singing a merry little melody that was pleasing for the young elves to hear.
"I thought Master Luinorn said that dwarves only ever travel around in groups of fourteen."
Shrugging slightly, Celrin turned his head so that he could see Squirrel clearly. The young novice was staring at the tracks with a calculating stare, his head tipped slightly to one side. He was frowning, and his mouth was moving slightly, as if he was talking to himself.
At that moment, a finch fluttered down to the small stream, not taking any notice of the novices on the other bank, all of whom were now silent again, contemplating the tracks. It fluffed itself up, displaying its speckled chest and ruffled its wings, before putting its tiny head down to take a drink of the cool, swift running water. After taking its fill, the little finch raised its head and warbled a merry little tune, and then gracefully launched itself back in to the darkness of the trees.
"I think we ought to go," muttered Squirrel, "I do not think that the people who made the tracks are dwarves, because they are not deep enough for a fat creature, however stumpy they may be. Besides, even if the tracks do belong to dwarves, what are we supposed to do if we find them? I think we ought to just go and find the thorns."
He looked around at his friends who, after dragging their eyes away from the mysterious tracks, nodded silently. They stood up and, in the time it took to blink twice, had pulled themselves up in to the mossy branches of the dark trees, surprising a bird so much that it jumped up in to the air and twittered angrily at them for disturbing its nest where a small clump of little eggs lay waiting to hatch. The novices smiled at it apologetically, before leaping off through the trees, followed closely by Astaler who they still had not realised was tracking them. The prince smiled to himself, congratulating both himself and Luinorn for the fine novices who would soon be ready to become fully fledged warriors.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~**~**~**~**~**~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
From the entrance of the great, underground halls of the king, two figures stood next to each other, ignoring the guards. Their eyes were fixed on the winding path down which elves on horseback could just be seen in the gloom.
"Well," said Oroweth sadly, "they tried. I would not like to be them when adar catches up with them."
Thellind shook his head, silent as ever, his arms hanging limply by his side.
After they had stood there for a few more minutes, Oroweth shrugged and turned around, disappearing in to the lamp lit caves. His brother followed closely, turning his head around for a final look back at the path, and then scampered out of sight.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~**~**~**~**~**~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Unlike by the banks of the stream where the novices had heard the singing of the finches, the dark part of the forest with its black twisted branches through which Culkemen stalked, followed closely by the three miscreant princes and the rest of the warriors under her command, there was no birdsong. The only things that were to be heard were the snuffles of debatable creatures, or every so often the sound of a soft growl of a beast supposing itself to be cornered by a hunting party, warning the elves not to get any closer. Holding their torches up high, even though it was grey morning, the warriors peered around them all the time, watching and listening carefully for the sound of predators.
At last, they entered a small clearing, not unlike the one where they had discovered the sad little body of the rabbit. This one, however, did not have any dead creatures in it.
That is not to say that it did not have any traps.
On the northern edge of the clearing there was a large, ugly trap sprung shut. It was old and rusty, and the teeth were covered in blood from some unfortunate, long dead creature and now, it was covered in the blood of another creature. This creature, however, had not had the instant death of the last victim of the trap.
The prisoner was a large black squirrel. Its hind leg was snapped in to two, hanging limply and painfully by a small stretch of fur and flesh, and it had clearly lost a lot of blood, as the red, sticky substance was in a pool around it, soaking the earth and matting the fur of the unfortunate creature. It was struggling feebly, and even as the elves stepped in to the clearing it tore its flesh a little more and chattered with pain.
With a gasp of disgust towards the setters of the trap, Culkemen sprang across the clearing. She knelt down beside the trap and tried to pull it open gently, but the rusty hinges mixed with the thick blood which coated the trap would not budge. Legolas and Nilwethion crouched down beside her and stared at the meek little creature struggle, desperately clutching on to the dregs of its life as they drained away from it. Flies were already beginning to buzz around it, zipping this way and that, occasionally landing on it.
"Even if we managed to free its leg from the trap, the poor thing would still be dead before we left this place," muttered Legolas. He looked up at Culkemen, whose lips were pursed with anger and eyes narrowed with hatred.
"We ought to just put an end to its misery," agreed Nilwethion. Not far away, Nuryävié stood with Anoreg, watching with glazed eyes as if he were thinking of something from far, far away. Legolas suspected that the prince was remembering the events of twelve years ago, and indeed, when he looked back down at the miserable squirrel caught in the trap he could almost see his naneth lying dead, and the life draining away from his sister.
"Yes," muttered Culkemen at last, "I suppose it would be the kindest thing to do to the poor little thing."
She stood up, leaving Legolas and Nilwethion by the pathetic creature, its life almost drained, and marched over to discuss something with Anoreg. Nuryävié was still staring in to space, his face blank. The other warriors were paying more attention to Culkemen than to the two princes sitting by the black squirrel.
Legolas stroked its blood soaked head with pity, and the squirrel froze, terrified that it was about to become dinner, and then shuddered. Suddenly it went limp, never to move again. It had never even felt the sharp dagger with the white handle belonging to Legolas pierce its heart, killing it instantly. The two princes stood up and walked away from the pitiful, forlorn form, still caught in the trap.
"What do we do next?" asked Legolas as he glided over to the captain as Nilwethion went over to Nuryävié, talking softly to him and bringing him out of his trance.
"Well, we shall. . ." and then she stopped mid sentence with shock.
A troupe of dwarves had just stumbled in to the clearing, and they were blinking foolishly at the elves like lazy owls caught in sunlight.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~**~**~**~**~**~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
The thorn patch where the warriors of Mirkwood harvested the poisons for the tips of their arrows and swords was silent. Nothing moved, and there were no sounds of birds singing or howls from further away in the forest. No animals lived near the thorns. The poison worked fast, and any creature which had tried to make its home around the area had learnt very quickly . . . and had never learnt anything else again. Around the thicket for a few feet there was nothing. The roots spread far, and choked any other plants trying to live there. The fearfully long thorns were similar to those that grew in Mordor, and the small flowers that rested on the branches seemed to have been stolen from some other, prettier plant.
A pair of watery blue eyes peered over the edge of a low branch, and then it shot back in to the dark abyss, hidden by large leaves and long shadows. Then, a few seconds later, three pairs of booted feet sprang lightly on to the dark grass.
"The thorns!" whispered Celrin gleefully, "We made it!"
Squirrel bounded ahead of the other two, almost skipping lightly over the ancient, dry leaves that had fallen the previous autumn, and coming to a halt just in front of the thorns.
"One flower each," muttered the young elf under his breath, "though they never said how many thorns. . ."
Being careful not to prick his hand or forearm on any of the sharp, threatening thorns, the young novice reached out and gently plucked one of the dark flowers off the thick branch, then slipped it in to a pouch that hung on his leather belt. Beside him, Celrin also pulled off one of the flowers, though he did it with a little less care than Squirrel had done. A petal fell off his flower, and it floated to the ground, drifting slowly downwards on the still, stifling air. Shrugging, the novice snapped a couple of the dangerous thorns off the plant, this time being a lot more careful. Where the thorns were broken away, a black liquid seeped slowly out of the branch. It was the poison that filled the thorns and tipped the weapons of the warriors and killed any creature unlucky enough to get it in their bloodstream.
"They are so beautiful!" gasped Caranthon, finger her own flower when she picked it off the branch, as if it was a precious gem or newly born animal. She looked up at her friends, a smile widening on her pretty face. "I want to make myself a crown with them! Help me pick a few more."
Keeping one of the flowers in the palm of her slim hand, she reached out and picked another, and then another, and then another. Glancing sideways as her collection of little flowers grew, she giggled at the stunned expressions of the boys. When at last she was satisfied that she had gathered enough of the little things, she skipped merrily over the ground away from the twisted, ugly branches and flopped down to the floor. Carefully, she began to twist the pretty flowers together in a long string. Squirrel and Celrin sat down next to her, forming a small circle. For a while, there was silence, and then Squirrel looked around nervously.
"Do you feel it?" he asked quietly. Celrin, who had been watching Caranthon making her crown of flowers, looked up. Caranthon lifted her head suspiciously and then, after a few moments, went back to her little crown.
"Feel what?" asked Celrin, and then . . . "Do you think we are being watched?" he whispered. Squirrel shrugged, but they scanned the dark eaves of the forest. Caranthon finished her crafting and positioned the completed headdress, then looked around the forest again. She stood up, continuing to look around the forest for any signs that they were not alone.
Hidden in the darkness of the trees, Astaler smiled to himself. So they had realised he was following them at last? Perhaps, if they got any more jittery, he would show himself. Then, just as he was about to leap down from the branch where he was perched and congratulate them, he heard something on the forest floor. The prince looked down, and his eyes widened. The novices were not alone, and nor was he. . .
"Come on, we ought to be getting back," muttered Celrin. Nodding, the other two followed him and then, just as they had reached the safety of the trees, Caranthon gasped.
"I forgot to get any thorns!" she yelped. Before Squirrel or Celrin could offer her any of their own thorns, the girl darted back out in to the open, sprinting towards the spiky plant.
"Squirrel, Celrin, look out!"
Startled by the voice of Astaler, Squirrel and Celrin froze and looked around. Suddenly, Squirrel felt a large pair of arms that smelt unclean fasten itself around him, pinning his arms down by his sides. He cried out in fear, and then tried to struggle and writhe. Wondering why Celrin had not jumped to his aid, Squirrel looked around, only to see his friend also struggling to escape. A large man, hidden under a travel stained hood and cloak had lifted Celrin off the ground and had his hand clamped firmly over the novices mouth.
"Caranthon, run!" cried Squirrel. Turning around in a flash, Caranthon saw what was going on, dropped her thorns and ran off in the other direction.
Suddenly, the man holding Squirrel went limp and fell to the ground, almost crushing the helpless elf. He gurgled and spluttered for a few moments, and then lay still. An arrow bolt was pierced through his neck. The man holding Celrin fell in a similar way, this time not even having the time to splutter before crashing to the ground. Celrin wriggled out from underneath the corpse and tried to pull Squirrel free as Astaler leapt down from the tree, his sword drawn, and slashed at five more men who had appeared from the bushes.
"Run!" he cried, wishing that the novices would hurry up. Squirrel, however, was still stuck under the dead mortal, and the man was too heavy for Celrin to be able to move alone. Although he was training to be a novice, Celrin was not as strong as he would have like to be, nor imagined himself to be.
Another cluster of men lumbered out of the bushes and effortlessly, one of them scooped up Celrin as though he was just another flower on the thorn bush. Another two grabbed Squirrel and pulled him out from underneath their dead comrade. Like Celrin, Squirrel was picked up unceremoniously and pinned down under the great, stinking arms of the man. As he was carried away in the bushes, the last thing he saw of Astaler, desperately trying to rescue them, was a long, ugly blade ramming its way through the prince's shoulder, and then another sword pierced his side. As a third sword swung towards the prince, he was swallowed by shadows and darkness, and Squirrel could see nothing more.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~**~**~**~**~**~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
A/N: I finally managed to find time to update! As soon as I update, look what I go and do. Not only one cliffy, but two of the horrible things! Aren't I a wicked little thing? Next chapter will hopefully be up soon.
REVIEW REPLY THINGY
NARLILTA FIREDANCE ~ Yup, I have a fairly good idea how evil my cliffies are. Would you say that these ones are fairly bad, as cliffies go?
ORODRUIN ~ *Applauds* well done! Although, as I have more chapters now, it's fairly obvious where the song came from. The people by the stream weren't the poachers, but you won't find out until later who really made them.
SILVERKNIGHT7 ~ I have updated at last but, many apologies, it wasn't very soon.
ALLYRIEN CHANTEL DE MONTREVE ~ Ah, but my dear, when does Thranduil like any development that he doesn't plan?
KISTUNE ~ Well, as you can see, there are actually dwarves bumbling around the forest. Then again, they aren't the only trespassers. Messes with the head, doesn't it?
ANGRYTOLKIENPURIST ~ Yes, the elves do eat meat, but that isn't the point. The point of the poachers is that they are stealing meat which, by rights, belongs to the elves of Mirkwood. Say you had a warren of rabbits living in your back garden. If somebody kept stealing them, you wouldn't be very happy about that at all, would you?
AMLEE ~ Thank you so much ^^. I've finally got back, but it wasn't very soon
COOLIO02 ~ As I said to Allyrien, Thranduil is very rarely happy if something is happening that he didn't plan.
The three novice warriors stared at the slightly wiggly path of footprints, as still as three boulders covered in moss and left in a valley for years on end. Their wide eyes ran over the prints, searching for clues, just as Astaler had taught them how to do not very long ago.
"Who do you suppose it was?" asked Caranthon at last, hardly moving her lips and speaking in a whisper.
"Do you think it could be those poachers?" replied Celrin after a few moments. There was another pause, and only the trickling of the stream could be heard and odd sounds now and then echoed from far away in the trees. From close by, a finch twittered away to anybody who was listening, singing a merry little melody that was pleasing for the young elves to hear.
"I thought Master Luinorn said that dwarves only ever travel around in groups of fourteen."
Shrugging slightly, Celrin turned his head so that he could see Squirrel clearly. The young novice was staring at the tracks with a calculating stare, his head tipped slightly to one side. He was frowning, and his mouth was moving slightly, as if he was talking to himself.
At that moment, a finch fluttered down to the small stream, not taking any notice of the novices on the other bank, all of whom were now silent again, contemplating the tracks. It fluffed itself up, displaying its speckled chest and ruffled its wings, before putting its tiny head down to take a drink of the cool, swift running water. After taking its fill, the little finch raised its head and warbled a merry little tune, and then gracefully launched itself back in to the darkness of the trees.
"I think we ought to go," muttered Squirrel, "I do not think that the people who made the tracks are dwarves, because they are not deep enough for a fat creature, however stumpy they may be. Besides, even if the tracks do belong to dwarves, what are we supposed to do if we find them? I think we ought to just go and find the thorns."
He looked around at his friends who, after dragging their eyes away from the mysterious tracks, nodded silently. They stood up and, in the time it took to blink twice, had pulled themselves up in to the mossy branches of the dark trees, surprising a bird so much that it jumped up in to the air and twittered angrily at them for disturbing its nest where a small clump of little eggs lay waiting to hatch. The novices smiled at it apologetically, before leaping off through the trees, followed closely by Astaler who they still had not realised was tracking them. The prince smiled to himself, congratulating both himself and Luinorn for the fine novices who would soon be ready to become fully fledged warriors.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~**~**~**~**~**~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
From the entrance of the great, underground halls of the king, two figures stood next to each other, ignoring the guards. Their eyes were fixed on the winding path down which elves on horseback could just be seen in the gloom.
"Well," said Oroweth sadly, "they tried. I would not like to be them when adar catches up with them."
Thellind shook his head, silent as ever, his arms hanging limply by his side.
After they had stood there for a few more minutes, Oroweth shrugged and turned around, disappearing in to the lamp lit caves. His brother followed closely, turning his head around for a final look back at the path, and then scampered out of sight.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~**~**~**~**~**~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
Unlike by the banks of the stream where the novices had heard the singing of the finches, the dark part of the forest with its black twisted branches through which Culkemen stalked, followed closely by the three miscreant princes and the rest of the warriors under her command, there was no birdsong. The only things that were to be heard were the snuffles of debatable creatures, or every so often the sound of a soft growl of a beast supposing itself to be cornered by a hunting party, warning the elves not to get any closer. Holding their torches up high, even though it was grey morning, the warriors peered around them all the time, watching and listening carefully for the sound of predators.
At last, they entered a small clearing, not unlike the one where they had discovered the sad little body of the rabbit. This one, however, did not have any dead creatures in it.
That is not to say that it did not have any traps.
On the northern edge of the clearing there was a large, ugly trap sprung shut. It was old and rusty, and the teeth were covered in blood from some unfortunate, long dead creature and now, it was covered in the blood of another creature. This creature, however, had not had the instant death of the last victim of the trap.
The prisoner was a large black squirrel. Its hind leg was snapped in to two, hanging limply and painfully by a small stretch of fur and flesh, and it had clearly lost a lot of blood, as the red, sticky substance was in a pool around it, soaking the earth and matting the fur of the unfortunate creature. It was struggling feebly, and even as the elves stepped in to the clearing it tore its flesh a little more and chattered with pain.
With a gasp of disgust towards the setters of the trap, Culkemen sprang across the clearing. She knelt down beside the trap and tried to pull it open gently, but the rusty hinges mixed with the thick blood which coated the trap would not budge. Legolas and Nilwethion crouched down beside her and stared at the meek little creature struggle, desperately clutching on to the dregs of its life as they drained away from it. Flies were already beginning to buzz around it, zipping this way and that, occasionally landing on it.
"Even if we managed to free its leg from the trap, the poor thing would still be dead before we left this place," muttered Legolas. He looked up at Culkemen, whose lips were pursed with anger and eyes narrowed with hatred.
"We ought to just put an end to its misery," agreed Nilwethion. Not far away, Nuryävié stood with Anoreg, watching with glazed eyes as if he were thinking of something from far, far away. Legolas suspected that the prince was remembering the events of twelve years ago, and indeed, when he looked back down at the miserable squirrel caught in the trap he could almost see his naneth lying dead, and the life draining away from his sister.
"Yes," muttered Culkemen at last, "I suppose it would be the kindest thing to do to the poor little thing."
She stood up, leaving Legolas and Nilwethion by the pathetic creature, its life almost drained, and marched over to discuss something with Anoreg. Nuryävié was still staring in to space, his face blank. The other warriors were paying more attention to Culkemen than to the two princes sitting by the black squirrel.
Legolas stroked its blood soaked head with pity, and the squirrel froze, terrified that it was about to become dinner, and then shuddered. Suddenly it went limp, never to move again. It had never even felt the sharp dagger with the white handle belonging to Legolas pierce its heart, killing it instantly. The two princes stood up and walked away from the pitiful, forlorn form, still caught in the trap.
"What do we do next?" asked Legolas as he glided over to the captain as Nilwethion went over to Nuryävié, talking softly to him and bringing him out of his trance.
"Well, we shall. . ." and then she stopped mid sentence with shock.
A troupe of dwarves had just stumbled in to the clearing, and they were blinking foolishly at the elves like lazy owls caught in sunlight.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~**~**~**~**~**~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
The thorn patch where the warriors of Mirkwood harvested the poisons for the tips of their arrows and swords was silent. Nothing moved, and there were no sounds of birds singing or howls from further away in the forest. No animals lived near the thorns. The poison worked fast, and any creature which had tried to make its home around the area had learnt very quickly . . . and had never learnt anything else again. Around the thicket for a few feet there was nothing. The roots spread far, and choked any other plants trying to live there. The fearfully long thorns were similar to those that grew in Mordor, and the small flowers that rested on the branches seemed to have been stolen from some other, prettier plant.
A pair of watery blue eyes peered over the edge of a low branch, and then it shot back in to the dark abyss, hidden by large leaves and long shadows. Then, a few seconds later, three pairs of booted feet sprang lightly on to the dark grass.
"The thorns!" whispered Celrin gleefully, "We made it!"
Squirrel bounded ahead of the other two, almost skipping lightly over the ancient, dry leaves that had fallen the previous autumn, and coming to a halt just in front of the thorns.
"One flower each," muttered the young elf under his breath, "though they never said how many thorns. . ."
Being careful not to prick his hand or forearm on any of the sharp, threatening thorns, the young novice reached out and gently plucked one of the dark flowers off the thick branch, then slipped it in to a pouch that hung on his leather belt. Beside him, Celrin also pulled off one of the flowers, though he did it with a little less care than Squirrel had done. A petal fell off his flower, and it floated to the ground, drifting slowly downwards on the still, stifling air. Shrugging, the novice snapped a couple of the dangerous thorns off the plant, this time being a lot more careful. Where the thorns were broken away, a black liquid seeped slowly out of the branch. It was the poison that filled the thorns and tipped the weapons of the warriors and killed any creature unlucky enough to get it in their bloodstream.
"They are so beautiful!" gasped Caranthon, finger her own flower when she picked it off the branch, as if it was a precious gem or newly born animal. She looked up at her friends, a smile widening on her pretty face. "I want to make myself a crown with them! Help me pick a few more."
Keeping one of the flowers in the palm of her slim hand, she reached out and picked another, and then another, and then another. Glancing sideways as her collection of little flowers grew, she giggled at the stunned expressions of the boys. When at last she was satisfied that she had gathered enough of the little things, she skipped merrily over the ground away from the twisted, ugly branches and flopped down to the floor. Carefully, she began to twist the pretty flowers together in a long string. Squirrel and Celrin sat down next to her, forming a small circle. For a while, there was silence, and then Squirrel looked around nervously.
"Do you feel it?" he asked quietly. Celrin, who had been watching Caranthon making her crown of flowers, looked up. Caranthon lifted her head suspiciously and then, after a few moments, went back to her little crown.
"Feel what?" asked Celrin, and then . . . "Do you think we are being watched?" he whispered. Squirrel shrugged, but they scanned the dark eaves of the forest. Caranthon finished her crafting and positioned the completed headdress, then looked around the forest again. She stood up, continuing to look around the forest for any signs that they were not alone.
Hidden in the darkness of the trees, Astaler smiled to himself. So they had realised he was following them at last? Perhaps, if they got any more jittery, he would show himself. Then, just as he was about to leap down from the branch where he was perched and congratulate them, he heard something on the forest floor. The prince looked down, and his eyes widened. The novices were not alone, and nor was he. . .
"Come on, we ought to be getting back," muttered Celrin. Nodding, the other two followed him and then, just as they had reached the safety of the trees, Caranthon gasped.
"I forgot to get any thorns!" she yelped. Before Squirrel or Celrin could offer her any of their own thorns, the girl darted back out in to the open, sprinting towards the spiky plant.
"Squirrel, Celrin, look out!"
Startled by the voice of Astaler, Squirrel and Celrin froze and looked around. Suddenly, Squirrel felt a large pair of arms that smelt unclean fasten itself around him, pinning his arms down by his sides. He cried out in fear, and then tried to struggle and writhe. Wondering why Celrin had not jumped to his aid, Squirrel looked around, only to see his friend also struggling to escape. A large man, hidden under a travel stained hood and cloak had lifted Celrin off the ground and had his hand clamped firmly over the novices mouth.
"Caranthon, run!" cried Squirrel. Turning around in a flash, Caranthon saw what was going on, dropped her thorns and ran off in the other direction.
Suddenly, the man holding Squirrel went limp and fell to the ground, almost crushing the helpless elf. He gurgled and spluttered for a few moments, and then lay still. An arrow bolt was pierced through his neck. The man holding Celrin fell in a similar way, this time not even having the time to splutter before crashing to the ground. Celrin wriggled out from underneath the corpse and tried to pull Squirrel free as Astaler leapt down from the tree, his sword drawn, and slashed at five more men who had appeared from the bushes.
"Run!" he cried, wishing that the novices would hurry up. Squirrel, however, was still stuck under the dead mortal, and the man was too heavy for Celrin to be able to move alone. Although he was training to be a novice, Celrin was not as strong as he would have like to be, nor imagined himself to be.
Another cluster of men lumbered out of the bushes and effortlessly, one of them scooped up Celrin as though he was just another flower on the thorn bush. Another two grabbed Squirrel and pulled him out from underneath their dead comrade. Like Celrin, Squirrel was picked up unceremoniously and pinned down under the great, stinking arms of the man. As he was carried away in the bushes, the last thing he saw of Astaler, desperately trying to rescue them, was a long, ugly blade ramming its way through the prince's shoulder, and then another sword pierced his side. As a third sword swung towards the prince, he was swallowed by shadows and darkness, and Squirrel could see nothing more.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~**~**~**~**~**~~*~~*~~*~~*~~
A/N: I finally managed to find time to update! As soon as I update, look what I go and do. Not only one cliffy, but two of the horrible things! Aren't I a wicked little thing? Next chapter will hopefully be up soon.
REVIEW REPLY THINGY
NARLILTA FIREDANCE ~ Yup, I have a fairly good idea how evil my cliffies are. Would you say that these ones are fairly bad, as cliffies go?
ORODRUIN ~ *Applauds* well done! Although, as I have more chapters now, it's fairly obvious where the song came from. The people by the stream weren't the poachers, but you won't find out until later who really made them.
SILVERKNIGHT7 ~ I have updated at last but, many apologies, it wasn't very soon.
ALLYRIEN CHANTEL DE MONTREVE ~ Ah, but my dear, when does Thranduil like any development that he doesn't plan?
KISTUNE ~ Well, as you can see, there are actually dwarves bumbling around the forest. Then again, they aren't the only trespassers. Messes with the head, doesn't it?
ANGRYTOLKIENPURIST ~ Yes, the elves do eat meat, but that isn't the point. The point of the poachers is that they are stealing meat which, by rights, belongs to the elves of Mirkwood. Say you had a warren of rabbits living in your back garden. If somebody kept stealing them, you wouldn't be very happy about that at all, would you?
AMLEE ~ Thank you so much ^^. I've finally got back, but it wasn't very soon
COOLIO02 ~ As I said to Allyrien, Thranduil is very rarely happy if something is happening that he didn't plan.