Tales of a Nervous Man.
This tale of mine tells the tale of Ceorl scout of the Rohan. Cheers, Boris.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
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Part 1 - 'Thoughts'
Ceorl sat watching the flames twist and turn as they sought the darkness above. The soft whisper of the wind tickled at his face as he thought about his life, as he often did when he found himself alone out in the vast lands of the Rohan. He thought about his days as a wee lad and the day his parents had decided to leave him out in the wildness for they had always thought the small nervous child had been possessed by the Dark One himself. Ceorl had a gift or a curse depending on who you asked, he remembered everything he saw and was able to replicate it perfectly. Seeing a wolf stalk through the forest he was able to follow seeing how it moved without making a sound, and soon after he could flit from shadow to shadow without a sound. He could watch a sword master fight and then take up the blade; he would here a song once and is able to sing it back, if off key. Ceorl could speak different languages but did not know what he said. He sometimes wondered if it was a gift or a curse as the flames flickered and sputtered casting his face in different shades.
The day his parents grew tried of his odd behaviours sat vividly in his mind as he watched the fire, the clouds had raced that day across the blue of the heavens. The sun had warmed his skinny frame as he’d watched a bear run from a wild swarm of bees it had just stolen honey from, its shaggy brown form ambling away quickly as the storm of bees gave chase. Ceorl had taken a liking to the way the bear had moved and had decided to run back home and show his Ma and Pa how the bear had run. His Pa had been chopping wood for most of the morning, sweat ran from his tall lanky form and his mood was foul from the hard labour. Standing straight he’d spotted his son running toward him, his small frame moving in an unnatural way. Swearing and calling for Ma he moved toward his only son, axe still in his hands, he muttered about the Dark One and his evil eye causing so much grief for his family. Ceorl had run straight for his father, even managing to drool like the bear did, snarling and grunting as the bear had. His game had come to a sudden stop when the flat of the axe blade smashed into the side of his head, his Pa standing over him panting and muttering. He never did know if his Pa felt bad for what he’d done, leaving his only son out in the wilds of Rohan, but he had a feeling in his gut that his Pa was happy to see his strange son left for dead.
Ceorl spat into the fire, watching the spittle hiss and bubble for a few brief moments before rolling over and trying to sleep. With the soft hiss of the wind and the crackle of the fire in his ears Ceorl drifted to sleep, his last thought was of tomorrow’s task, for the new day would see him scouting the boarders of Isengard. Rumblings, rumours and tales spread all pointed towards war.
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
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Part 2 - ‘Ambush’
With the sky cast in gold Ceorl moved north towards the boarder of Isengard. Off in the haze of the day sat Foldburg. From the town he was to meet up with a party of twelve men who would accompany him on his scouting mission, the small nervous man did not relish the idea of being in the company of the loud burly warriors he was to meet up with, but he would do his duty. He made good time as he moved towards the rendezvous point, with the wind at his back and the sun warming his front the jittery man came upon the area he was to wait at. As the grass swayed with the now stiff breeze Ceorl looked around the shallow dip in the land. Grey boulders thick with moss littered the ground, the shadows from the stones slowly stretching along the ground as he waited. The sun slowly sunk towards the horizon as the day wore on and as the day cooled concern started to tickle the back of his mind. Checking that his two long knives were within easy reach he grabbed his pack and moved out in search of the missing men.
Darkness came and on the wind came the whispers that something was wrong. His eyes trying to watch every direction Cerol found the first of the men. His large mail clad form lay face down I in the grass. Dropping his pack he moved towards the prone man. After what seemed a life time he reached the fallen warrior giving the man a quick nudge with his foot and then jumping back. Nothing, Ceorl thought as an uneasy feeling crawled across his skin. With a sigh he grabbed the man and rolled him over. Where the man’s throat had once been sat a bloodied mess with the rest of his face covered in deep puncture wounds, with a quiet curse Ceorl jumped back from the corpse. Ceorl quickly found the tracks and from what he could tell some large beast had chased the unfortunate man down. As the sun blazed down and the wind played with his clothing Ceorl set out in search of the other men and soon after he discovered their fate.
Trampled grass, broken bodies and the stench of emptied bowels greeted him like slap in the face. And in the churned and crushed ground he found what he’d dreaded. Warg’s had slain these men, with a slight shudder Ceorl continued to look around. As he gingerly stepped around the fallen men he figured they were ambushed by a much larger force. He could picture the short brutal battle as the Warg’s and their foul riders swooped down on the hapless men. Circling the scene of the melee he found the direction the Warg’s had ridden off in and decided to follow the tracks, with a queasy feeling he set out.
As night laid claim to the land he crested a hill, his watery eyes wide he spotted the beginning of the end. Thousands of torches flickered in the dusk as Isengard marched on Foldburg. With one more glance back Ceorl turned and ran back towards Foldburg to warn of the impending attack.
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Originally Posted by The Holy Pilgrim
Same I would have made for the hills. Thanks for reading friend your ongoing support is always welcome.
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