A Game, Afoot

With patience born of a singleness of purpose unusual in a lad his age, he had waited all afternoon, undetected.

Until that patience was rewarded.

Alone, then by twos and threes, his quarry began to assemble. Still he waited, until after some milling about they settled into trustful unwariness.

He chose a likely target, appreciating its soft, even brown, and struck!

There was a cry of surprise and pain, bodies scrambling, wood clattering, then the quarry with unexpected strength pulled him howling into the full glare of the pack.

Softly, their leader growled: “My lords - my son and heir: Boromir.”