Their mask, grotesque in their strange swirl of colored madness, hides a heart that seems more akin to the mask's ominous hideousness than would have been able to fit on any normal man. Now for the second time he's faced with this chaotic presence that looms in front of him. The eyes of the masks, evil slits that glares back, causes once more the pure hatred that he harbors inside his Elven heart to surge. Another man, with the same apprehensive appearance as that in front, looks at him with the same uncalculated menace. You can even see the careless disregard of life in their eyes.These men would kill him with out any remorse. Of that he is certain. .
They robbed him just a few days ago, he laughs inwardly, mocking his own stupidity at being yet again at the other end of three pointing blades. If they would only dare that in the forest while his hunting, he smirks just thinking of it. But now, now in the position, he would be stupid to take them on while they got him by surprise. Never again, he swears to him self, would this happen. Never would he even for a second let his guard down in this town of Men.
Standing just behind the four horses that's stabled there, just a short way under the high roof that spans between the Pony and the building next to it. The night dark, but under the roof, where no torches burned, makes it even difficult for him, an Elda, to see. Behind him an old wooden cart, only a shadow between the grays that floods the passage, stands there dormant, another witness to this act of treachery. Treachery to all that Zarg stands for.
He's been noticing everyday the strange glances, the covert flicks of the eye and the out right open glares of these people in Bree. Not that he expects any better, they will never understand him, nor his people. If it wasn't for his duty to his order he wouldn't have stayed in this town, never come here at all. But then, he has made a number of friends here. Made acquaintances among these folk. And they do amaze him with their acts of bravery and, stupidity, to be honest. He does delight in their stories, their tales of slaying of fighting and, well, sometimes plunder, as well.
Although he visit Imladris every time he goes to scout the Trollshaws he still feels home sick for his peoples comfort, being able to just sit for a while to enjoy the pure flow of the music that springs, almost magically from their harps. He still misses their voices that sings to the heavens, to mimicking the song of creation it self, their words that flows over his undying soul, caressing his spirit. He still feel the call of he sea. But there's no time to dwell on theses trivial matters when there's thirsty blades at his throat.
