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[The visions the Fool got from Skilling around the meltdown world really were the last straw.]
[Now he's not running for his life, he's just kind of...stopped. He's slumped under a tree, staring blankly. It's all a bit too much for him, bless him.]
[Now he's not running for his life, he's just kind of...stopped. He's slumped under a tree, staring blankly. It's all a bit too much for him, bless him.]
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[...and here's a green-fletched arrow, whizzing through the air maybe a foot from the Fool's ear to skewer said rabbit through the throat]
[It's quickly followed by a Steward of Gondor, loping through the grasslands with rabbit blood on his leg and three gutted coneys hanging from his belt. He squats down next to his freshest kill, pulling the arrow free and wiping it on his thigh, then replacing it in his quiver]
[His knife comes out, and he starts, quickly and efficiently, to gut the rabbit, not looking up]
Are you hurt?
We have a camp of sorts on the ridge, if you wish.
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