Aieeeeeeeeeee!
A grey forest rat hath swallowed my heart!
My thighs have been scratched by a poisonous thorn!
Aieeeeeeeeeee!”
As the last quiver of the wail blended with the anthem of the forest came from a figure squatted above the ford of the river, his spear a blue flame in the moonlight, an answer:
“My love hath been taken by a greater than I!
Her flesh will be tasted by a hungrier mouth!
Her flesh which is sweeter than honey and wine!
Her flesh which is softer than a newly born kid!
Ough! My spear is bent!