Tingham
In Cryo Sleep
This is part 4. Its short, as a sort of tester for whats to come. Ill do more this week. Its been much requested.
===================================================
As the hobbits slept, they were sadly unaware that dark, perverted and mysterious forces were afoot.
Masia put down the binoculars, he had a strange, pleased, satisfied grimace on his face that unsettled Woogle – the Death Knight formerly known as Peterson
“Look at the tits on that” he said.
Woogle was unimpressed. He took a look through the binoculars himself.
“That's a Squirrel” he said. He was indeed correct, that was a squirrel. However, there was something unusual about the squirrel. Woogle looked again.
“Its a tartan squirrel” he said, and with that, they went on their way. Their goal, and they knew it well, was to get into Crossroads, ambush the hobbit in their bed, and have their way as they saw fit.
Unbeknownst to them, however, the Tartan Squirrel slowly rose out of the woods. Underneath the squirrel there was a man. His ginger hair came down almost to his ears, his modesty was spared only by a haggis strung tentatively, teasingly, between his legs. He spat out a bushy tail. The squirrel landed on the ground with a soft thump.
“Och aye, for fecks sake, the noo. Fecking hobbits, fecking crossroads. Will'ya look at thi' laddie! Tha wee beastie was fecking COLD on ma head!”
He ran, taking cover from house to house, his haggis flapping in the wind. As he entered the inn, he grabbed the first piece of cloth he found, wrapped it around him and settled into a corner. He took the squirrel out of his pocket, wrung one end out over the fire and lit it.
The Hobbits sat down. Titan was sent to the bar to bring three flagons of ale, plus a rosé spritzer for Bradley. They sat and took a draught, apart from Bradley, who took a gentle sip as befits a man of his nature. The ignored the man in the corner, smoking a squirrel, with a dirty dishcloth wrapped around his haggis.
===================================================
As the hobbits slept, they were sadly unaware that dark, perverted and mysterious forces were afoot.
Masia put down the binoculars, he had a strange, pleased, satisfied grimace on his face that unsettled Woogle – the Death Knight formerly known as Peterson
“Look at the tits on that” he said.
Woogle was unimpressed. He took a look through the binoculars himself.
“That's a Squirrel” he said. He was indeed correct, that was a squirrel. However, there was something unusual about the squirrel. Woogle looked again.
“Its a tartan squirrel” he said, and with that, they went on their way. Their goal, and they knew it well, was to get into Crossroads, ambush the hobbit in their bed, and have their way as they saw fit.
Unbeknownst to them, however, the Tartan Squirrel slowly rose out of the woods. Underneath the squirrel there was a man. His ginger hair came down almost to his ears, his modesty was spared only by a haggis strung tentatively, teasingly, between his legs. He spat out a bushy tail. The squirrel landed on the ground with a soft thump.
“Och aye, for fecks sake, the noo. Fecking hobbits, fecking crossroads. Will'ya look at thi' laddie! Tha wee beastie was fecking COLD on ma head!”
He ran, taking cover from house to house, his haggis flapping in the wind. As he entered the inn, he grabbed the first piece of cloth he found, wrapped it around him and settled into a corner. He took the squirrel out of his pocket, wrung one end out over the fire and lit it.
The Hobbits sat down. Titan was sent to the bar to bring three flagons of ale, plus a rosé spritzer for Bradley. They sat and took a draught, apart from Bradley, who took a gentle sip as befits a man of his nature. The ignored the man in the corner, smoking a squirrel, with a dirty dishcloth wrapped around his haggis.
