Look Who\'s Talking Now?

On this fair evening in early May, the air is mild and sun long gone, though the sky is pale lavender still, not having deepend into full night just yet. Up in one of the trees that overlooks the road, a girl is sitting on a thick, sturdy branch, looking rather at home there. The petite, russet-haired creature has something in her hands: an instrument that could once have been a lute. It\'s rather banged up, however, and has seen better days. In fact, when Lark begins to pluck the notes, the strings produce an off key twang so horrible that even she winces. And yet, she sings herself a song there.

Far off in the woods, stirring and stretching as day ends and night comes on, Oliver perks an ear at the sound of the lute. What, he seems to be asking himself, is this? It has something that reminds him of elves - horrible creatures but something else that seems to call to his deeps. And that off-key shriek - lovely! The troll gives over his other plans for the \'day\' and heads south instead.

The girl up in the tree is a thin creature with an honest face, no more than fourteen or fifteen years old she is far from home tonight, if she has one. She continues her song, plucking away at the lute strings that are long out of tune. The sound vibrates and carries far through the woods. Her voice carries as well, though not as loudly, light and fair, as though she hasn\'t any idea of the danger which is now heading towards her.

Which danger is crunching and cracking southwards at a good rate and wouldn\'t recognize (or understand) an honest face if one was shoved in his. The tree perhaps quivers a little now, as the ground trembles under Oliver\'s coming.

The subtle shaking of her sturdy pine tree is enough to make Lark halt her singing, and still the lute strings with a hand hastily clapped over them, hard. She hugs the tree, unwilling to abandon it, as it makes a very convenient vantage point from which to search for whatever is coming. \"An army, here?\" Lark whispers to herself, sucking in her breath as she looks for the sight of hundreds of marching feet.

The ground is still for a moment, as Oliver stops as well, cupping one mammoth hand to his ear, and frowning in puzzlement. Where has the sound gone? He turns in a great circle, listening.... nothing. Then with a massive shrug - when in doubt continue on as before! - he lumbers onwards, bursting from the trees into the road just beneath the limb that Lark is sitting on. And here he pauses again, turning in the same circle, lifting his head to sniff the air, listening with all his might and main.

Lark almost falls from her tree when the troll bursts onto the road so unexpectedly! She loses her grip with one hand, arm swinging wildly, before she regains control and sits more firmly on the branch. However, in the process, the lute takes another dive (not its first, or last, from this girl\'s careless hands). The twanging of horrible notes is the lute\'s way of protesting its mistreatment, now lying by the base of the tree.

An eager light flickers in Oliver\'s deep-set eyes as the voice comes again - and so near! But then it is silent again. He turns in a second circle, barely missing treading on the lute, staring into shadows and bushes. Finally, he calls out, his own voice made as sweet as can possibly be (for a troll), \"Where is yers?\" Something - a flicker of motion? - lifts his eyes to Lark\'s perch and he steps closer, squinting up at her.

Honesty is always best, isn\'t it? Pulse racing, Lark tries to think her way out of her situation. \"Over here!\" She calls sweetly back, using her talent of throwing her voice to make it seem as though she is on the ground. After all, he\'s staring above her does he even know where she is?

The troll remains staring up into the tree for a few minutes longer, then removes his gaze to the ground, looking rather more puzzled. He\'d just scanned the ground, quite thoroughly, he was sure, and seen no one at all. But then he spies the lute, and leans over to pick it up. The strings jangle again under his rough fingers, and Oliver freezes, gaping at the little instrument in his hand. \"Yer... is awful little,\" he says finally, doubtfully.

Lark\'s grey eyes nearly pop out of her head as she stares in disbelief! It worked! She tilts her head does he think she is...the lute? \"Someone put a curse on me,\" she says, throwing her voice again. Her youth makes it easy for her to call out in a tiny, piteous voice. \"I need your help.\"

Oliver starts as the tiny creature in his hand speaks, almost dropping it, and inadvertantly dragging his thumb across the strings. \"Curse?\" he repeats, befuddlement clear in his face and voice. And almost without thinking, he lifts the lute to his mouth and gives it an experimental bite. There is a small amount of crunching and he pulls it hurriedly out again - wood is NOT his favorite chew-toy. And Lark\'s lute, still mostly intact, now bears a semi-circle of indents on its edge.

\"Oooooooooh!\" Lark has the lute call from the ground, digging her nails hard into her palms to make the noise more realistic and pain-filled. \"Why do you wound me?\" Lark throws her voice again. \"I-I only want your help! In breaking the curse! So that I can once more become a round, plump little boy!\"

\"Mens?\" Oliver asks, uncertainly. He lifts the lute to his face, holding it several inches from his eyes, and nearly goes cross-eyed staring at it. \"Yer is not mens,\" he decides finally, and it is hard to tell if he is disappointed by this or not.

\"I used to be! Do you call me a liar?\" The lute gasps, voice rising on this last part. \"I was a boy! A shepherd!\" A few of the strings make a pitiful noise as Ollie examines the lute. \"Will you help me?\" Lark asks again.

Help. Shepherd. Sheeps... Oliver ponders gravely, silent and still while slow stony thoughts edge through his mind. A glint shines in his small black eyes momentarily, and then is gone - vanishing with the starlight as a cloud flees overhead. \"Helps?\" he queries, turning the lute over several times, then lifting it and shaking it.

\"Yes, help me!\" The lute cries. \"Take me to water! A river, a stream! Any water will do!\" Lark closes her eyes, trying to remember if there is water nearby, or if the troll will have to travel far from the tree to get to it. \"Hurry now, so I can get back to my sheep!\" Lark adds, opening her eyes to keep her watchful gaze on troll and lute. So much for her instrument and entertainment..

Oliver shudders all over his huge body, his face screwing up into a grimace of distaste. \"No waters,\" he says obdurately. \"Hates waters.\"

\"You don\'t go in the water!\" The lute tells more firmly. \"You throw me into it! You can throw, can\'t you?\" The lute is getting very impatient, as Lark is getting increasingly nervous and weary.

Oliver nods dubiously. \"Ollie throws,\" he says slowly, and pulls his arm back to demonstrate, hurling the lute into the trees to the north of the road. Then he stands there proudly, lifting his chin. \"Ollie throws good!\" he tells the now-absent instrument.

It\'s a stretch to attempt to throw her voice in the direction of the lute now that it\'s gone sailing away to the north, but Lark attempts it. \"Come find me!\" She cries, the sound fading in time with the lute\'s journey away from this spot.

And as Oliver stand there, consternation spreads across his face. He looks down at his two empty hands. It is gone! For another minute, he doesn\'t move but when he does it is with his best lumbering speed. The escaped Sheeper must be found and caught!

Up in the tree, Lark breathes a sigh of relief. Never had she known how her penchant for dramatics and funny voices might be of some...use! She slumps against the pine\'s trunk for only a moment, though, before she scrambles down the branches. The girl is eager to get her feet on solid ground again, heading any which way but that of the troll and her lost lute.