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« on: December 17, 2010, 05:00:53 pm »
My goodness. That's just too comical. I can see it now.
The snatcher has almost reached his prize. The young dwarf is oblivious, as are the rest of its bearded kin. He's been too careful to let this go now. The tower will sing of his capture over mulled cider this evening. He can already taste it.
He readies his bag beneath his cloak, and reaches out, slowly at first, but anticipation forces his hand. He lunges!
"Oooh, pwat'num!"
Just as the snatcher's hand would close on the dwarflet's mouth, it instead claws at empty air as its target now searches the ground for the shiny pebble that had caught its eye. The snatcher cannot stop himself now; momentum has him in its own grasp, It seems to happen in slow motion, the child on the ground, the bag empty in the snatcher's hand, the wall coming to meet his face. Failure settles in his cheek as a dull ache, and a low groan escapes his fanged mouth.
Suddenly, the child shrieks! The goblin's utterance was heard, and his cover blown! He looks for an escape, only to find every possible avenue blocked by angry dwarves in chainmail, hefting axes and maces. Two words fall through the snatcher's lips before the militia descend upon him, gibberish to any dwarf.
"Mulled cider..."