Peregrine Took is no
good at sneaking. Maybe it's the big fuzzy feet, or maybe it's the
worried little sniffles between attempts to hold his breath. Either
way, Boromir keeps scrounging for kindling under the sad icy scraps
of old snow, offering Pippin the small mercy of choice in whether to
speak of whatever has him so much on edge, or simply to slip away and
pretend he's stayed in camp with the rest of the party.
The not-quite-silence
stretches. His own boots scuff on the rocks as he crouches to gather
another bundle of moss and furze and offer a brief,equally arid
thought of thanks to whatever powers might be that the mountainside
hasn't thawed in a very long time. A leathery sound tells him
Pippin's doing the nervous-foot-scuff thing.
