The two men worked quickly on the arrows. There were fifteen of the black feathered shafts with the sharp, barbed metal tips, each having to be dipped three times in the thick, oily substance and allowed to dry between coatings. Once done, Tenzin corked the small crock securely, taking care not to get any of the substance on his fingers, then secured the cork with leather lashings, and placed the crock safely back in its wrappings and into his pack.
‘Take your salve round once again, Tenzin. Some did not use it the first time, and they will need it if we are to push on. Have them see to their feet, and put some on the cuts I see bleeding through the backs of their shirts. We will need to travel swiftly, and they cannot be held back by pain.’ He looked toward the group which sat a distance away, noting that Turos sat quietly on the edges.
‘Ask the man, Turos, to come to me. I would speak with him.’
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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