“Well,” said Dûrvagor, tying his blanket the bottom of his pack. “Guess we go find them eh? No use moping around thinking about it. What’s a small trek in the woods?” Islist shook his head and glanced in the direction their mounts had retreated.
Dûrvagor spoke again, “Pernolë’s not much of a horse, I’ll admit, but he’s the only horse I got and I’d kinda like ‘im back." No one said anything. "Well Islist?” Taking orders from a twenty-three year old was starting to wear on Dûrvagor. But after all, he was Grod’s son, and Dûrvagor respected his father, so the ranger waited for what Islist had to say.
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"They call this war a cloud over the land. But they made the weather and then they stand in the rain and say, 'Sh*t, it's raining!'" -- Ruby, Cold Mountain
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