Dûrvagor, his mouth slightly open in surprise, listened as Aravir and Sorlas told the group the opportune fate of the horses.
“There is one thing I will say,” the rangers turned towards him. “It sure wasn’t Pernolë leading. It probably took a great deal of ninnies and neighs to convince him that the orcs were not trying to kill them.” Eyes were rolled in exasperation. “But,” Dûrvagor continued, “why would the horses go all the way back home. Wouldn’t they just wait somewhere for us to find them?”
Sorlas shook his head, “I’d bet that the orcs chased them far enough so that they would have no other choice but to go home.” Dûrvagor shrugged, still confused, and they picked up what little things they had, following Islist from camp.
Luckily, Dûrvagor still had a few things. He had his sword, and pack that held his cloak for damper, cooler weathers, gloves, and some dried fruit and nuts. Missing were his clothes and a book of herb lore he kept with him. Adjusting his shoulders and sighing at the slight misfortune of walking, he followed, keeping up with the group.
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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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