There was an odd sensation coursing anew through Idruil’s veins. He felt refreshment, youthful light returning to his withered pallor as he took a moment to smile and laugh while conversing with Roryn and Atharen. For one of the first times since he fell in with such company, he felt as if he was starting to relate to others, the threadbare pieces of friendship building. It was a warm feeling that began to seep into his cold heart as he goaded the steed, Ecthelion, forward, chuckling briskly under his breath. His eyes traced the footprints indented on the ground in front of him, left by the number of steeds who led the motley procession.
He turned upward; barely catching a more consternated look on Roryn’s face before the man wheeled his own mount about expertly and spun, surveying the forest behind. Giving an acknowledging nod to Atharen, Idruil turned his own horse sluggishly in his tracks and it stamped, complaining aloud, backward as Atharen’s horse and its two riders proceeded ahead. Braying and whinnying in an irritatingly shrill tone, Ecthelion stalked beside Roryn’s steed after a sharp jab from Idruil. The man of Minas Tirith leaned forward in the saddle, looking and assessing Roryn, and spoke pensively to the other.
“Since we are on the subject, or, rather, not on the subject, perhaps now is the time for me to pose yet another question. Ever since I found myself falling in with you all, I have been intrigued, to say the least. Though there is a monetary award for all of our services to Lady Il Galoth, it seems to me that that is not the primary motive for joining this company. What, Roryn, was your motive? I know mine, of course, was no more than a bout of energetic foolishness, though I do not regret that spasm, since it seems that I will profit from it, but what was…or is, your reason for giving aid to Maen and her cause?”
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