Tarannon grabbed a mug and shouted for a toast. After three hearty cheers had been given for the Lord Elessar and for Islist, he drank deeply and set his mug on a vacant stump. Striding over to his campsite, he unpacked his horse and set his things aside to wait until nightfall.
Tarannon wandered over to Bramen's tent and ducked inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. He saw his friend sitting in the corner, diligently polishing an arrow shaft. Tarannon watched the work progress, gaining new appreciation for his friend's work. Though he had made his own arrows for many years, they were nowhere near as fine as this. Bramen paused once to look up questioningly at Tarannon, who merely shrugged. Talking was not his favorite pastime. He watched for several minutes more before, overcome with restlessness, he moved outside.
Struggling to stay his impatience, Tarannon glanced up at the clouds. Storm brewing, he thought. He could not keep from wishing the sun to sink; for darkness to come. He paced around the edge of the camp. Finally he stood still, staring into the fire. This lasted for only seconds, and then he was off again. He moved back to Bramen's tent, hoping his friend could calm him.
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