Without first looking, Nardol (wisely) leapt to his right to evade the onslaught of the maddened steed. He crashed through a ragged shrub and tumbled into a depression filled with brambles. As best he could, he rolled to his feet but his cloak caught on the thorns requiring him to wrench it loose without regard to the damage which the woody spears might do.
Tattered and with his cloak still partially tangled in the underbrush, Nardol stood with sword at ready looking up towards the Greenway.
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Beleriand, Beleriand,
the borders of the Elven-land.
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