The noon sun was straying towards the ground again by the time all assembled in the camp and readied themselves for the nect part of the great journey that lay hid ahead.
Ferethor broke off a dry branch for lack of anything else to do. Dead beechen leaves showered down from the stick as Ferethor cast it afar into the forest with a flick of his wrist. The shoulder seemed decently mended, at least enough to move it with ease, and it amazed him that it should heal so quickly when last time he recieved an arrow he wandered long in the threshold of death.
"By the Valarukar!" Ferethor swore softly when he felt for his blade and found it not. "Damn the fate, I've left it at the scene of battle. No use going back for it now... No use..." He was not a person who tarried with trifles.
Maen slung himself over her steed Hittai who persisted in jumping about like a pony, crying, "We ride now." A shadow passed over Ferethor's expression at that, as Maen had used the word 'ride' and he was not sure he could keep up with the company on foot in this status. But he shrugged nonechalantly as he knelt to check his bootlaces before leaving. Let tomorrow remain tomorrow!
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