[Kransha]

What had been called at first a ‘dinner’ had deteriorated to the point that the word could no longer be used without the elicitation of a skeptic guffaw. Idruil, along with a number of the companions, seemed mostly unaffected when Roryn’s precise arrow found its mark in the skull of murderous Arridan. Of course, Crystal was affected, and Atharen seemed about ready to come to her aid in consolation, but time continued to fly at the speed of the Maeras, whisked by as cyclonic winds would whip through calm air. Maen materialized, having battled and slain a more homicidal Arriten, and bid all of the comradeship evacuate the manor and proceed to the last leg of their journey.

Idruil, like all the others, did not hesitate to rush to his steed outside. Ecthelion seemed to be prancing about and braying in variable anticipation, so Idruil was forced to be more blunt as he leapt into the sadly, groped madly for the reins, and gave his loyal steed more incentive to go speedily than he had ever done before, jabbing the animal sharply in the sunken haunches and leaning back involuntarily as the press of the wind and the ferocious velocity of Ecthelion, raging in two opposite directions, carried the steed forward and the rider back, leaving a trail of dusty plumes behind them in the dirt. The others were soon enough either behind or ahead, their speeds fluctuating wildly as his own was, but, to his discredit, the man of Minas Tirith paid the others no heed, as he and his glorified mound stamped and stomped their way over the oft-trodden paths after Maen Il Galoth.

Idruil, who had prided himself on being able to tail Maen adequately, found the fiery maiden far ahead by much. This did not deter him and he raced onward. He began surpassing most, considering many were preoccupied. Atharen was busy assisting Crystal, not yet fully recovered from the blatant shock of being attacked, Aelimur had taken a lengthy but somehow abrupt moment to saddle Maen’s steed, Hittai, and Roryn, one of the only others who was unoccupied, was not too far behind Idruil’s galloping speed. Idruil could barely see the steed of Lady Il Galoth as its silhouette, plastered against the darkening sky, shriveled into nothing on the forested horizon. Carathir was, in turn, not far behind her, which was to be expected, and Idruil nodded in understanding as he pulled himself miserable forward into the bouncing saddle, trying to keep steady.

But, there was but one thing amiss. As Idruil’s bereft head managed to swivel, he heard a rushing sound that resembled the whistling of an icy wind. As he cocked his cranium to one side, he saw the first unexpected thing. Ferethor! Ferethor and his steed had actually picked up incredible speed and breezed without a care past Idruil and Roryn. The horse’s hooves trampled over the earth, the vessel of the mount and mounted shooting after Maen at an unbelievable rate. This was not like Ferethor, not like him at all. He knew that the same bonds of inner companionship existed within him as they did with all others, but Ferethor’s passing gaze read as if the man was required to reach Maen before any others as he raced, with stunning resolve, after Hittai. This level of genuine concern had not been evident in the man before and Idruil could not calculate the sudden burst of energy. Prodding his steed faster, his own concern for the future beginning to swell within him, he turned the opposite way as Roryn’s horse closed the distance between them.

“Roryn,” he called across the seeming gorge between each steed and man, his voice barely carrying over the incessant drumbeat of horses’ hooves upon earth, “Something is wrong here. We must move faster!”