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Angóre sat alone in the snow, unheeding of any and all Men and Elves. He felt his body, bruised and battered from his battle with the Trolls, growing colder, yet he made no effort to move. Two of his short spears had been shivered as well, leaving him only one. It and his blade were lying by his side as he stared out over the snow-covered fields, straining his far-seeing eyes. He was hoping for a glimpse of something, of what he didn't know, but he wasn't finding it. The light of the moon and stars was cold and pitiless. He sighed, pulling his knees to his chest, noting that his left knee wasn't moving properly.
It had been a day since the battle in the tunnels, and, despite his fearlessness in said battle, Angóre hadn't even approached the lady Erenor yet. He didn't know if she even remembered what she had said, or if she knew how strongly it had affected him. All he knew was that, of a sudden, he wasn't who he thought he was anymore, and it frightened him. He'd stayed quiet, keeping to the rear of the train, ostensibly to guard against attack but in reality looking to stay as far from the reminder of his former life as possible. He'd taken solace in his duties, at least those that let him keep distance between himself and his charge. But now he'd run out of things to keep himself busy, and was feeling himself on the brink of a long, dark slide, to where he did not know.
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