[Novnarwen]

Ingemar had watched the Gondorian soldiers ride with their proud horses away from the camp, only to return shortly after. He had looked at them with admiration, not because they looked valiant, but because of the splendour of their silvery armour, which shone splendidly. Now, as they had come back, the man from Dale was rather curious about what they had been up to for the last half an hour. Giggling slightly, he rose from his seat around the little fire they had lit and wandered over to where the soldiers stood, ready to enter the lieutenant’s tent. He gazed at them, more thrilled at seeing their armours at close hand. He stretched out his hand to touch it. It felt cold; it reminded him of snow. This material seemed to be much harder though than snow, which melted in one’s hand. His eyes lit with joy; a broad smiled passed his lips.

"Get away from me!" Ingemar who had only been getting nearer and nearer the soldier, who was wearing the armour, touching it with both of his hands, drew them back instantly. The soldier gave him and odd look, snorted with annoyance and left the poor fellow, who stood stricken and stiff as a tree trunk. Ingemar didn’t understand. He cast long glances after the man, who disappeared when entering the lieutenant’s tent. With eyes wide open, still curious, Ingemar followed. The poor man’s adventurous nature seemed to have taken over. The sudden, strong need to explore things, which only really occur when being a child, filled him with excitement.

He found himself standing as if glued to the tent’s surface, which was made of soft fabrics. With his ear closely attached to it, he could hear the sound of voices from within. The feeling of doing something ‘illegal’, doing something which would not be supported by his dear sister Norna if she ever found out, made his skin prickle and he giggled joyously.

“We are here to destroy the orcs, and destroy them we shall. The alliance was only a ruse, as both the King and I knew they would not accept. Tomorrow, we assault their fortress.” Ingemar heard one of them say.

Assault? he wondered, frowning. What did it mean? What exactly were they doing? Assault? Assault… He thought for a while, and concluded that it was at least a very nice word. He tried saying it out loud:” Assssauplt.” He shook his head furiously, irritated. Perhaps it would be better if he said it if wearing one of those silvery hard tunics he had seen just earlier.

Leaving the lieutenant’s tent, he started his search for an armour; he did not know however, what the purpose an armour served. Yet, he thought that its sparkling colour had been so amazingly beautiful, that he had difficulties thinking of anything else. With piercing green-grey eyes, he sought for it, careful not to reveal himself where he sneaked in the shadows; he knew he had done something wrong, or at least, he thought so.

A few minutes had passed before he finally succeeded. He ran towards it, grasping it with both of his hands. It was heavier than he had thought, but more beautiful than the other he had seen earlier. Looking at it for a few moments, he felt his cheeks going red. He put the armour on, slightly confused about the weight; he was about to tip over, but with great effort, he managed to stand on his feet. "Tomorrow, asssauplat," he muttered silently to himself. He sniggered, feeling the wind rush against his face. It was a wonderful feeling; the armour was heavy, but due to its beauty and this odd form of happiness he felt, he was overly convinced that he was light as a feather.

"Asssault! Assault! Asssault!! ASSAULT!!!" he called out in mere happiness. His voice echoed in the still and pleasant winter night.

Suddenly, without warning, a dozen men came running towards him. The lieutenant’s tent was hurriedly emptied. "Grab your weapons!" a voice cried out. The camp had broken out into a big commotion . . .