[Kransha]

Idruil nodded, almost sleepily in the saddle, even though the animal he rode atop was shooting forward. He passed Aelimur and Ferethor, who were speaking in an oddly conspiratorial manner behind, but he paid them no heed, knowing of Ferethor’s nature. He whipped Ecthelion coolly around the recently dubbed steed, Sacriheart, belonging to Atharen and his horse’s guest, Miss Crystal. He smiled warmly at his established companion and his female friend, who gripped the ranger comfortably as that same horse that bore them both bucked freely and wildly, a tricky maneuver by any equine creature that would’ve dislodged many riders.

The man of Minas Tirith pulled his horse along, swiftly kicking it after Maen. He seemed to be the only one trying to catch and match the rollicking velocity of Lady Il Galoth, but Roryn was closing to. A slight twinge of adrenaline pulsed nimbly in the two arms of Idruil’s that gripped his reins carefully. Sharply but easily, Idruil let his booted heels pounce on Ecthelion’s heels and send him shooting upward and forward soon after.

It was an odd enough feeling, one that had not been felt by Idruil in ages. Somehow he knew that the same energetic rush was present in Roryn, and too in Atharen and Crystal nearby. Delicately, he sped up his steed. As if on cue, Roryn did the same. Idruil began to lose track of what he was doing in the first place as the sound of horses’ hooves kicking up grass and dirt and the wind pushing against him welled up and beat like a drum in his ears as he sped along, Roryn smiling back at him from his unwieldy position and pushing his steed along, the two men of often stern nature found themselves veering along through Jacobe’s Field, and were soon joined by the two not far off, Atharen goading Sacriheart into a full, gallivanting gallop as the three horses closed the distance between them and Maen at an overwhelming speed. Only Ferethor and Aelimur, still mumbling inaudibly, and Carathir, who cantered along carelessly behind, where not participating in this makeshift race to the village. His grin widening, Idruil actually laughed as he looked at the other warriors and cohorts losing sight of their mission until the sight of it began to fill up their gaze before them.

There were some houses visible, vague silhouettes plastered against the horizon. Thatched roofs, mangled in their rustic nature, began to dot the apparent skyline not far off. It looked peaceful enough. No looming towers and pinnacles erect in shimmering marble, no rigid intricacies of shingled rooftops brightened by hanging lamps that glowed in a phosphorous fashion, no bustling streets and mingled cacophony flooding and overflowing off of the small village, seemingly untouched by the undesirable effects of conflict. The green grass began to give way beneath Idruil’s horse, revealing dirt ground that further stemmed into the rough paths of that village, like a brown river that flowed off around them and past the small houses. It was the first place of its calming caliber that Idruil had seen in years, nay, decades. Idruil began to steady Ecthelion, pushing his heels gently into the horse’s leather-covered side and easing him into a slower pace. Maen, going at a greater speed, had to wheel her mount around chaotically to get it to halt abruptly, while the others began to slow as well, looking forward at the quant little village of Jacobe’s Run just ahead of them. Night was cresting the red distant expanse and weariness had begun to set in after that swashbuckling escapade.