Tired and spent, his leathers smelling of old sweat and blood protest against his weary legs as he trudges up the steep slope that leads to his house. Carrying his bow in his hand he leads his old weathered, but well loved horse to the side of the lonely cottage that stands almost precariously on the bluff that holds its foundation. Twin statues of king Gil Gilad proudly defy the elements and the wrongs of the world, or that is what Zarg's poetic mind would like you to believe, as they guard his residence. This is his house, he thinks. Standing a few steps back he looks at the place that he has been calling home for the last few months. A red tiled roof, now dark grey in the light of the stars, arches upwards to reveal the mountains at the back of he sturdy, quaint brick building.
Zargodon looks at his old horse, an ache pierces his heart yet again as it was doing for so many times the last few weeks, "Leaf, go sleep now, my proud steed, and no don't worry, we won't be going back to Eregion for a few days still" he comforts his beloved companion in the age old tongue of the Sindar, as he walks towards the dark brown and somewhat worn, familiar door of his house. The groves, black and inky in the dark of the night, reminded him of a time long ago in his childhood, when he was alone in the chasms of the Blue Mountains, to the West of Celondim.
Dark thoughts has been clouding his mind for quite some time now. Ever since he learned about the threat that the Witch King of Angmar might still be alive, he has been looking into the rumours of the Hill-Trolls that has been sighted in he north of the Trollshaws. Although there has been little knowledge of their return and he as only seen a few singular ones roaming the lands. But he's still scared that it signals something that might be likened to what happened in the War of the Ring.
The door squeaks loudly on its hinges as he pushes it open and feels around in one of his pouches that he carries around his sturdy brown leather belt for a flint and steel. The darkness of the room imposes strongly on him, like a blanket of despair it settles. With the third try he manages to strike a spark to the tinder that lies in the stone fireplace.
His eyes stare vacantly in front of him, the light of the fire flickers across the wall around him, sending the shadows dancing on his back on the rug that Beongarn still gave him. No longer able to force his thoughts away he starts to think of Iolanthryth and his knights, the proud Knights of Eriador. Of their leader and how he'll miss her. Her strong voiced opinions and somewhat distrustful nature.
He smiles to himself as he thinks back at that first night that he came to the village. The guards escorting him, against his strongly willed protest, to the Halls of his knights. He was sent to Bree to represent his people in the West, in this, what some has been fearing, might be another war against the forces of the Dark Enemy. That and to learn more about the plans of Man to stand against them, to form another allegiance.
For today he has lost a friend and a dear friend at that, a leader, a person that he looked up too. Despite his dour mood he smiles to himself remembering that rare occurrence that she actually blushed. It was him and Deredan and Edme that witnessed that beauty in her, that woman that so seldom comes out.. and then. There's Edme and...
Standing up he rather goes for a walk, there's something in his eye.
