A clear day. The sun at their backs. Yet still...there is a dampness to the day time air that has him brushing at his brow. He misses the dry heat of his home. The kind of heat that saps the very sweat from your brow even before your skin can really bare it. But here...here it is a boiling sort of warmth. And while he can not decide which is more lethal...he can decide he prefers the temperament of his homeland. If for no other reason than a prince might be very well homesick already. Though its been mere months since they departed the borders of the Brunlands.
    ViĂ° ættum aĂ° hætta fljĂłtlega. HádegisverĂ°ur er aĂ° nálgast. Og gamli maĂ°urinn sem Ă©g trĂşi gæti notaĂ° hvĂld.
The voice is his cousin and blood captain Hadar. The tone kept quiet as it is meant only for Arion’s ears. The young royal casting a look back, as though simply surveying the view from whence they’d come. The river they had been following winding far to the south, where he briefly wonders where it ends. But then a silver gaze settles on his adviser. The elder brun’s pace not what it had been that morning. Leaning heavy upon his staff (that had been a spear once in his youth). And the prince makes a rather executive decision. Turning back to his blood guard captain.Â
      “Ég trúi að þú hafir rétt, frændi. Við munum hætta fljótlega. Leyfðu okkur að snúa við beygðu à ánni. Finndu stað þar sem vatnið rennur varlega til að fylla götin okkar.”
A nod from the younger (and shorter) male, before he’s hurrying ahead to catch up with the guard at the head of their party. To help keep an eye out for an appropriate place to stop. And Arion himself falls back. Aligns his steps with Hfren’s. A hand lying to rest along the hilt of the sword at his belt.Â
      “Hadar er aĂ° leita aĂ° staĂ° til aĂ° hætta. Ég er meĂ° steina Ă stĂgvĂ©lunum mĂnum, held Ă©g.”
The old man chuckles in response, sending a stray stone tumbling with the end of his staff. A gold gaze cast upwards for a moment at his charge. He knows already it has little to do with stones in the prince’s boots, and everything to do with his own fall in pace. But he says nothing. And allows the royal this small grace, because it was how he was raised was it not? A prince among them and yet, no greater than any of them in his own mind. It is a humbleness that can not be taught.
    Eins og þú vilt, hátign ĂľĂn. ĂžaĂ° mun gefa mĂ©r tĂma til aĂ° tryggja aĂ° viĂ° förum á rĂ©ttan hátt. Konungur álfa ætti ekki aĂ° vera langt ... miĂ°aĂ° viĂ° aĂ° sjálfsögĂ°u stendur ĂľaĂ° enn sem konungur Minas Tirith lofaĂ°i.Â
A nod and nothing more to the elder’s words. His gaze tracking the road ahead. The road that he finds is missing his cousin and that of one of his other guard. And while there is a faint narrowing of his eyes, he makes no further mark of it. They must have gone ahead to ensure the way was safe.
     “Ég trúði honum. Hann virtist maður af orði hans.”
    Já, prinsinn minn. Ég myndi sama--
A sound that would be perhaps alien to other peoples of middle earth but to the prince and his guard it is a sound of warning. A mimicked cry of an injured köttur and in an instant the entirety of the afternoon shifts. The guard that are left close ranks around the prince and Hren; the ten of them moving forward as one breathing unit. Their once unguarded steps turning silent. Until they reach the bend in the river. Concealing themselves behind an outcropping of rocks, where Hadar and Jarek had hidden themselves.The prince and his captain exchanging words.
    “Hvað er það?”
A breathed curse leaves Arion’s lips in reaction, as Hadar continues.
     ÞaĂ° lĂtur Ăşt eins og Ăľeir ráðist á hjĂłlhĂ˝si. ĂžaĂ° eru stofnanir, vistir ræktaĂ°ir Ă gegnum. Ég gat ekki sĂ©Ă° meira.
     “ÞaĂ° er kannski eftirlifandi þá.” The smallest of pauses. “Allir lĂta Ăştspil?”
    Ekki það sem ég merkti.
     “ ViĂ° tökum þá þá. ViĂ° höfĂ°um ekki haldiĂ° Ăľessari lĂnu á svarta fjöllunum til aĂ° virĂ°ast þá plága annars staĂ°ar. Hren er hĂ©r meĂ° ĂľaĂ° sem ekki fæst, Jarek þú meĂ° honum. Afgangurinn af þér ... ”
Whatever he might have said it is lost their forward motion. Small giants as they are, creeping through the tall grass and rocky terrain along the river. Each of them aware of their duty. Aware of fight ahead of them. For each had held that line at the black mountains. Each had proven his medal. And there were none else a prince could wish to watch his back. And it is this that allows the royal to focus wholey upon what lay ahead of them.Â
The wide heavy hammer at his back pulled loose of it’s sling. One step...then another; and with all his weight he throws himself out from behind a bolder. The head of his weapon slamming into the chest of an orc. Sending it screaming into the dust. Another blow comes quick and clean. The ear shattering cry cut short with the bits of skull buried into the dirt. And those with him follow like a small wave. The orcs scurrying to recover, to fight back. And though it is not the longest of skirmishes, it is bloody.Â
Two of them setting upon the prince at once, in the aftermath of him felling another of their kind. A grin that etches itself in the corners of Arion’s lips. Something murmured and the hammer in his hands hums faintly. A quiet light to the edges before one becomes two, and he’s striking the ground with the pair of them. The earth about him quaking ever so much, and the orcs...turn to flee. One taken down by an arrow from ahead, while the other’s last lesson in life if the prince’s aim is as good as his arm. The orc slamming into one of the carts where he sticks for moments before sliding down to the ground with a deathly thud. Arion stepping heavily forward to retrieve the other half of his weapon from the corpse, as he shouts orders.
    “Náðu Hfren og athuga lĂkama. Ég vil ekki yfirgefa þá sem Ăľurfa aĂ°stoĂ° á bak viĂ°.”
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