[center][h1]Ofnir[/h1][/center]

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Having nodded to Vamyr in agreement with his idea to secure the rear and taking a look around himself to make sure everyone was holding together and that no one lurked on either side of the creek -- the precaution he was sure Calariel had been on long before his elderly reflexes allowed him -- Ofnir pointed his staff towards the stranger, calming his horse with the other hand and then drawing the sword. He spoke in a cold voice that seemed to come from that wintery country they found themselves in: [color=0072bc]”You've heard him!”[/color] he meant Vamyr. [color=0072bc]”Take off your helmet, if you wish to stay alive, and show yourself!”[/color]

It was no ghoul nor spawn of Mordor, he knew, seeing his sword which gave no glow as to indicate a servant of the Eye. But sometimes Children of Ilúvatar carry more darkness than those whom the Enemy had wrought into being, and caution was necessary, especially in such a distant, ruthless land. A cold northern breeze brought the smell of deathless hills. [color=0072bc] ”Quickly! Off with the helmet!” [/color]