Stamping.
The feet of the cohort marched on the old roads of white stone, now weathered and caked with muck and moss. A drummer monotonously pounded his instrument in a decent pace, a left-right, left-right, left-right, so the baggagetrain went along the winding way. The captain, was a man of Gondor, his shoulders were broad and his brown hair curled from beneath his scarred helmet. His eyes were grey and gleaming, his face was handsome enough to get the attention of the women in the few hovels and taverns they had passed through and on the shield he carried on his back the proud White Tree was in fine display to show the uncertain to which land this company belonged too.
Ahead on a hill amidst the wild forests of Ithilien a fortification was being prepared by the engineers, a palisade raised with a shallow pitt dug before it, soon to be filled with stakes. The captain nodded his approval, he had seen his fair share of marching the last few weeks since their last station, his men, the sixhundred or so men from all corners of the earth drafted and drilled were, so he knew, pleased to rest their wary feet just the same. He raised his arm and shouted out once they reached the soon to be gateway, and turned his head to the officer beneath his rank, "Adalbert, have the men raise the tents and have the cohort-leaders bring report to me after supper." Without further need for explanation the broad man with drooping mustache bumped his fist against his hauberk and went to carry out the order.
--
A young man amongst this mix of people had stood out, laughing loudly and patting one of his friends on the shoulder. He was young, although the lines on his face betrayed his experience to the life of the soldier, his hair was bright blonde. A great pluck of it stood straight up, like many other men of his age, his eyes were green and his face had been marred by a thick scar running over his mouth from nose to chin in a diagonal line. Laughing was had , then an older man came a veteran of many battles for sure.
"Why look at you.. the Geirdrifa, I still thought you'd be carrying around buckets of water by this time!" Laughter raised, not in the least by the young man himself that was being mocked, "Ragnvald!", the boy cried out and they clapped their hands into eachothers in a tight grip that would've crumpled iron, "I figured someone should remember these other louts that there is no messing with the men of the north, eh?", he winked. The old man greeted him with a stare, which eventually turned out to soften while a smile etched on his face, "Your father would be proud son. Good to see you again." They both watched eachother in queer understanding at that moment, as if some inner conversation followed without words, then they let eachother go and the old man went on while Geirdrifa sat with a few southrons and an eorling, "So boys, what's the bets this time?" ...
