pursuit

There was a familiar sensation, as if he was standing in a storm with forked lightning overhead. Not painful, just strange. He sniffed the air and smelt wet dog. It was him who stunk. Before him stood Khahaynd, only she looked exactly like the She-Elf, her features and outfit identical in every detail. The sorceress smiled seductively and batted her eyelashes. 

Herne was an old town in a very Mannish style: a few wooden outbuildings next to run-down houses with stacked stone walls and adjoining fields, all surrounded by an abundance of oaks and larches. We approached it at a steady pace. It was late morning, Anor was bright, but the air was chill. It was a good excuse to be wrapped in our cloaks, though our bearing and stature and the noble blood of our horses possibly caused some to regard us twice.

Estarfin gave an involuntary shout, despite his efforts to conceal his discomfort. We turned, just in time to see him lowering himself into the cold lake. I had not known until very recently of his strong dislike of cold weather and cold water. His filthy armour was piled on the bank. Within moments two of the residents collected it for cleaning.