Iccarus

MossFelt looked at Iccarus sternly as he rose from the bed at the back of the Prancing Pony. She knew his strength was low and he would rely much on her for the time being. MossFelt attempted to calm her heated mind but the words seemed to rush from her tightened lips,"I wish you would wait until you are stronger. A mere child could knock you over in this state Iccarus." 

MossFelt clambered off her steed steadily, her breath sharp and quickened in the night. She looked 'round, her curly hair being thrown to and fro, the night was cold and no one was in sight. She patted the horse gently and led it to the small bush around the Prancing Ponies side. She tied the reins to the plant and rushed to Iccarus, who was barely hanging on the back of the steed, his breath full of pain. She stroked his hair with a clammy hand and helped to drag him off the pony. He hit the ground hard but it was all she could do. Hobbits were not known for their strength.

The wind was ragged, pulling and tugging at MossFelt's hair as a small child does in play. Her horse steadily trudged forward through the wind engulfed path, it's head sinking lower and lower to the ground in a attempt to fight off the coming current. She placed a small hand upon her head in a effort to keep her long curling locks from her fragile face but with little luck. The heavens seemed agitated and no wonder with the going war.