The Eorlingas

Hondscioh pushed the door of the inn open, advanced a good step forth to better the see his new landsmen. Afterwards he removed his hood. His fiery flowing hair fell, wet and greasy as if he had that hood on for much too long a time. He removed a glove and rubbed his tired eyes.

WILDERMORE / DAY SEVEN / DAWN

Régnwald peered through the red dusk. Heavy-shod hooves left great marks in the ground as the armoured beast carried it's burden toward the foot of the cliffs; albeit 'twas not the renowned horse of the warrior, but a destrier that belonged to one of his fallen kin. His eyes wandered soundlessly whilst the horse pawed at the ground impatiently. Soon his eyes landed upon the elderly man, Inrweald, bowing at a slight.

For the better part of the night Orduin stayed to himself, whilst the refugees fought over food he decided he'd not take part in the potential death of their camp. Allowing himself to relax and hang around in the back of the crowd, in actuality he was likely less to be attacked due to the lack of noise coming from his mouth or body. He watched Cynebur and observed her anger. It seemed as if she was angry about something but none the less Orduin stayed put where he was having a rough time falling asleep he'd take out a sharpening stone from his left waist pouch.