Large hooves dug into the earth, thumping every time they made contact with the ground. Dirt and grass flying up underneath them as the large brown stallion rode on, its rider hitting into it harshly with his boot whilst grunting out beneath a bear mask. His hands tangled into the dark mane of the beast, pulling on it when he wanted it to speed up, listening to its war cry as its mouth opened and he let out a whinny.
The moon rose a bit more in the sky, though it made little difference. The night was still dark, the horse and the bear-headed man only knew where they were going by the paths they have travelled many times. All for the same need. The great fires were burning in the war settlement of Wulf's Cleft, the large wooden gates swung open as the stallion slowed down. Its mouth hung open, puffing out a white smoke with every breath into the cold night, getting taken away to a small stall after the large bear-headed dunlending jumped off, looking about.
He pushed back his bear mask, to reveal the angry scowl accustomed to Pren's face. His eyelids were painted black, and he had red marks over his face, looking as if he had been mauled by the most ferocious of creatures. His arms had these same markings, but they also showed his tattoos that stood dark on his brown skin. Large steps carried him through the war camp, where fires burned and dunlendings gathered, receiving their last minute blessings from the derudh and the Huntsman.
The night was still young when Pren got onto his horse again, lifting an old bulls horn to his mouth and sending out a low blast that echoed in the valleys. The command was shouted down the line as the large brown stallion reared up before heading off on a walk, its hide painted in swirls and claw marks.
Boots stomped into the mud, torches were lit as the two-hundred and fifty men all marched out, following behind their bear-like leader. They set off, down the twisting muddy paths before they came along the riverside path, rows of men following behind each other, talking and boasting about how they will kill their enemies. Their path went on and on, crossing over mountains and down into the lands of their enemy.. the Flax-hairs. They went silently and on paths little tread, where they would not be noticed, passing burnt towns and blackened fields.
Smiling ever so slightly as he came to the rushing ford, Pren looked over his shoulder to his men before pointing ahead of them before leading the move. His horse stepping into the water without a second thought, finding a shallow path way and taking a rest on the other side. The others then followed, taking their time to get supplies across safely; everything was needed for the fighting that was coming.
Pren sat on his horse, looking about the Westfold from his vantage point.. his eyes moving from settlement to settlement as he thought on what to be done.. all that he knew was the rohirrim had to die and that him and his men were the ones to do just the job..
