For all the voices, the group seemed quiet, a season waiting to end. The forest held its breath, watching. Jerel followed Sir Segremors. He did not speak, but nodded a mute affirmation. He offered one to Sir Hagen also. Jerel’s eyes searched the trees. The canopy wove a roof of green and brown to hide them from the moon, save for the slimmest of silver shafts; a faint reminder. 

Ter fluttered between trees, following his master. Jerel slowly rotated his arm and hissed. His face clenched tight, scrunched up like mistake-riddled parchment. The pang of iron was unmistakable on his tongue. Again, he moved his arm. Slowly, his face relaxed, falling back into place, expect for his brows, which were knit together in consternation, though his eyes were flint-sharp and hard as the steel he carried. 

Yet the doubt was growing, a treacherous undercurrent that tugged at his courage, or perhaps it was a snake, slowly constricting around him, tighter and tighter.

He huffed out. No more mistakes.

“Onwards indeed.” 

[@Psyker Landshark] [@HereComesTheSnow]