Firwyn and Feldspar decided to take Brazen. The fiery colt had looked at the tall being and the child before him with something resembling disdain, and agreed unwillingly to be saddled and mounted. Feldspar sat just in front of Firwyn so that there was no way for him to fall off the horse without being thrown straight up into the air, a feat impressive for even the audacious Brazen. Firwyn, much to Mirilana's delight, had managed to find himself an adequate set of trousers, a bit short on the legs, so the ends were tucked into a pair of borrowed soft leather boots. An extra unused cloak had been thrown around his shoulders, a solid dark grey piece of material that was worn and blemished at the bottom hem and comfortably weighted around his shoulders.

Harrion wished them both Godspeed, giving a side-cast look at his son's new guardian, entrusting the young life in the hands of someone who was almost a complete stranger. Firwyn nodded indiscreetly back at the older man as he gathered the reins in his hands.

Mirilana had packed an entire week's worth of flat bread, dried meats, and nuts for meals and a blanket roll for cold nights, as well as a set of gloves when Firwyn's hands got cold and unfeeling from handling the reins for too long. Feldspar was wrapped in a shin-length cloak of brown woven wool to keep warm. Bitter winds already stung their cheeks, reddening the skin and chaffing at the delicate flesh. Still Firwyn could not feel the effects of the cold, although the repercussions of wind burn were evident. He may have been protected, but he was not immune.

Jagged and tuneless music was played as if by an ethereal orchestra as the brittle spindle thin and sharp leafless branches rubbed against one another, the sound that they created grating but strangely soothing at the same time. Simple natural notes, crude and imperfect making them all the more unflawed to the ears of Firwyn. He was no Man, no Dwarf, and no Elf. Certainly not a Hobbit, he thought with amusement as he recalled the short and stout creatures, big-footed and dressed in bright springtime fashion, buttons always a bit stressed around the midriff, jolly grins on their round apple cheeks and a twinkle in their bright eyes.

They were such a queer folk, albeit the most enjoyable to think of. They were not beings of unworldly grace and beauty as the Elves had been, nor unyielding and as iron-willed as the Dwarves in their lantern lit mines, gems all aglow, nor like Man of valor and honor deep living within carven walls and fighting with the steel of their armories. It was their will for harmony and peace, found within each other and family and friends that united them, bonded them. It was in that moment that Firwyn wished that he had a people to belong to. It was almost better in his opinion to have one person in the world that identified with him than to be alone. Loneliness was nagging, and it was a blessing from Eru Ilúvatar that he had come across Feldspar.

The pair rode until Feldspar's home was out of sight and the hazy horizon was all that was visible between the breaks of cold and fragmented light filtering through the thick trees that watched the travelers as they passed, their speech carried from the far off woodlands to the great waters where mist gathered and snow began to fall lightly from the heavenlies.