Rhocanth marched at the head of the line, his fresh chainmail singing out as if a thousand bells hung from the links. He was very lucky, he had thought, that they had had a set of armor suited to his size, though he did not much care for this human design. The joints were sticky. He was no smith, but he had owned a few nice pieces in his short time, as he had liked to say. There simply was no getting used to being broke. The sword that hung at his side he liked a little better, it being well-weighted and easy enough for him to swing, and the shield was satisfactory, if simple. Perhaps its simplicity was a benefit he had not thought of before as he had stared into the smooth, polished iron. It would deny his enemies the right to look at a pretty engraving while they were having their brains bashed in.
Either way, this was not like going to a duel with some other deshyr's son. This was not about looking fine and proud in one's armor so that Lord Something-or-Other would be in an absolute tizzy over his own smith's lack of good taste, therefore causing one's own father to chortle dubiously into his after-dinner brew that night while one was having his smashed gauntlet pulled off his writing hand and hyperventilating simultaneously.
Not at all. Not at all.
Panic hadn't really set in until half a mile down the road, and by then it was far too late to make a show of it. There were people behind him now, counting on him to help guard them as he cut a path through the countryside and to their ultimate fate in Ostagar. He could not help but see them all in his mind even as they stood at his back, their summary made in one name only: Falina. He must have looked over his shoulder at her so many times before they had said goodbye... what had she thought of that? Was she well? What would Lothering be like without her?
Would she return?
There was already a severe lack of color for the party upon this fabled surface. Rhocanth felt it was not his place to add to it. He held his head high, curtains of chain from his helm trembling around his chin, and channeled the look of easy confidence he had once worn as a matter of course. He hoped it would send a message of encouragement to the group behind him. He was there for them. His shield was theirs. The more he thought of them and less of himself, the easier it became and the more he believed it. Rhocanth glanced over at the sergeant walking beside him. He hoped, as he had done many times, that she was proud of him.
A newly-familiar tune whistled through the sea of leaves. Rhocanth slowed his pace, boots sloshing through some leaves. His hand went to his scabbard instinctively. One of the scouts, the girl, emerged from the copse and spoke.
"Trouble ahead," she said simply.
The young dwarf nodded in acknowledgment as she spoke the rest. He pressed his lips into a thin line at the notion that Jaden had "made the decision for them". He was taking on a dozen trained men? And risking Nivak as well? Even Rhocanth, who would move mountains for a lady, would balk a little at that. Nevertheless, their fellow warden was in thick now. They could not lose him, nor their archer.
"Let's go," he said briskly, and turned to walk several backwards step. He waved his shield arm. "Those not guarding the wagon, follow Miss Deidre!" He saved a special glance for Lythe, who was probably thoroughly alarmed now.