Éorl and his men surveyed the rolling leagues of grey and green grass. Beyond, the white-crested spine of the Misty Mountains and the silver Isen set the western boundary of the Mark, and the Riders intended to explore every wild corner between them and Entwash.
But he froze after dismounting Felaróf. Understanding washed over him like the cool water that sloshed over his boot rims.
"…So, when Cirion mumbled something about lô, he meant…"
"A swamp!" a rider cried.
"Ah," the young king sighed as mud squelched around his boots. "Remind me, Cnebba, not to nod when I don't understand the language."
AN: Another birthday drabble for Haarajot, who requested Imrahil or Eorl, of sudden inspiration and unbeta-ed (so take it for what it's worth).