Storms over Rohan

Lightning split clouds roiling in silver and steel, the wind blowing the scent of rain and whipping the tall grass, lifting and dancing in the horse’s manes. Bridles jingled as they grew restless, stamping and pawing in the brewing storm.

“We’ll not make Edoras ere we’re soaked, my lord"; a rider reined in next to Eomer.

“Have you so little faith in the speed or our mounts?” the young third marshal grinned.

With no command spoken, the eored spun south and fled before the approaching storm. And the thunder of the skies gave way before the thunder of horse’s hooves.