I'm almost there.

The ranger took a moment to wipe his brow as he set the long shafts of the cart down on the ground. The sun beat down upon him like an overbearing master that refused to let up, and Aloric was ready to submit. The heat was a persuasive master, he had learned. It affected everything he did out here in the grasslands of Arda. It was a factor in every decision he made. And though he would much rather deny the sweat that was rolling down his forehead, and trudge on to his destination, he knew that he could not ignore this master much longer. He required water and rest in order to make it to the great city.

"I don't even like Lómëdor," he muttered to himself. He managed to only visit the capital when it was absolutely necessary, just as it was now. Otherwise, he would rather steer clear of the large crowds of unfamiliar faces. He found more pleasure in being in solitude, alone with his thoughts, away from the influence of others. Or, at least that's what he kept telling himself. But this, this task that had been bestowed to him, required him to enter into Lómëdor once more. And as much as the thought of going into that city repulsed him, caused him to shiver with anxiety, he knew it was vital for him to do so.

It had only been weeks earlier when he had taken up at Turokko's stables, for what seemed to be the thousandth time. He never could quite get away from the implacable pull of that place. He didn't know what it was inside of him that caused him to want to be so near to the horses and the stables and the fields, those people and those smells. Yet, whenever he was between jobs, between wanderings, he always found himself there, trying again and again to place himself in the company of the riders, whose experience and skill he envied.

Those stables, more than any other civilized place he could recall, felt welcoming, accepting, inviting. He never felt completely at peace there - he didn't reckon he could ever feel at peace anywhere - but it was the closest he had come to it in a long time. Its rustic elegance inexplicably drew him in, pleaded with him to stay. And stay he had.

But he knew that nothing came free in this life. His stay at the stables would have to be earned through the skills he possessed. And, because Aloric quite simply was Aloric, he didn't possess all that many. But one thing he did know a bit about was walking. His employers had been quick to exploit that fact.

For in the two-wheeled cart that the ranger was currently pulling could be found a myriad of assorted items of interest that Turokko's had put together in a shipment bound for Lómëdor. And Aloric had been the perfect candidate to transport the goods. Agricultural harvests, tools for the stables, ideal riding outfits, and much more: all of these had been bundled together for Aloric to bring to the city. The profit gained from the supplies would greatly aid the stables, and would secure the ranger's place amongst them for some time to come. The journey was a necessary evil.

The wind was picking back up again, and he felt that he needed to start moving now while he still had its favor. For the time being, the nagging presence of the sun was lessened somewhat, though his hands still felt moist and soggy. But he had to conserve what was left in his canteen, which wasn't much to speak of. Sighing, he bent down and grabbed hold of the wooden beams, locked his arms, and began to pull.