(My best friend helped me make this story) Warning this story is long but it is the shorter version I apologize early for any grammar or spelling issues

Years ago there was a young maiden, her name was rosemary and she was the most beautiful woman most have ever seen and she followed her God with all her heart, as she was out picking flowers for her table, she met an elve and his name was legolas, when he saw her, he instantly fell in love with her beauty but it was taboo for elves and humans to be together but he didn't care, so, for several years they secretly saw eachother and she got him to follow Christ as well, eventually they got married and on there wedding day, legolas gave rosemary a necklace with a precious stone that was one of a kind and it could stop anyone who has it to not get scratched, feel pain or even die. He gave this to her so they could live together without secrecy. After they got married they built a small city in ethirial and called it silania. They soon had a daughter and named her caladheil(kah-lah-thee-ell) meaning humble servant. She is a beautiful girl, 20 years later, Rosemary's sister died from an unknown reason and rosemary became very depressed and gave the necklace to caladheil and sailed west to the undieing lands. Legolas was very sad about this and decided to go to the undieing lands to be with rosemary, he left the city silania to his daughter and left. Caladheil was now the queen of silania and now had a necklace wich she really didn't know the importance of. Years later, the city was attacked by elves who were very angry with them. They killed most of the people that lived in that city and forced caladheil into hiding, she took the remaining citizens with her, and They hid for many years. Eventually all the remaining citizens died of many causes. Caladheil still remained, she shortened her name to cala so she wouldn't be recognized, while she was out picking berries, she was shot in the back by an orc but the arrow just bounced off her skin and that moment she realized that her mothers necklace was more than just a pretty stone and could stop her from getting hurt. She got more brave and decided to come out of hiding, she went to live in Minas Tirith, she was eventually kicked out of the city for standing up for what she believed in. She then lived in many different kingdoms and villages and was always kicked out for standing up for something or someone. Eventually there was no where for her to stay. She decided to go back into hiding and built herself a small house and a farm just outside the shire. She lived in that house for thousands of years. She watched as everything she knew disappear and change. 9,000 years after her mother and father left, she wanted to get back to them since she didn't like how the world changed so she destroyed the necklace but nothing changed, she still couldn't die or sail to the west, As time went on, she excepted that she was going to live here forever so when she was 19,872, she built a city for the modern folk, and as years passed, she got forgotten passing from history into legend. She is still alive today, forgotten and hated by anyone who found out about her life, and because her father was an elve, she was too and people hated her because of this, because she was different. she still prays every day and still worships the Lord.

At dawn, as the rains poured down and slid off of the tall trees in a deluge, a hooded missive had come to Tinuwë’s post, asking his presence in the Halls. Tinuwë liked Mirkwood's rains, but he dutifully returned to the Halls after informing the rest of the watch with a whistle.

Tinuwë laid his spear against the wondrous pillar in the war room. Details of a monumental battle of the second age glowed off of the pillar, screaming terrible oaths against treasonous Sauron and his creatures, and warning them to never return to Arda in force again. The wood elf thought at once, as all wood elves did,

If only the incantations had worked.

Tinuwë’s brown boots were tracking a great deal of mud on the ancient worked rock floors of Thranduil’s Halls, he’d not had the time to clean his boots in his haste coming here from patrol.

Inside the empty great war room of the Woodlands, in a chair far from Thranduil’s empty one at the head of the tempered wooden table, the chief of Tinuwë’s march sat.

“You ask my service, my lord? My spear is not far, wherever it is needed.” He gestured to the weapon as he stood at attention in front of the Elf-captain’s chair.

Though some strange feeling told Tinuwë the task the Captain had in mind had nothing to do with orcs.

Tanion quicly washed his face and hands after taking his blacksmith apron off. He was going to head out and drink for a bit and relax after a long day at the forge and plus that last meeting really bothered him. Elrion Balrand had visited him and it made no sense. He had brought him a old sword that Tanions own grandfather had made , long before either person was born, to be repaird. Tanion had woven a tale of how hard it would be to reforge and needed special iron but to be honest that was all a lie so as not do the work. But the man had aggreed to a decent amount so he would do the work.

So now we find Tanion wandering the streets of Dale looking for a new place to drink.

Tanion sat down onto his chair that sat just outside his workshop , it had been a tough day and he wished to relax and watch the market square. His house sat just to the side of the market square , his grandfather had built the house when Dale was being rebuilt and he had chosen well. The front of his home faced the sqare and was dominated by his blacksmith forge and anvil. All of his finished produts hung above him on the rafter or below on small tables. Anything you needed he could make , but not nearly as well as dwarven or elvish smiths , those beings were magical.

So Tanion sat and watched and smelled and revelled in the life of the city. The city he grew up in and knew all too well , the city that he loved.

Welcome Lords and Ladies to the new season of LordoftheringsRP. The last year has been hellicious and I want to start this year’s writing with a bit of gusto. We shall be playing in the Realm of Dale in the year TA 3016.

King Brand has held onto his crown for nine years, and the Kingdom of Dale has prospered under his rule. The Dalish forces have been expanding their lands and rule ever eastward and south. Trade has flourished between Erebor, Dale, Esgaroth and the Halls of The Elvish King Thranduil. The forces of Melkor’s servant seem to be at bay and while Rhunnic tribes are still out east the townsfolk who dwell in the realm feel safe and protected.

Dáin II Ironfoot is a wise and just leader. He has brought much wealth to the mountain realm and Is on good terms with the Men of Dale in the south and the Elven king of Northern Mirkwood as well, which has ensured peace for many years.

Thranduil has ruled his realm since SA3434 and has been known as the King of the Woodland Realm since TA1000. His realm has diminished as time has progressed due to the Necromancer’s influence coming from Dol Guldur. He now only rules the northern parts of the great woodland realm of Mirkwood. The woods have grown dark and dangerous with giant spiders, orcs and goblins infesting much of the woods.

You shall be a part of a great story that is to unfold over the next year or so. You as a player will have the opportunity to play a character that is not canon in this living world. We hope that you take the chance and roleplay the events that we have planned and see how you navigate them. Will you play as a paragon of justice, like a Guard Captain guarding a town or lord’s estate, or a more dubious character, like a shop keeper in Dale who runs his business in a less than savory manner? Unfortunately, there will be no troops or large armies to help you along the way as there are for Éomer of the Rohirrim or Boromir of Gondor, but you can always lead say a small troop of ten good men against the nasties of Mirkwood in search of a Beorning pelt. So , I challenge you to come and write to your heart’s desire and roleplay alongside us here at lordoftheringsRP.

You will find the template for characters down below along with a description of the map. Welcome I hope to see you in the sub.

Major locations and Boundaries: Dale, Erebor, Thranduil’s Halls, Esgaroth, Ruhunnic Lands to the East between the River Running and River Carnen, Mirkwood Lands North of the Old Forest road to Dale and Enchanted River.

Rules:

· There is a 2-character limit in place, they cannot reside within the same faction, interact, or influence each other in any way.

· No canonical characters

· No stories that take place outside of the given area. This sub will have a time to see Arnor, Umbar, the Shire, etc. in the next RP season. To ensure quality of RP and immersion, please keep characters appropriate to the settings.

· As mentioned before, major characters will be treated as event characters. Characters like Dáin or Brand will not be available for selection

· No power or meta-gaming (This should be a given)

Character Template:

Name:

Race:

Age:

Social Standing (A captain in the military, a beggar, an outlaw, etc.):

Appearance/Height (Pictures are fine for appearance):

Alignment (More of a guideline than a hard rule):

Character Strengths (Preferably concerning their personality in at least a point in both strengths and flaws along with their physical strengths, mental, etc.):

Character Flaws (Refer to above, but as a flaw):

Prowess (With weapons of war, as a craftsman, leader, etc. However, must be explained to some extent in backstory at the discretion of the mods):

Companions (NPCs if they must be had, but this will all be at the discretion of the mods entirely and most characters generally won't need or have any sort of NPCs):

Backstory:

Recently, my wife and I decided to read the Lord of the rings together out loud during quarantine. We have nothing else to do. I have been a massive fan of the books for pretty much all of my life and my favorite character was always Sam or Bilbo. I never gave much credit to Frodo. I guess it was because at the end, he couldn’t manage to throw the ring into the fire. And he wasn’t really a brave warrior or anything. But, in rereading it again, I realize that that is the reason why I love his character! He is exactly the sort of person who needed to carry the ring. It was an about fighting like in a traditional fantasy scenario. He trudged along, through thick and thin, putting his own happiness on the line, basically giving himself PTSD and wounds that would never heal to destroy this ring. Even when he comes back to The Shire, he is unable to move on with his life. And the thing is, I think he absolutely knew that that would happen. At the beginning of fellowship of the ring, he tells several people that he doesn’t think he’ll ever come back to his home and he is OK with it because he knows it will protect the people that he loves the most. Really, Frodo’s Love for Bilbo and Sam is so heartwarming. I absolutely love the relationships in these books! I think people give Frodo crap about being whiny because of the portrayal in the movie. I absolutely love the movies, but book Frodo is a fighter in spirit and completely selfless.

Through the harsh, icy mountains they traveled to arrive at a grand door with gorgeous carvings of what seemed to be living metal flowing within it. The points of stars shone there upon it and as the gathered two-hundred or so men of women of the expedition stood outside, the various Gondorians began setting up camp just outside the doors. The two captains' men both set up together, but ultimately distinct camps from one another, the dwarven emissary and his retinue sent with them began to light fires next to the lakeside, singing songs filled with woe at the loss of their once great city. Apprehension was in the air and could be reached out and touched with a hand if one desired to. The prisoners, two lines of them, had been chained up along a small treeline and as the men of the expedition finished their own areas to bed down, Amenethil and two others came by to light some fires for them.

"I'll be honest," he said as he looked each prisoner in the eye, they numbered around fifteen, "I'd rather not use your labor like this if I could avoid it, but with the dangers of Moria as it is and how we're to reach this horrid place we've no other choice but to brave this and establish a way through for ourselves and others. We'll bring some food by for you men soon enough, as well as bedrolls provided to us by the White City. Get what sleep you can, you'll need it." He said with a nod, a small, sad smile upon his face as he turned away from them.

Conferring with one elf whom he had forgotten the name of, Amenethil began to go through the gathered maps they had been given of the ruin. "The Black Pit." He grumbled, rubbing his temple with one hand as he waved for the other leaders and elves to gather round. "Comrades, gather round, we'll need a plan to get down through this place and I'd like your input if you so desire."

Name: She goes by Wren. It is not her real name, but it is the only one she’ll give.

Race: Fallohide Hobbit

Age: Looks to be in her early to mid 30s, perhaps.

Social Standing: A scout, a spy, a thief; whatever you like, guv, as long as there's coin and a little adventure in it.

Appearance/Height: She stands about three feet, three inches tall, and has the characteristic round features of her people. For a Fallohide she's evidently spent quite a lot of time in the sun; her skin is tanned and sprinkled with freckles, her face open and soft and usually grinning. She's cropped her wavy copper hair short and inexpertly, and her eyes are green and inquisitive. 

Alignment: Chaotic neutral.

Character Strengths: Possessing quick reflexes as well as wits, Wren is adept at getting herself out of - and into - trouble. She’s a quick talker too, which can endear her to some, and often quite funny. In truth, she excels at being underestimated; nobody quite expects the bright, sunny Hobbit with the lilting laugh and irreverent humor to be quite so good at liberating purses from pockets. Still, those who get to know her often find she makes it hard to stay angry.

Character Flaws: A certain impulsiveness and wild curiosity has often landed Wren in hot water in the past, not that she’ll let that stop her. She seems to have a hard time taking things too seriously, and one might suspect it's something of a coping mechanism.

Prowess: Above all, Wren excels at moving silently; even among her people, her skills at evasiveness are impressive. She is also skilled with the shortbow and at fighting with daggers.

Equipment: She wears a loose black tunic, belted about the waist and slightly too large for her, over calf length breeches, with bracers of leather at her wrists. Over all of this, a grey cloak. Two knives, each about the length of her forearm, hang from her belt. Her only constant companion is a spotted pony called Peasblossom; a sweet natured beast who carries most of Wren’s possessions in his saddlebags, among them a shortbow and quiver, camping equipment, and lockpicking tools.

Backstory: The Hobbit that now calls herself Wren was born to a little regarded branch of the Eastfarthing Goodenoughs, and originally christened Tansy. A middle child of thirteen and the only girl, she shocked her family by setting off from the Shire at a scandalously young age; the reason she gives for this always changes depending on who’s asking, but one might be able to gather that it had something to do with what she saw as the undesirable familial expectations put upon a young Hobbit maiden whose family desired her to enter into respectable society. Further than that, she becomes evasive.

After her flight from the Shire, she spent quite some time in Bree; this is where she picked up her new alias, and where she began acquiring the skills and proclivities she now boasts. Here, she learned the art of picking pockets, and gained the moral haziness to become quite adept. She also, evidently, found someone to teach her to defend herself with blade and bow. Wren became well known among the Hobbit population of the town, and something of a fixture in the Prancing Pony. 

Her reasons for eventually leaving Bree are just as hard to pry from her as her reasons for leaving the Shire. Wren will not admit to ever being caught in the act while lifting purses or liberating goods, but she does freely boast that she's no longer welcome back in the town, due to some scandal. Whatever the reason, she has wondered ever Eastward ever since; when asked, she claims to be after "adventure, and something to retire on."

((Hi guys! Hope this is alright!))

Name: Hallam of Sirondil Row

Age: 27

Social Standing: Petty Gondorian urban criminal, recent prisoner

Appearance: Dirty blonde hair cut short, Just under 6 feet tall,

Prowess: Handy (or lucky) with his dagger, versed in many improvised blunt objects. Is not squeamish or lost when it comes to being underground.

Character Strengths: He is well versed in being a manager of different people and personalities, and also very well at hiding his own activities.

Flaws: He has low survival skills from living in an urban environment all his life. His status as a known criminal immediately lowers his trustworthiness.

Equipment: None available, but a dagger, horse, and tunic with a vest are in the possession of his captors.

“Street Trash” is an official occupation of urban Osgiliath, as the failing town boasts the most organized underworld in Gondor. Born on the very impoverished east side of the city, Hallam has already lived the full life a metropolis in decay can provide. Sirondil Row itself, his birthplace and namesake, has a reputation as one of the dingiest corners in all of Gondor.

His parents raised their child as best they could. Every day his father worked a failing masonry job, as little new buildings or structures were being made in Osgiliath. His mother, absolutely devoted to the child, looked after his health so well she forgot her own, and died after Hallam’s fourth winter.

To compensate for the new massive responsibility which had just been thrust on him in the midst of his grieving, his father began a policy of raising Hallam with a heavier hand.

His hand became so heavy one day that small Hal slipped away. He lived on the streets with the other children, stealing to live and growing until he was large enough to eat more than the breadcrumbs.

Being a youth in such hopeless surroundings meant he was naturally attracted to the brotherhoods which emerge in such places. Violence in return for respect, or even for something shiny you want at the moment, became natural to him as a Corsair on a ship. He did his fair share of knocking around townspeople, and even caught a few knocks from other brotherhoods and the town watch as payment for his youthful mistakes.

He moved up in his local brotherhood quickly. Despite not being at all opposed to violence, Hallam nonetheless has a charmingly calm disposition and dry humor which endeared him to the more tempestuous personalities of the higher street criminals. He made a name for himself when he mediated an inter-organization fight which almost broke out in to bloodshed. Eventually, he was heading his own crew of Gondor’s finest citizens and collecting a healthy amount of infractions against the Steward’s Justice.

The Sirondil Row brotherhood became very lucky when members stumbled on a part of ancient Osgiliath’s sewer which had gone in to disuse since the times of the Great Plague centuries ago. This place became an essential part of their operation, as the city watch knew nothing of it.

Hallam’s own crew became as rich as wine merchants over time, hiding their growing stash of valuables in the abandoned sewer sections, moving their earned money through the inns and other perfectly reputable businesses on the surface. Hallam’s clothes and living situation became refined to reflect this, though his manner remained coarse as ever.

The penchant for error exclusive to Men proved the death of Hallam and the brotherhood’s fortunes. A bar killing led to a war with a mighty and deadly brotherhood from over the Osgiliath bridge. Hallam’s group’s assets were seized from the sewers, the brotherhood’s leadership purged in a series of murders over the next few months, and the streets became impossible for Hallam to walk throughout all of Osgilliath. He took what money remained to him, wished his group farewell, and ran from town.

He fled north, hoping to get abroad to Rhovanion, as Gondor’s royal justice system had become overly acquainted with him over the years. The last of his money went to buying food and a horse. Being no outdoorsman, he went hungry somewhere on the Anduin roads, and fell prisoner to a company of Gondorian soldiers. These eventually recognized him as a criminal, and threw Hallam in to the bottom of a fort. There he stayed until transferred to a train of prisoners, going towards ominous mountains which he didn’t even know the name of.

Name: Nalfîr Ibist

​

Race: Human (Easterling)

​

Age: 35 (Born TA 2027)

​

Social Standing: Former Commander of the Emperor's Guard, Mercenary/Bounty Hunter

​

Appearance/Height : Nalfir is 1.83 meters or 6 feet tall. His muscular and covered with scars body is a result of service to the late Emperor Burid Nerthond. His skin takes an olive tan. Nalfir has hawk nose, medium sized black hair, short black beard and brown eyes.

​

Alignment : Lawful Neutral

​

Character Strengths: Former Commander of Easterling Emperor's guard is honorable and humble man with a calculative mind. He often found himself breaking the schemes against his ruler with an iron fist, and preserving the crime rate in the capital city of Mistrand to an incredible low. His methods might have been ruthless, but they were efficient. Lectures of the travels of Nómründ Narthül had made him interested in the lands of the west.

​

Character Flaws: As long as the work of the great traveller, has sparked interest within Nalfir's mind, he is still a victim to Imperial indoctrination, portraying Western people as uncivilized Barbarians. It makes him feel a bit superior to those around him. Interesting trait countered by the natural humble nature of former commander. As long as the Easterling's methods are efficient, they are ruthless as well. Nalfir isn't a believer in the idea of giving someone a second chance. Even for all the strenghts of Easterling's body and mind, he is just a mortal man, unable of predicting every possible outcome.

​

Prowess: Nalfir is used to directly commanding small squads of men and his art of speech is something some of Easterling rulers could be jealous of, He's a master swordsman using 2 Easterling sabres, skilled martial artist, trained rider and gifted small scale tactician. Former commander isn't nearly perfect at the tongue of the western people. Easterling is somewhat capable in his use of throwing weapons, but those work only as a nasty trick in his sleeve.

​

Equipment: On his former armour, consisting of Easterling Ornate Helmet, Scale Chest, Scale Greaves and Scale Shoulder Armour, Nalfir has put on a long red cloak, that gives him more space to carry certain items. Nalfir wears black waist piece, black leather boots and gloves. He is armed with 2 Decorated Easterling Sabres, and has 10 throwing knives at his disposal. Other than that former Commander has a horse, who he treats more like an useful tool than a friend and survival equipment needed in his line of work.

​

Backstory: Nalfir Ibist was born as the only child to Gizîch Ibist and Aril Nîrkike in the year 2027 of Third Age, in the city of Mistrand, under governance of the Emperor Burid Nerthond. He spend his early years being taught of arts of war by his father and arts of the court by his mother. Having noble blood Nalfir was expected to continue the family legacy. Being in the capital he had made both friends and enemies in his early years. Althought the boy has shown much potential in warfare, he wasn't that skilled in the diplomacy... However his mother had found a way to interest the boy a little further. She gave him a book about travels of famed Easterling explorer Nómründ Narthül into the lands of the west... Study of Narthül's work interested boy further in exploration and made him realize the importance of diplomacy. From this moment on he tried to listened further to his mother, although he still was far better at receiving lessons from his father.

​

Upon entering age of 7 Nalfir began real education at the school for noble children, learning the basic things such as language, reading, writing, math, biology. His favourite lessons was physical education, where boy could test his strenght against others.

​

By the age of 15 Nalfir entered the Officer Academy of Mistrand. He was quick to learn the basics of the Rhûnic Military and it didn't take long for him to be seen by his superiours. Soon he moved over to lead companies of men in training fights, showcasing talent in leadership. Nalfir stopped studying only once, after natural death of his father. He requested permission to leave for a month and stay with his mother, and said permission was granted. After month Nalfir came back to the Academy and continued his studies intent to make his deceased father proud in afterlife. It was in the academy where the Emperor had seen potential in the student, looking up with interest to the further steps of the young man.

​

Once Nalfir was 21 years old, Riot erupted against the Emperor and many young officers were called into service. Nalfir among them. The Massacre at Mistrand was one of the bloodiest encounters between disloyal citiziens and the Imperial forces. Nalfir however became famous in the battle which would secure hold of Burid on throne. After clearing out the rebels in his section of defence, he decided to lead a counter charge on the back of their lines... A move that would break the rebel army and win the battle. For that act Nalfir was given place in Emperor's Guard, which was both a curse and a blessing... Blessing, for he got one of the most prestigious positions in the Empire... Curse because he had to break with any chance of romance he had. As the part of the guard he could not marry.

​

Over the years of his service, Nalfir advanced up the ladder of the guard, becoming its Commander at the age of 28. It was then when a plague that would consume the life of his mother hit the city... It was then as well once peaceful times came to an end. There were rumours in the streets... Of the people worshipping an Eye, as well as the long deceased legendary King of Rhûn Khamûl returning from the grave... Those rumours were scarce at first... But soon they became more than the rumours. They became the reality. Many southern chieftains and kings have thrown away the Easterling beliefs of Dragon gods, swearing their allegiance to this Eye cult... The reports from the Emperor's borders were worrisome to say the least and the cult has already infiltrated the Empire. Religious war was just a matter of years to come. During this time Nalfir has shown his ruthlessness, making often unethical but efficient moves to deal with the cult of the Eye, which began its attempts on the life of the Emperor.

​

But it couldn't have remained at such state for eternity now could it ? Emperor Burid passed away in unknown circumstances once Nalfir reached the age of 33. All the guard managed to gather was that there were reports of a terrifying shrieking sound, and unknown shadow moving through the palace... The deceased Emperor's face had fear painted on it... Ironically enough Burid was known for his bravery, so what could he fear was a question many among his court had asked themselves... The Guard for their failure were replaced by a new formation created by Emperor's son and its members were banished from the Empire which now was falling into chaos of the Eye cult rising to power.

​

On his way out of Rhûn, Nalfir took the work as travelling mercenary, sometimes testing himself as a bounty hunter. During this travel, Easterling had met with blue wizard Pallando, and as their goals alligned they worked together at destroying one of the eye cult's hideouts. Nalfir had befriended the Maiar and they travelled together for some time, learning to count on each other.Both told each other stories. Nalfir helped Pallando to understand the people of the East and their rich culture, Where as Nalfir learned some things about the lands to the west and facts about the cult's origins... Its goal was to subjugate nations of the East under Mordor's dominion and that meant purging or subjugating its culture and religion. The Eye itself referred to the Dark Lord of Mordor Sauron, who had been believed to be slain in Second Age. They did learn of the Great War during the history lessons, but Mordor was always portrayed as an ally, not subjugator... Easterling took the news of Khamûl being once more alive with a grain of salt, althought he couldn't deny it, as indeed the circumstances his ruler had died would point towards the use of black magic. However with their roads being opposites, Blue wizard going deeper into Rhûn where as the Nalfir was going out of his homeland, Pallando requested one thing. Easterling was to travel to Rivendell, looking for Lord Elrond and deliver the wizard's greatest apology for not being able to arrive as well as a report of the situation in the East. Situation in the East with speculated return of the Khamûl and rise of the Great Eye's cult became so complicated that it tied wizard's hands together. Nalfir agreed to the request and began his travel as many years before did the explorer Nómründ Narthül.

​

On his way to the Rivendell, Nalfir continued on taking jobs as mercenary and bounty hunter, with rumours of golden armoured warrior, bringing doom to the bandits and pillaging orcs becoming popular in Rhovanion. What the Easterling hadn't expected however was to have his entry to Rivendell be greeted not with magnificent elven music, but with elven steel...

“Woah, Dúnhere!” ordered the Marshal as he rode his horse through the Misty Mountains. In order to get to the Valley of Imladris faster, he took the Pass of Caradhras rather than go down through the Gap of Calenardhon and back up. Gléohelm had been riding to Rivendell for reasons that were rather vague to him. For the first three quarters of his journey, the son of Gléodor made haste, as he didn’t want to leave Framsburg unprotected for too long. It’s my pride that’s worrying me, the rider thought to himself. Just calm down, Gléohelm. The city will be fine.

During the last fourth of his journey, Gléohelm slowed the pace of his horse, Dúnhere, down. He rode slowly down the mountain and started singing a lament for his recently deceased father, Gléodor. The lament was sung in the native language of his people, and was a staple of many Éothéod funerals:

“Now dear Gléodor lies in darkness,

Most loyal of fighters.

The sound of the harp shall not wake the warrior;

Nor shall the man hold a golden wine-cup,

Nor good hawk swing through the hall,

Nor the swift horse stamp in the courtyard.

An evil death has set forth the noble warrior,

A song shall sing the sorrowing minstrels of Framsburg,

That noble father, who always held me dear,

Now is held in darkness, enclosed.”

The Marshal of the Vale thought heavily about those words. An evil death... yes, but a death he must avenge all the same. Gléohelm kept moving down and down the mountainside, and eventually came to a point where he could see the River Bruinen snaking its way through Eriador along a path that was parallel to the Misties, which meant that Rivendell wasn’t much further from where he was. Obviously, he couldn’t see the Hidden Valley because it was just that, hidden. Hidden among marshes, foothills, and parts of the Misty Mountains themselves, but also because it was a little further north. The rider kept moving down the mountain pass, humming Éothéod hymns and songs both old and new as he steadily approached the river from above. Finally, after much deliberation and force to get down the mountain, Gléohelm found himself on ground level. Before moving on, he fed Dúnhere a carrot and took a breather. After a few moments, the Marshal got back on his loyal horse and kept riding parallel to the river. Some time later, he finally reached the Ford of Bruinen, and its intersection with the Old East Road. There, he found the path leading into the ancient Valley of Imladris. Finally, we’ve made it.

As he passed into the Hidden Valley, Gléohelm’s speculation about the beauties of Rivendell was squandered immediately, and his face became awestruck. Imladris truly was beautiful, more beautiful than he could ever imagine. From the soaring buildings to the greenery to the Falls of Imladris, Rivendell’s glories never ceased. As the Marshal crossed the Bridge of Rivendell into the valley itself, an Elven steward came to meet him on the other side. The steward greeted him and welcomed him to the Last Homely House.

“Welcome, sir,” the steward spoke as he dismounted his horse and bowed to the man. “I am Anunaer, one of Lord Elrond’s stewards.”

As the rider didn’t know of the customs of elves besides a few choice words, he repeated the elf’s gesture and awkwardly spoke. “Mae... g’ovannen?”

After a short, confused look, Anunaer let out a big laugh and corrected the newcomer. “My friend, there’s no need to speak Sindarin if you hardly know it. Now, if I’m correct, you are the Marshal of the Vale, are you not?”

“Yes, yes I am,” answered the son of Gléodor as he petted his horse. “Commander of the Éothéod army. My name is Gléohelm, son of Gléodor.”

“Gladly met, Gléohelm,” said the elf as he called for the nearby stable master to bring the two horses to the stables. “Bring these two in, Teliedir.”

As he started walking over, Gléohelm quietly urged his horse to trust the stable master. “Go ahead, boy.”

Dúnhere walked towards the stable master. Teliedir approached and calmly petted the beautiful creature. “He’s gorgeous. What’s his name sir?”

“Dúnhere,” answered the Marshal. “He’s the sire of my father’s horse. Give him some carrots and water every two hours and some hay every five hours and he’ll be fine.”

“Will do,” the horse master agreed and gently took the horse’s reins along with the reins of Anunaer’s horse and led them both away. The steward was stunned by the cooperation between Gléohelm and his horse.

“Your horse is very obedient, Gléohelm,” the elf complimented. “He wasn’t scared or worried about leaving you and going to Teliedir.”

“I appreciate that,” responded the Marshal. “But obedient isn’t exactly the right word to describe Dúnhere. You see, when he was a mere colt, Dúnhere witnessed his father, Dúnthain, cooperate with my father. He visualized everything Dúnthain did and then performed it when he was being trained. He practiced even the smallest things down to the tiniest details, and then some. He eventually learned how to improve on everything his father learned, and was able to cooperate with almost anyone. He’ll do fine with your stable master, I’m sure.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Anunaer said with a laugh.

“So, about this mission —”

“Everything will be explained in time,” interrupted the steward. “As for the other attendees, they’ll be here shortly.”

Name: Glacir Age: 32 Race: Human Social Standing: Captain of Infantry

Appearance: 6’ Grey eyes, dark brown hair to mid-back, scared hands, face

Character Strengths: Small group tactics oriented, quick learner, honestly cares about those under him, very strong moral compass.

Flaws: Sometimes his moral compass can blind him to better options or may make him treat others without his same convictions as lesser, Overconfident to where he may disregard other’s advice if he thinks his plans are best, he can be reckless with his own safety and the safety of his whole command if individuals are in danger.

Prowess: proficient in the Gondorian spear, sword, shield, defensive works, and siegecraft to a lesser extent. A good harp player, he is also a passable singer. Barely.

Equipment: Armor, spear, sword, shield, small harp, writing utensils/supplies, general travel gear such as bedroll, tinderbox, flint, and a pot. Horse for travel only. Not a warhorse.

Glacir was born at twilight in the year 2030 to Glarahir and Gilraen Athelion. As a young child, Glacir played in the streets of Minas Tirith, swinging about him with a wooden sword, pretending to be like his father – a fierce infantryman. He and his friends would fight mock battles all throughout the city, and it wasn’t uncommon for a guard to break up the small wars tearing through the streets. When he was not terrorizing the streets with his friends, he helped his mother at home, a small, cramped affair in the lowest ring of the city. He enjoyed listening to her play the harp at night when his father would sometimes return from the field, and he picked up the instrument and learned to play as well.

At the age of eight, Glacir was sent by his mother and father to a scholar to study and learn as much as he could. After seven years of study under the scholar acting as an assistant, scribe, and research aid, his father took him before a board of four men who interrogated him for many hours. They asked him about his education, ambitions, and posed logic problems, discussed history, and how he would react to various situations. When the questions stopped, the men adjourned to discuss amongst themselves. The discussion was short, and one of the men approached his father. It was the first and only time Glacir saw his father cry. His father cried silently with a stony yet proud face. The man who spoke to his father approached him, and handed him an appointment to attend a University in the highest rings of Minas Tirith.

At the University, Glacir studied warfare, specializing in small group tactics and battlefield application. He was required to learn siege-craft, and he excelled in defensive theory. His real tests began when he was sent to the field to fight alongside infantrymen and learn from their captain. For four years, he fought alongside Captain Angbor East of the Anduin. Despite their best efforts, they lost more ground than they were able to capture to orcs and goblins. During battles, he distinguished himself through reckless valor to save men under his command and showed a sharp mind for establishing sustainable defensive lines. When he was 23, he was sent back to Minas Tirith and commissioned as a Captain of Infantry.

While he was home, his father retired from the military only to die a few days later when he fell down a long set of stairs and broke his skull. His father’s death greatly distressed Glacir. He took a leave of absence for four months to grieve and settle his father’s affairs as well as make sure his mother would be provided for. The later he did not have to worry much about, for she had taken to playing the harp as a source of income.

Once he had found peace and his leave of absence was expired, he was sent back East of the Anduin with a small command of his own. For two years, he established defensive positions and managed to retake territory and reinforced many struggling detachments scattered across the frontier. His actions and leadership earned him some fame back in Minis Tirith and Osgiliath. Recalled to be honored, he was given a larger command but ordered to remain in Minis Tirith as an advisor.

During his tour in the city, he met Ioreth. They courted for a full year before they were married and moved their primary residence to the fourth ring of Minas Tirith. The bliss of a happy marriage lasted only for a few short years; his wife died in childbirth, and his son died suddenly for no apparent reason only a few days later. Glacir buried the two together outside the city. No longer happy in Minas Tirith, Glacir begged to be sent anywhere rather than stay. He was granted his request and sent south to Pelargir where he patrolled the boarders his men.

In 2060, he was again recalled to Minas Tirith for promotion to general, a position that would keep him permanently based in the city. He refused and instead elected to lead a small expedition to the Northwest. A strange summons to Rivendell provided the excuse for Glacir to leave. Picking twelve men, he set off for Rivendell. Unfortunately, disease and unexpected encounters always take their toll, and by the time he and his men reached Rivendell, only nine remained.

Name: Gléohelm, son of Gléodor.

Race: Human (Éothéod).

Age: 25 (Born in TA 2037)

Social Standing: Marshal of the Vale and friend of Déor, the youthful Lord of the Éothéod and grandson of Fram, who himself was the son of the first Lord of the Éothéod.

Appearance: Gléohelm is very short, standing at 5’7”. He has a mullet of dirty blonde hair and a short beard with the same color. He has a muscular tone and has a clean, but pale complexion. He has green eyes.

Alignment: Lawful Good.

Strengths: The Marshal has learned to become a brave and fearless warrior and one of Déor’s finest. Like his father, he’s good with the ladies and sometimes describes himself as a bachelor. Gléohelm also is very funny at times, and likes to crack a joke or two when time provides for it, though he’s not as much of a jokester as Déor is. He’s loyal to the Éothéod people and, like his father, will take that loyalty to his death. No second thoughts, no doubts.

Flaws: Gléohelm is absolutely terrible at archery and spear throwing, which is mostly because he was not able to see out of his left eye since birth. He’s also an alcoholic at the moment because he’s still reeling from his father’s recent death by an orc. He’s obsessed with finding and killing that orc, which he thinks will relieve him of his grief. Sometimes, he can be overly proud, but not to the point of being conceited.

Prowess: Gléohelm is an incredible horseman and is so good that he sometimes participates in horse races. He’s a great warrior and wonderful strategist. He can fight with just about any weapon, but really excels at using one-handed arms such as longswords, war axes, maces, etc. over greatswords, battleaxes, and so on. He’s also very good at using shields, as being defensive is just as important to him as being on the offensive end. Gléohelm is a swift runner and has trained himself to be able to run for long distances without stopping to breathe. Finally, he’s also been trained by his father to fight with his body as a last resort.

Equipment: The Marshal wears a set of silver and gold armor with an image of two horses rearing, a symbol of the Éothéod, appearing on his breastplate. His braces are scaled but otherwise his armor is general not scaled. His iron helmet is silver and has an iron horse protruding from the top. Gléohelm’s sword, Gléothain, is a family heirloom and was given to him by his father before his untimely death. Unlike his armor, Gléohelm’s shield is made of steel and is one of the strongest shields in Framsburg.

Companions: Gléohelm is forever bonded with his horse, Dúnhere, who was sired by the mighty Dúnthain, the horse owned by Gléohelm’s father. Dúnhere is Gléohelm’s pride and joy, and is as strong and as fast as his father was.

Backstory: Gléohelm was born to Marshal Gléodor and his wife Léoryth in Framsburg during year 2037 of the Third Age. He was a healthy child, but was born without sight in his left eye. This was generally hard for him to deal with during his early childhood, but as he grew, he was able to handle it better. Gléodor, his father, was a lifelong friend of the Lord of the Éothéod, Frumdin, and was given the rank of Marshal when Frumdin took the throne after his father, Fram, died in TA 2000 from a dwarf attack. This position was generally thought to be a precursor to the Marshals of the Mark when the kingdom of Rohan was established, though the position was later disavowed by the last Lord of the Éothéod, Eorl the Young, in favor of the more generic role of Captain. However, the rank was brought back as Marshal of the Mark when Eorl removed his people to the Riddermark and founded the nation of Rohan, though that rank was given to three individuals while Marshal of the Vale was given to only one. By most, if not all accounts, Gléodor is considered to be the very first Marshal of the Éothéod.

Just as Gléodor and Frumdin grew up together, so too did Gléohelm and Déor, the son of Frumdin, grow up together. They were both very happy children, and although they knew that they would both have to fill large roles when they became older, they took heart in the fact that they would always be friends. When they were around nine years old, they met a young girl named Éaddis. She was from a noble house of shield maidens, some of which having a potential relation to the Lordship of Framsburg. Éaddis befriended them and became a new member of what Déor called their “party”. Déor, Éaddis, and Gléohelm always saw themselves getting into trouble, but still having fun. Although Gléodor and Frumdin scolded their sons for doing what they were told not to, they often saw themselves in them, and knew that their friendship would strengthen their loyalty towards one another. Because they had their children when they were relatively older, they knew that their children would have to take up their parents roles when they were younger than usual. Fram’s folk did not live long, after all. As the years passed, the three young friends grew into their own, and what once was friendship between Déor and Éaddis was now a budding romance. Gléohelm wasn’t upset, though. He loved Éaddis more as a sister than as a potential partner. Gléohelm instead focused on his training. He learned how to ride a horse, how to fight with both his body and with weapons, and how to understand his enemy. He grew to become a great warrior in his own right, though he still made time to see Déor and Éaddis.

When he turned eighteen, Gléohelm joined the Éothéod Cavalry under the leadership of his father. He was given a very young horse, which was the sired son of his father’s mighty stallion, Dúnthain. Gléohelm dubbed the horse Dúnhere, and treated the beautiful creature as an heir to a mighty house of horses. From Gundabad to Eryn Vorn the Cavalry rode: through mountain passes and on ocean shores; in caves, deserts, and cities of old. Through the city of Bree and past the hidden Valley of Imladris. Around the forest of Mirkwood and through their future homeland: the Riddermark. They even passed into the Shire and witnessed the humble hospitality of hobbits. They searched everywhere to rid the land of filthy orcs by order of Frumdin, although it was more of a test for the new recruits and Gléohelm to conquer. They had been riding throughout Middle-Earth for almost two years. One night, as they were riding past the tower of Isengard, a courier quickly encountered them in order to deliver fateful news: Lord Frumdin was on his deathbed. The riders quickly rode back to Framsburg, and saw him there, dying of heart failure. Lord Frumdin, son of Fram, was 71 when he perished from the world of Arda. Frumdin was the youngest person to become Lord of the Éothéod, and had one of the longest rules of any Éothéod Lord. His casket was casted into the River Greylin by Déor, which flowed into the River Anduin. His body would float into the sea, forever a symbol of the Éothéod people’s resilience. The son buried the father. He was a king of the people, a true successor to the heroic Fram.

At 18, Déor would become Lord of the Éothéod. His coronation coincided with his marriage to the lovely Éaddis. Instead of being married by a priest, Déor chose Gléohelm to bind them in ageless love, and despite having no experience in this field, Gléohelm married them without any second thoughts. Ten years prior, the townsfolk of Framsburg were greeted to an image of three children playing in the streets of their town. They played together, grew together, and were now all grown up, ready to take on whatever may come in their lives. Déor and Éaddis were dubbed Lord and Lady of the Éothéod, and Gléohelm was happy to see his two best friends rising to lead the people of Framsburg. Gléodor was the most proud of all, and gave up his title of Marshal to his son, who passed all his constant tests and training. Déor, as the new Lord, allowed this passing of the torch, and trusted Gléohelm with the protection of the Éothéod realm. Gléodor still acted as a protector of Framsburg, though, as he was still fit to fight. Gléohelm inherited Gléothain, the sword of his forefathers, from his father as a token that came with his new rank. The new Marshal couldn’t have been more thankful for his father’s help throughout the years. Since Gléodor was still of a high rank and seen by many as the protector of Framsburg, he got a sword made for him that was almost as strong as Gléothain by order of the Lord. The next few years were relatively quiet for Framsburg, and as Gléohelm and Déor grew into their twenties, the Éothéod people accepted them as great protectors. However, the city started becoming a target for Gundabad orcs. It wasn’t attacked much, but when it was, Gléohelm and his soldiers were usually able to keep it safe. That all changed in 2061, when those same orcs attacked alongside goblins from Goblin Town. The Marshal and his soldiers still protected the city well enough, but one of the orcs stabbed and killed Gléodor, who was fighting alongside his son. Gléohelm became enraged, and tried to kill every orc that he saw, but he wanted to kill the one that murdered his father the most. Unfortunately for him, the orc escaped, but he remembered the features of that orc down to the smallest detail. Gray spots, a sliced ear, and a spider-shaped branding on his right arm. Those features were burned into his mind. Gléodor was cast out into the Greylin River, and would meet his old friend again out on the open seas. He died as he lived: loving his son, his wife, and his people. To Gléohelm, he was a true hero. A man who served Framsburg wisely and strong. A man who deserved a peaceful death, but that was taken away from him by an orc that couldn’t care less about love or peacefulness. And Gléohelm knew that that orc deserved to die. He went on search parties with the Cavalry and searched far and wide, and not a clue was to be had regarding the whereabouts of the gray-spotted orc. Although still himself, Gléohelm began to drink because of his grief. He had to find that orc... even if it killed him. While he was still grieving, he received an invitation to a quest that would take the party down into the Mines of Moria. There were no details and there weren’t any reasons why he of all people would be recruited, but he was interested. The Mines weren’t a place where he had checked for a gray-spotted orc, so that made him want to participate. Gléohelm spoke to Déor about it, and he said that it might be good for him. The city hadn’t been attacked by orcs in quite some time, so if the Marshal took his leave for a while, it wouldn’t hurt much. Gléohelm ordered the soldiers of Framsburg to set up barricades around the city and make more weapons if needed while he’s gone. He walked his horse, Dúnhere, out of the city, and then got on and started riding towards the Valley of Imladris.

Welcome, travelers! If you would, sit, stay with me a while and let me regale you of a tale so shrouded in the mists of time that all but I have forgotten its importance. Many speak of the bravery of Aragorn, the Ranger from the North, swift and fair Legolas, the courageous heart of Gimli the dwarf and the four unlikely companions that they found in the hobbits from the shire. Their tale was that of fighting a great evil, one that has plagued the land of Middle-earth for millennia, but that which I am about to tell you of is nothing like that. This is a tale of dark, of loss, of a people whom many thought were eternally lost to time as even the wisest among us let them pass into myth.

In the beginning the music of the Ainur sprung all that we know into life, yet there was one whose discordance, terrible as it was, brought that who is all knowing and all powerful to the very end of his patience. Morgoth of the dark, who turned all which he created into terrible amalgams knowing naught but pitiless, broken forms as twisted remnants of the majesty which they once were; creations of the true Ainur. After the fateful battle which irrevocably changed the face of Arda, Melkor had been cast away, deep into shadow where he now waits, eternal. As their master was cast into darkness, so too were his horrid creations cast down deep into the earth, below the molten rock and endless depths which would contain them for time unknown. Yet as the unexpected way of the world continued to cause change it had repercussions of which could have never been foreseen.

Dwarves, in all their wisdom and majesty of craftwork, had but one fatal flaw; their unending, insatiable need to delve deep to forgotten depths and the dwellings of monsters so horrific in nature that even their names had been scrubbed from the minds of all who walked the surface. In this great failing, deep beneath the bridge of Khazad-dum, they helped to unearth a tide of evil which the realms of elf, men and dwarves could never know. A secret so great that only the White Council knew of its existence, they gathered in hushed whispers within Rivendell and spoke of a plan to uncover that which lay beneath. Another alliance was formed, the kind of which is never spoken, and an uninformed expedition was to be made and sent into Moria under the guidance of Hild, son of Holdi, to the entrance of the Dark.

Unknown are the terrors that lurk below as the sound of discordant music issues forth from the cavernous crack within the world which had been found. The bravest among us had been sent and so did the bravest of us all get sent to die.

Hello! It's been quite a while, huh? Well, as you can see the outline itself is rather brief, but the overarching premise of it all remains just about the same. The White Council has formed an expedition and you, your character, has been recruited and misled into believing it to be a mission of some import to the dwarves, but wholly lacking of any details. In the dark we shall find the remnants of Morgoth's creations and the world which they created below us, unseen and unknown by all until the stirring of Sauron in 2060, after which the three elven rings of power began to sing a deep, melodious tone.

Will you take the plunge and join in the discovery of a new world? If so, post your character below and I'll get to the review of it all. I hope to see you all by my side in the abyss.

Character Template:

No Canon Characters.

Name:

Race:

Age:

Social Standing (A captain in the military, a beggar and an outlaw, etc.):

Appearance/Height (Pictures are fine for appearance):

Alignment (More of a guideline than a hard rule):

Character Strengths (Preferably concerning their personality in at least a point in both strengths and flaws along with their physical strengths, mental, etc.) :

Character Flaws (Refer to above, but as a flaw) :

Prowess (With weapons of war, as a craftsman, leader, etc. However, must be explained to some extent in backstory at the discretion of the mods):

Equipment:

Companions (NPCs if they must be had, but this will all be at the discretion of the mods entirely and most characters generally won't need or have any sort of NPCs):

Backstory:

Is this a page for the LotR 5e tabletop rpg?

All at once, several rocks fell at Eóorn’s feet. He looked up and, to his surprise, saw a man standing on a ledge above him. But this man did not share the harsh features like the Dunlendings had and there was no white hand anywhere about him. He hopped down. The man was no taller the Eóorn’s thigh! ‘Ullo!’ The tiny man began. A backpack was slung onto his back that was just about as large, if not larger, than the man himself. He had tiny features, but they didn’t look young. In fact, he looked decently aged, but with a youth’s air of energy. What Eóorn failed to notice, was that this was a hobbit. While Eóorn had traveled far and wide he had seldom heard of hobbits. Their going-ons were of little importance to big folk. Eóorn had, of course, seen a sketch of a hobbit hole that Éoman had once carried but had rarely wondered about it. The curly hair around the hobbits face was a yellowish red and he wore no shoes. His feet, the same size as Eóorn’s, were greatly disproportionate compared to his size and he wore trousers, a cloth shirt, and a comfortable, button-up vest. ‘Hello…’ Eóorn said a little surprised. But before he could even process his thoughts, the hobbit spoke. ‘Pardon my interruption, but you haven’t seen a band of rough looking big folk come through here recently?’ ‘No, not here, I can’t say that I have. What… I’ve never seen…’ ‘Oh! I see! You’ve never met a hobbit before! Well, that is quite appropriate for these lands. My folk dwell a long ways from here in a place called the Shire. S-H-I-R-E. We’re not fond of adventures outside the Shire… unless your a Baggins.’ He said this last part under his breath and to himself indignantly. ‘Or unless your like me, and were uncomfortably dragged from your cozy armchair on an errand halfway across the world. My name is Githo Bracegirdle.’ He reaches out his arm high above his head towards Eóorn who returned the shake. ‘My name is Eóorn Herethain.’ ‘Ahh! Master Herethain! A pleasure to meet you. Where might you be… my goodness! Look at your shoulder! That is quite the nasty bite I’d say!’ ‘I was struck by an arrow a few days ago.’ ‘An arrow! You wouldn’t happen to know who shot it? Did they have a white hand on their person?’ ‘Yes, they did.’ ‘Oh good!’ The hobbit did a little happy dance clapping his hands together. ‘You and I have had an encounter with the same nasty people. I thought I’d lost them! The other day, as I was walking next to a river, I laid my bag on a particularly nice patch of grass to go and relieve myself. On my way back I sees men gathered around the bag and looking through it! I stop and says to myself ‘now this is no trouble you want a part of,’ I say, ‘I’ll just let them have their peak around then I’ll get my bag after they leave.’ Of course I was quite flustered at the indecency of the men with my possessions. I had hoped they wouldn’t take anything. Well, unfortunately for me, they took my book.’

It was some time before Eóorn scampered his way back out of the ravine and down the rock, scraping rocks and dead branches off of himself. A chilled breeze was blowing down the mountains. Ahead of him, and above him, lay the White Mountains. Two mountain peaks stood tall, between them a path went up into the range. This was the path Eóorn was about to take. Once he emerged from the pass it would be a straight shot towards Edoras. ‘Three days as the crow flies.’ He thought. He would have to make good time before the fast approaching winter snow would block the pass if he wanted to return this way. He set off, always watching for horseback riders or the sound of a hunting party.

Aside from a throbbing shoulder and a newly aching foot, he was unhindered as he walked the pass thus far. It was a peaceful and quiet walk along the roots of the mountains. The mountains were very wide and it would take him a day, he guessed, to pass all the way through. Along the way he began to wonder what had frightened the horses of the hunting party. While the Dunlendings horses were no match to an Eorlingas, they still frightened seldom. He was not keen on pondering the mystery for too long because his mind wandered to his home. How were they faring? Had they held off the scourge? Could they hold it off until he returned? Or were they already gone, like the other villages, without a trace? He walked for a long time and his mind rambled on restlessly, never coming to a clear answer. Kkkrrr!

The next few moments seemed to last forever. Eóorn lay half buried in the ravine as he heard several men scale the rock. They spoke amongst themselves. Eóorn could only make out two voices, but the sounds of feet and rummaging indicated at least five. “This rock?” “Yes. I thought I saw something. Looked like a large man.” “We’ll look quickly, but that Eorlinga filth must be miles from here if he fled. Closer to the mountains.” “Good. Quick and fast. Like a bow.” The rest of their speech were occasional grunts of affirmation. No one had yet been found they seemed to say. Eóorn’s heart pounded. The men kept searching, always drawing nearer to the ravine. Closer and closer they came. “Check that crack.” Eóorn had to make a run for it or face being speared in a defenseless shallow ravine. But, something happened that Eóorn did not expect. One of the men’s horses startled and jumped clear onto the top of the rock. There was a great commotion as an attempt to settle the horses, who began to startle one by one, unfolded. Amidst cursing in a tribal language and men yelling, the horses hushed and calmed. The one horse on top of the rock nervously walked around, unsure of its new position, so exposed to any eyes from miles away until it looked right down the ravine straight into Eóorn’s eyes. Upon a side of the horses face a white hand shown. Eóorn lay motionless as the horse looked at him from above. “Odd,” it seemed to be thinking, “ there is a man sleeping in the rock.” In no time, the horse lost interest in Eóorn and walked on. So did the hunting party. They left their quick search, all but forgetting to check the ravine because of their horses, and were soon gone. Eóorn let out a sigh.

The blood flowed. The pain was sufficient. After barely applying the chewed leaf, which would clot the blood, he fainted.

When he awoke, a bright starlit sky engulfed his vision. The stars seemed to leave streaks in the sky like marks on paper as they slowly made their way from one side of the world to the other. The breathtaking beauty of the stars, unadulterated by any light of fire or man, gave Eóorn hope. He knew not how much time had passed since he fell. But he knew time was running out. His wound, which had stopped bleeding, looked bad. He got up, slowly, without using his injured arm, and collected himself and his bearings. Breathing the crisp nightly air, he began another walk by starlight.

It was several hours before he found a stream that looked well enough to wash in. There he tended to his wound, cleaning it in the cool water, and stretching sore muscles. A pale blue sky began to emerge accompanied with dashes of red and yellow as the sun rose. With the last of the stars galloping away, Eóorn set off again, refreshed, but still bruised, wounded, and tired. His shoulder would not heal for some time. He knew it would be a thorn in his side for the rest of the journey. A few hours later, the grassy plains of the West-March began to give way to stone, pebble, and boulder of the White Mountains roots. As he was walking, Eóorn noticed a large rock jut out from the ground with a flat surface that could easily hold a small camp on top. Carefully climbing it, (it was not steep) he reached the top and looked back towards the West-March which could be seen far and wide. Instantly he fell down, hiding himself between a few larger rocks. From a ways off he noticed a patch of dust ominously rising in the distance. At its front, several shapes raced in front of it. There was no mistake, this was a Dunlending manhunter party. “What have I done to deserve such luck!” Eóorn cursed. But then again, he never did believe in luck. He inched his way towards the back of the large rock, keeping low. Next to him, several thick bushes clung to the side of a small ravine, no deeper than a man's waist. He could hear galloping now. He lowered himself into the ravine along with his possessions. The ravine, though small and inside of a rock, was cool. Eóorn began to pull smaller bushes and rocks around him covering himself up. The horses breathing could be heard now as he frantically pulled more leaves, rocks, dirt, and tinier bushes over his body in an attempt to hide himself. Then the horses hooves stopped making sound. They were replaced with the sound of men’s feet.

The pain roared in Eóorn’s shoulder as he walked, alone. Sticking three inches out from his shoulder, the broken shaft of an arrow protruded. How deep, he couldn’t tell. All he cared about was the pain. He shifted in and out of reality as the pain grew. Several times coming close to fainting. He couldn’t perceive how much blood he was letting out, but he knew there was some. Suddenly, the Dunlending flashed in his memory. His conflict with the stranger searing itself in his mind to the point of permanent remembrance.

The second the Dunlending reached for his arrow Eóorn knew the danger. He couldn’t outrun the man’s bow. But, he could fight. Savagely, like a madman, Eóorn made a mad dash towards the stranger. That’s when the stranger let his bow sing. The arrow flew and hit its mark in the shoulder. The pain, nor the realization that he had been hit, came at first to Eóorn, he continued his run towards the man. The Dunlending, fear stretching across his eyes because his target had been completely unhindered by his well placed shot, took a few startled steps back, dropping his bow. But, before the Dunlending could turn tail and run, Eóorn was upon him. If there is one race of man in Middle Earth that can wrestle and hold their own in a hand to hand fight, it is the Eorlingas. Their natural hardiness due to surviving in unfruitful valleys and bone chilling cold and their natural size gave Eóorn an instant edge over the smaller Dunlending. In an instant, the two were rolling in the dusty grass. Eóorn attempting to prevent the man from escaping was quickly gaining the upper hand, despite the arrow wound. However, the Dunlending had found his means of escape. Grabbing the arrow in Eóorn’s shoulder, which had begun to manifest its pain, he twisted and pulled on it. Shocking pain paralyzed Eóorn’s body as he let out a cry. As the Dunlending gained his freedom from Eóorn’s grasp, the arrow snapped. Eóorn, although stunned, attempted to grab the Dunlendings legs, but was too late. The stranger, slightly bruised and very frightened by his encounter, had bolted and was long out of reach. Eóorn, to hurt to give chase, watched him run with the shaft of the arrow in his hand. Later, Eóorn couldn’t recall when he had fainted, but he woke, the pain massive in his shoulder. He knew his danger. The Dunlending would not let this trespass go unnoticed and was probably riding now with many allies to finish off the trespasser. Eóorn struggled to his feet, struggling through the pain, and picked up the Dunlendings bow. And, as a second thought, the rabbit. From now on, he would be fleeing for his life from a Dunlending party sure to be hunting for him. That is, unless he could lose them in the mountains that now spanned the horizon.

Now, he walked, fearing more the hunters than he did succumbing to the arrow wound, which, he knew, would have to be taken care of soon. He thought of home. He thought of his mother. His father. He retrieved a dimly green colored, slightly withered leaf from his pack. Chewing it up in his mouth, he spat it out in his hand. Then, placing a stick across his teeth, placed his free hand on the broken arrow shaft. Then he pulled.

The West-March was long and flat. Eóorn traveled many miles alone. Now, he assumed, he was half way between the river Adorn and its counterpart, the Isen. He wouldn’t be crossing the Isen. Rather, he planned to head straight to the White Mountains. This was the course he ran now. The sense of urgency had long grown a tall shadow over Eóorn. It weighed on him bringing hurt in both spirit and strength. He ate little, and when he did, (food was scarce on the West-March) it was a thin rabbit as close to starvation as he was. This was his prey now. He lacked any hunting gear, unwise as it was. A small pebble in his hands, he crept as close as he could to the rabbit. Spying over a clump of long and dead grass that had hid his approach, he took aim. A pebble was a meager hunting tool but a well placed shot would wound and eventually subdue the animal. The rabbit stirred, disturbed from its foraging. It glanced up at Eóorn. ‘What a foolish man.’ it thought, ‘I am much quicker than your stone.’ But the rabbit was mistaken, and in some way, so was Eóorn. For before the rabbit could take to leaping and before Eóorn could throw, an arrow came and struck the rabbit through. Eóorn, taken by surprise, leaped up. Ahead of him was a man. The man looked back at Eóorn, just as surprised. Both stood still, not daring to speak. Upon the mans face, a white hand shone. Eóorn could make nothing meaningful of the mark, mistaking it for a Dunlending tribes war marking. The more Eóorn saw, the more crude the man looked. The Dunlending, unwavering, reached for another arrow from his quiver.

The path a raven flies was far quicker and straighter than that which a man might walk, Breod was long past weary. His journey had taken him south of long-lake, through Greenwood the Great along the forest road to the Old Ford and then rowing down the Anduin before traversing the plains of The Wold and East Emnet before finally crossing the Entwash and travelling west at last to Edoras. And after all that it looked like he was going to be turned away at the bloody gate.
“I am Breod, son of Erann of the Kingdom of Dale.” He tried unsuccessfully to smooth out his beard. “Though our peoples have grown apart, we are distant kin and the Bardings to the north ever count themselves friends to you and your king.” The guard raised an unimpressed eyebrow at Breod's attempt at manners, he seemed rightfully wary of the rugged, fur-cad man before him.
“And what brings 'Breod, son of Erann' so far from his home wishing entry into the capital of the horselords?” Breod fidgeted, it didn't seem wise to recount his whole tale, or for that he was seeking a Dunlending clan. And a lifetime outside the law left him feeling more than a little uncomfortable around armed guards.
“I'm tired.” He answered lamely at last. “I seek but a few nights rest in one of your inns and then counsel for the road ahead, for my journey takes me now through the Gap Of Rohan on the trail of a friend and of that land I have little knowledge.”
“Your words seem fairer than your looks Breod.” The Barding flashed him a toothy grin; but the guard remained thoughtful. “You are welcome to the counsel of our folk, but the land has grown dark of late, we fear spies of the enemy walk among us, I could not allow a stranger to stay in the city past dark. Upon the morrow you will have entry but for tonight you will have to find a bed elsewhere.” Breod nodded his thanks before leaving, trying to keep a straight face as pleasant thoughts of even a straw mattress that evening left him.
That night he made his bed in the barrowfield outside the city walls and lay amongst the dead, between grassy tombs of Rohan's former kings. A more noble company than Breod would likely ever find himself in again, though it filled him grim feelings all the same and sleep did not come willingly. He found himself missing the woods and streams of him home and wondered if this road he walked would lead him also to his grave.

The river narrowed, finally. It spanned about eight horse lengths at its least wide. Eóorn would have to cross here into the West-March or be led to the wrong side of the White Mountains by the ever rushing waters. Out from the traveling bag he pulled a rope and, for a quick and small lunch, an apple. This was the last of his food, something he knew would not last long. Here on out he would be forced to hunt, adding time to his journey. He sat on the bank and pondered the river. Along the other side was a large boulder standing straight up with a v like shape cut from its top. This was a passing rock. Eóorn and any Eorlingas with any experience traveling knew what they were. They could be found across rivers or swampy areas to aid in travel. They were only useful, however, if one had a rope. Eóorn looked to his side and saw the second passing rock, almost directly parallel to the opposite bank’s rock. After sitting for a few minutes, resting, and washing his feet in the cool water after miles of repetitive walking between a bank and what seemed to be endless plains, Eóorn stood and searched the bank. After searching for a few minutes he found what he needed, a decent sized rock. It was large enough to be heavy yet light enough to throw. He took the rock and tied it to the rope, looping it several times. Then, standing slightly in the shallow edge of the water he threw the throwing rock toward the passing rock. Success, the rock landed just beyond the passing rock with the rope neatly tucked into the v cleft. Eóorn had always prized his aim when throwing when he was a child. He pulled the rope tight securing the rock behind the boulder. Now, he had a rope secured to the other side of the bank, next, the hard part. Tightening his traveling bags he grabbed the rope and stepped into the bank. The plan was to slowly drag oneself with the rope to the other side. This way, the strong current of the Adorn river wouldn’t sweep him away as it had to so many poor travelers who underestimated its flowing waters. As he made his way deeper into the river he felt it get stronger. The water was up to his chest and his feet began to slip. Before he knew it, he was dragged under and then surfacing and gurgling water as it splashed over his head violently. He continued to pull himself along the rope, repeatedly being dragged under. Every second he lost more air and the waters became colder. Finally, he felt his feet touch the bank. Slowly the waters receded away allowing him to breath. He continued to hold the rope as he regained his footing and waded out of the river. He had made it. Feeling waterlogged and fatigued he took a minute to catch his breath. After resting, he grabbed the rock and untied his rope, storing it back away. Now, turning away from the river, he would face the West-March. It seemed to loom over him as he gazed over it.

It had been his father's bow. In years past this tatty, knotted piece of old wood had loosed arrows against the chiefest and greatest of calamities: Smaug the magnificent. If his father was to be believed of course; and if he was anything like his son, then probably it wasn't so. Ever since then though the bow had shot not at tremendous, impenetrable, golden dragons but at stupid, fat livestock of unwary farmers.

Until today.

Breod pulled the drawstring back to his cheek, the bow-feather tickling on the edge of his beard as he narrowed his eyes and took aim into the night. Beneath the splintered ruins of the old lake-town, pale-white against the murky waters the skull of Smaug lay looking up at him. He tried to remember that night in his mind. The screams, the fires, the glittering gold in the sky. And a shiver ran down his spine.

Splashing water from the lake broke his reverie and Breod quickly laid the bow down before darting to the edge of the dock and stretching his arm out below.

“Come on help me up will you!” Owyn balled at him as the small shabby man was heaved up forcefully onto the dock. The dunlending rolled over and lay a moment on his back, panting heavily and spluttering up water. Breod only stood watching him.

“Did you get any?” The Barding asked at last, impatience showing in his voice, this was their third attempt now. Owyn only looked up at him a moment scornfully before peering down to reveal what was hidden in his hands, Breod gasped. Nestled in the dirty palms and lake-grime was a glistening bright gemstone of magnificent red. Any misgivings Breod had about this idea melted away at the sight of it. Men said that none had ever dared dive to claim the treasure that once adorned the mighty Smaug. They were fools.

“Think what the dwarves will give us for that!” Breod exclaimed, poaching seemed like petty business to him now. “And they needn't know from where it came.” But Owyn shook his head.

“Not dwarves my friend.”

“Who would pay more for a jewel than a dwarf?!” Breod balked, but his companion only smiled ruefully.

“My kin down in the south...They know some people.” He looked down at the gem admiringly. “I think this might be the sort of thing I've heard they're looking for.”

Eóorn trudges ahead. The ground was soft and slightly muddy against his boots. Horseless and maybe homeless if he did not succeed, Eóorn traveled in the direction of Edoras and the Golden Hall. He knew the way well, often traveling all over Rohan with Éoman as a younger man. It was dark and the view of his village had long passed into the distance. Ahead and at his side, the river Adorn flowed restlessly. It would prove a challenge to cross if he did not keep his wits about him and would add time to his timed journey. After Adorn, he planned to pass as quietly as possible through the West-March. The immediate lands around his village were safe enough, but, beyond, well… Dunlendings didn’t take well to those of the Rohirrim. They claimed the West-March belonged to them although in reality it was given to the line of Rohan. They were bitter over it and would protect that belief with their life. Although preferably with a knife in the stomach of an Eorlinga. After the West-March, he would encounter the White Mountains. If he remembered correctly, there was a pass that led out near Helms Deep, a long abandoned stronghold hungry for action. After that, the Westfold was a straight shot to Edoras. ‘Simple enough,’ he thought, ‘just keep one foot in front of the other. The road doesn’t run too fast, but it will lead you where you cannot imagine if you don’t watch it.’ The ground started to squash and mud beneath his feet. He was nearer the Adorn river than he originally guessed. ‘I wish someone were here,’ his mind wandered endlessly as he walked, ‘that could be a fine saying indeed.’ Unfortunately, a rather significant hobbit would beat him to the phrase some time later. As he walked and thought the sun rose uncaring of any above the vast plains casting a shining glint upon the river. ‘If only I had a boat. Then I could make real progress. Or a horse!’ These last words echoed around him as he said them out loud. ‘A horse would fly me to Edoras unlike any boat could!’ He continued following the river by its side, knowing sooner or later he must cross into the West-March. But the river was long and wide and the West-March looked very uninviting. A crossing could wait. Above him, unaware of their presence, a pack of crow like birds gathered as if for a feast on an animal soon to meet it’s fate.

A shadow moved cautiously over the plains of East Emnet. It did not have to it the menace inherent of the servants of the east, nor the agile silence of an elf from the woodlands, but it clearly did not wish to be seen. Breod scrambled up the rocky knoll as quietly as he could manage, not caring even to wipe the grime from his beard and cloak. He'd felt an uneasy sense of being watched since setting out from Erebor and now, exposed out and alone, he felt all the more vulnerable.

The last rays of the sun had begun to fade behind the western mountains as the older dale-man slipped onto the main path. The village was not much farther ahead of him now, with it was security and a peaceful night's sleep. If he was lucky maybe even roast meat and an ale, but then Breod was seldom a lucky man, poachers were not as a rule.
The great oaken gate swung open with an effort and a low creak, Breod had been surprised not to find guards posted, he had worried for he did not look friendly, nor was he, but admitted to himself that he knew little of Rohirrim ways. Stumbling in, he made his way quickly to a nearby water barrel and washed the travel from his face before turning in to what looked like an inn.

A warm firelight hitting his ruddy face, the scent of sweet meats and sloshing mead, songs of merriment greeting his ears was what the old poacher had expected. But instead he was greeted with only a still darkness that lay over the empty tavern. Breod came up short, then backed out abruptly. He looked about the village and realised only then it's emptiness and abandonment. An ill boding set in him and that feeling of eyes upon him redoubled. Not for the first time he had thoughts of regret for starting on this quest, but his spirits alighted suddenly as he looked upwards and caught the silhouette of a dark bird upon the rooftop.

“P-Prukk!?” Breod stammered in surprise and relief, a rare smile creeping over his face, he couldn't believe his eyes. “I've come all the way from Dale to find you I...” Just as suddenly he trailed off, as eyes focusing he realised it was not the raven he knew, as it turned he saw it was not in fact a raven at all. Breod quickly unslung his old yew bow and loosed a shot at the Crebain. But the bird had already taken flight and the arrow sailed off into past it and Breod heard the wings beating away into the night. He needed to leave. Now.

Eóorn is shaken awake. It is Eeywine. She looks hurried but hushed. “My son,” she whispers, “you must pack your things quickly, quietly. Follow me and I will explain everything.” It is early morning, three hours before the sun. In the main room, the four men lie asleep. Eóorn quickly finds his old traveling possessions as the memory of the nights events return to him; a faded yellow cloak, a bag for medicinals and herbs, and a small blade. Quickly dawning all the items Eóorn turns to his mother. She leads him out a small window in Eóorn’s room, gracefully dropping a few feet to the ground. Eóorn follows silently. Under the window on the ground is a traveling bag containing spare clothes and a traveling stick. Another bag, smaller than the second, contains two loaves of bread and five apples. “Take these,” says Eeywine, “ and this.” She hands him a small purse containing a few coins. “You must travel to Edoras. Seek the council and aid of king Théoden on behalf of the people of Rohan for an answer to this oncoming dread. A great trouble grows in the Northwest, I can feel it. These men here, I fear, are a part of that evil for better or worse. These things you must do, or else our lives are in vain. I knew the scourge was coming, but I did not know it was so near, lest I would have taken action before Arathour and company arrived.” Eeywine embraces her son. “Now go. I will fight this invisible plague as long as I can. Speed be with you.” “Mother…,” Eóorn, quite shaken by the suddenness of the urgent mission, is pushed in the relative direction of Edoras. “Don’t wait. Go quickly.” His mother urged him on. He knew the plains of Rohan well enough to find his way to Edoras, long as it was. As he walked he looked back and saw the figure of his mother, the secret chieftain of the village, fading into the dark. Haradiem, her husband, was a decoy chieftain. It was Eeywine who made all the decisions through Haradiem. This secrecy was the result of a rapid kidnapping of several village chieftains by thugs looking for ransoms before Eóorn was born. So far, it had worked, and Eeywine was a good chieftain, known or unknown. Thus, not since Eóorn had studied under Éoman, he set out on a new adventure. One to save or fail his home and family, and maybe the kingdom of Rohan.

“I’m afraid you have come to guess why we are here.” The second cloaked man spoke. His voice was dark and smooth, not regional at the least. The voice put off Haradiem for but a moment. “This scourge is on your doorstep. It has followed a line through Rohan hitting several villages in its path. You’re village is in this path. We have come to warn you, like we have many villages before, and many villages after unless it is stopped. We urge you to take action, prepare if nothing else. We fear what this treachery will accomplish if it’s full secret conspiring is complete.” “How many villages have fallen?” “Around seventeen, maybe more. Enough for concern.” Eeywine leans over to Haradiem and whispers quietly into his ear. “Who are you?” Asks Haradiem. “Do you doubt our story?” “Only your faces.” “I am Arathour, son of Ilathur. My companion is Heorm, son of Hilbard.” “Where are you from?” “I am from Gondor, from the city of Minas Tirith. My friend is from one of the villages that now lies destitute.” This time Eeywine speaks to Heorm, “Friend, how is it you managed to escape?” Heorm responds, “I lived in a village far from here. Arathour had come, alone, to my village to warn the chieftain and people of this plight as he has come to you. But the chieftain did not listen. I believed Arathour though and I tried my best to convince them of the danger but they still did not listen. So I left with Arathour. My village… my home… it is gone now.” “I am sorry,” Eeywine looked mournful and troubled, but she was composed and radiated assurance, “I am sure we will think differently of this danger.” Haradiem continued to question Arathour. “What has Gondor to do with the borders of Rohan?” “That is a secret to important to be spoken here. We will spend the night here if you allow and discuss means of preparation for this evil. For now, I must gather the rest of my party.” The man leaves to return with the remaining two members of his company. They are situated to sleep in areas on the floor and are given wools and pillows by Eeywine. Eóorn returns to his room, drowsiness settling in. Haradiem, Eeywine, and Arathor continue talking in low voices throughout most of the night.

Eóorn lies in his bed. A small thatched house separated slightly from a small Rohirrim village are all connected by worn dirt paths. The house, little more than a glorified shack, is home to Eóorn and his parents. The home contains three rooms, a main area where food can be prepared and shared and two bedrooms opposite each other on two ends of the main room. Stools and old wooden tables litter the three rooms. A desk, chest, and bed are exclusive to the two bedrooms. The night is especially thick. Only the light of stars pierce thin lines through the dark. These lights mix with the heavy glow of torch light as four travelers approach the home each leading a horse behind them. They stop, huddle together for a moment, and then two break away and head to the small cluster of homes that make up a part of the village. One of the two remaining strangers approach the door to the home. Brump brump brump! Three knocks, cautious but firm, wake Eóorn instantly. Quick to his feet, Eóorn scrambles to ready himself then enters the main room. Two long shadows of feet cast themselves across the floor from under the door as Eóorn rushes to light a wick. Wick lit and wits awake, Eóorn opens the door. “Is this the house of the village chieftain?” A raspy voice comes from one of the men under a green hood, his features hidden in shadow. “Yes,” replies Eóorn, “why do you approach a man's house so guarded at this time of night?” “I beg your pardon, sir. But we need to speak with the chieftain. Are you him?” “No. It is my father.” “Is your father here?” “Yes. He is.” Startled, Eóorn turns to see his father behind him, his mother close behind. Just as startled, the raspy voiced man says, “May... sorry... many apologies for the hour, sir. But, we request your presence. It is of the utmost urgency.” After a brief pause, the men are let in. Eóorn, the two men, and Eóorn’s parents, Eeywine and Haradiem, all occupy stools in a corner of the room. The news is dire. A scourge, unknown, has been sweeping through parts of Rohan. Many villages have crumbled into disarray seemingly on their own with their inhabitants disappearing altogether. “What’s more, sir. It seems to be of an intelligent design. These lands and people have faced many famine and hardship. But, this... this is much different. Villages are left completely abandoned. Some with large stores of food, others with barely any. We thought it may have been a hostile force of some kind, but no sightings have been seen of a force large enough to cause disaster on this scale. Moreover, the destruction began in the Northeast of Rohan and travels Southwest.” Haradiem’s face is deeply concentrated. “Where is it now?”

Cont. Intro Pt. 2

Backstory: The shape, the beauty, the functionality, the history, the architecture of the world had always fascinated Eóorn from an early age. He was intelligent. That may be why his mother and father had to let him go. The man who took him was looking to pass on his trade, something Eóorn would possible be very good at. And he was. His parents knew it was the best they could hope for their son to let him apprentice under this man. Of course, they knew they would still see him, just not as often. But it was hard to let him go nonetheless. The family was very close. The man who took him as an apprentice was simply named Éoman. Nothing more. But, Éoman’s reputation exceeded him. He was a skilled herbalist, huntsman, survivor, and tactician. He was well educated in the halls of Gondor where he journeyed as a child. But, it was none of these things that made him known in the eyes of the mighty. Rather, his skill as a craftsman and architect had attracted many. He could rival the dwarves in his creating of kingly halls, the elves in forging beautiful tree like columns, and the defensive structures of men were no stranger to him. The architect had journeyed far and wide perfecting his craft and skill. He had been in hobbit burrows, troll caves, mountain halls, elven chambers, golden white towers, and even an orc encampment. The latter he barely escaped alive, and vowed to never brave another. Éoman, seeing as he was growing in age and weakness was beginning to cloud his body, had sought for a disciple. Someone to pass his knowledge to. Someone who could maybe even perfect it. This someone was Eóorn. How he found him is another story entirely. Eóorn studied under Éoman and even grew somewhat of a reputation under him. In the latter part of his studies he would begin to be called by those who saw him with Éoman, “the lesser architect.” Eóorn traveled far and wide, learning much from Éoman about the worlds architecture, but always returning to the fields of Rohan to his parents after every adventure. Eóorn even became quite a skilled herbalist, survivor, and strategist aside from his architectural study. But alas, as Éoman’s health and sanity waned, they stopped traveling and returned to Éoman’s home in the city of Minas Tirith. There, Eóorn’s studies were complete, as much a master in architecture as Éoman. Time passed and with it, Éoman. The loss grieved Eóorn greatly. But, it was time to set off on his own, as the new “greater architect of men.” Eóorn returned to his parents home, where he was welcomed with open arms by all that knew him as a child. When he left, he was fourteen, and now, returning, he is twenty-seven. He remained in his parents home for nearly two years untroubled despite his reputation. Now, as four men clad in dark green cloaks approach his parents home, he will begin a new adventure. One that could either strengthen him or break him completely. An adventure that’s outcome rests on the edge of a blade.

Strengths and Weaknesses: Amazing architect, herbalist, survivor, and tactician. Tall with some strength, intelligent. Not a skilled fighter but can still wield a weapon. Has trouble trusting others.

Equipment: Rolls of paper, drafting equipment, a one handed blade, a pouch for plants and herbs, various traveling equipment, sturdy boots, Rohan commoner clothing, a faded yellow cloak.

Alignment: Neutral Good.