The dusty boots of a rear guard

Mustering report in the lands of Bree. Fridgrim, 3rd son of Rudgarm, 31st Westfold Fyrd.

First my apologies for the late report. We have had many days and nights of hasty march. I record it is written in the annals of the great Grimbold's that a military force, even a small one as ours, is at great peril in foul lands unless an assigned rear guard watches it's back. I thank my Fyrd commander for assigning me this position under the rigid leadership of Lord Thérowan. As to not endanger the mission should this report be intercepted I can not tell much about our exact whereabouts but rest assure that our steps are filled with the enemys blood and that my sword arm get all the necessary training.

Although this said, my contribution to the lawful beheadings necessary for us to bear further on
is not always the best. This is partly due to the way rations. I do not fully remember Grimbold's words on this but a man with an empty stomach is but half a man when he wears his sword in battle. Also I would add that the pots of Bree land often have musky aromas and are full of ill tasting spices that turns your stomach over and back. Often are the times where you have to make a hasty excuse even in the best of companies. This I partly, well I would even say fully, blame on the small folks that run about and around here wherever you go, even sometimes they trip you over or lure you into lost paths are you not careful.

This is also where I fail the most as sometimes without will I abandon my post. In Bree town and also in the damp caverns where our mission leads I tend to lose direction and suddenly I find myself out of the way. I always try to be back at my post more soon than late but I feel that this is an area where I need to improve myself.

There is more to tell but it must, I forgive, wait until I have another opportunity to make good on my reporting duties.

Fridgrim.

The proud Rohirrim

Report to Erkenbrand I: Meeting the shadows

Dear Father,

The tracks have led us all through Eriador up to the northern city of Bree, a place filled with filth and dishonest men. The threats up here come mainly from bandits, the roads are not safe, orcs and worse. Much worse I am afraid. We have seen lots of misery along the way, particularly passing through the lands of the fallen Dunlendings whom we belive have some dealings with the orcs. Isenrid is telling me the orc tracks are not entirely fresh but they are there. He is pussled because it looks like the orcs came from the south and went north but we all know he is mistaken and he agrees himself. They come from up here, the opposite would mean they came from Rohan and we both understand that is not the case. They are disguising their tracks somehow, for reasons we do not understand. We have not located them in the flesh yet but are certain to do so within short.

Yesterday a ranger that goes by the name Strider, one of the few honest men you find up here, asked us for help regarding some grave danger. Hoping to prove our friendship, and gaining valuable information about the orcs in return, we set out to help him find a kinsman named Amdir or something similar. Well, I do not know how to put it, but Beothata listened around in Bree and Isenrid followed the leads Beothata found. We found him, this Amdir fellow, allright. But we found something more! Black riders! Five of them! Maybe some of those that crossed River Isen not long ago. We do not know and we do not even want to speculate. Fortunately for us they withdrew when we came upon them in an old ruin from the days of Arnor. They bewitched and left this Amdir on some altar and when we thought he was lost he came alive again and attacked us with the strength of ten men! We defeated him, but just barely and only thanks to Thraindir's leadership and Gundred's outmost bravery. Fridgrim almost lost his head in his eagerness to prove himself worthy your trust and I barely managed to protect him. Strider was deeply saddened by the loss of his friend but fullfilled his promise to tell us all he knew about the orcs. We are soon heading east, to Whethertop, where they dwell in numbers. We will find out who is behind all this and put their heads on stakes. That is a fitting end for enemies of The Mark.

Where the Black Riders are now I cannot say, and I hope we will not meet them again. They struck fear into me that I have never felt before and I thought my blood was turning to ice. I am not even ashamed of it, they are not of this world. Clearly they must be connected to the orcs somehow. And thus the Nameless One himself. Allthough that does litte to explain the White hand. His minions do always wear the Eye, dont they? Maybe this is just some foul plot by the Lord of Mordor to keep us in the dark.

Of Gandalf Greyhame we have seen and heard little. We will keep looking allthough I still dont see what good he could bring us father. Riverfoam and the other mearas are fine. Just wanted to let you know. I will write again soon.

Your loyal blood,
Thérowan

Prologue: Riding into Dunland

King Théoden has gone silent. No more orders are issued. No feasts being held. Nothing. In Helm's Deep Erkenbrand, Lord of Westfold is getting deeply concerned for his King. And for the Nation. King Théoden refuse to appoint a Second and Third Marshal of the Mark. To signs of inactivity are added those of distrust. And the Kings Advisor, Gríma, seems unintrested, or rather incapable of guiding the King out of the mists and into the light.

On the western border scouts report sightings of orcs. And worse. They bear the mark of a mysterious white hand. Not a know warlord in Dunland, nor elsewhere. Saruman, Rohans old ally in Isengard has little information to give. Who is the commander of these foul creatures of destruction? From Gondor come accusations that Rohan is sending their finest horses to the Dark One himself and that Rohan and Mordor have formed a secret alliance. Lord Erkenbrand a retired Marshal of the Mark can no longer remain inactive.

Looking for a trace of the origin of the orcs of the White hand raging along river Isen on the western borders of Westfold a handful of Rohirrim, under the command of Lord Thérowan, son of Erkenbrand, has been sent into Dunland by Erkenbrand himself. King Théoden in Edoras has shown only the slightest interest in the matter of threatening orcraids and Erkenbrad has not wasted time informing his King about the small group of six riders flashing past the Ford of Isen into Dunland on their Mearas. The rumours in villages along Bruinen lead them far away from Rohan, all the way to northern Eriador.

And thus the tale begins...