Mustering report in the lands of Bree. Fridgrim, 3rd son of Rudgarm, 31st Westfold Fyrd.
Once more Grimwolds words has proven true. Battle ale is to be brought down your throat not before but after battle so that your shield holds straight and your sword slashes swift at the enemy. I have the highest regard for my troop under the leadership of Lord Therowan but once in a while it happens that the beards of said men get a tad to wet from the forlorn ales of these bitter and goblin ridden lands.
Nobody knows how long the barrels had travelled to get to the Forsaken Inn that is our current outpost. I would say from Bree town or beyond at least. Not as far as ways end but from the taste of it close to there. We took stride from this inn less than a fortnight ago on legs that had been made wobbely wool from that ale. We were not wise but brave when we marched towards the goblins, we pushed on into the ruins of something lost to fight their grim kind.
We stood strong in the waves of stench breathed foes and pushed on to the main bridge, an old wodden structure that only had withstood time due to its fear to fall down to the spider lairs below. it was here that we took our toughest losses, and though fighting valiantly as it becomes us Rohirrim we had to pull back. Nothing we did could hold back the hordes. I think not even a whole fyrd could undo that goblins stronghold. We had withdraw to the forsaken inn to regroup, a wise move as both men and equipment suffered during our clash with the enemy.