The filth scatter as I ride out in my glory. The cold mists curl like tattered banners about the fetlocks of my horse. My chosen men spur on hard to try to keep close, but my horse has no peer - and neither do I.
We erupt from the grinning gates, spike-toothed portcullis swinging above us, down into the cold hard valley. Above me on the stone walls a brazen trumpet blares out my challenge to the North.
To my Northern bretheren, lost in thraldom and dead promises to elves, bound by the foolishness of their forefathers - my call rings - the world is being made anew! Rise up, faded scions of Numenor - join the growing power. Come to me!
To the Breeland small-folk, toiling without end - bring your harvest to lords who will love you. Remember that you too are Men! I will give your sons' names of renown, your daughters' pride to light their eyes. Come to me!
The iron ring upon my finger bites hard in the cold. The sensation of the pain of it thrills and enlivens me. My horse lengthens his stride even as I ride up the nearest summit. Here, above all things, I wheel him about, to look out over the blasted north, over towards the last fingerholds of my northern kin. I wish them no ill - only our freedom - unless they choose foolishly to defy me. In my mind new lines are to be drawn. New allegancies. New kings. New lords.
An exultant cry of future possession bursts from me. An elf in my chamber behind me, before me no power of Man or elf to thwart me. Triumphantly I bring my hunt to the land.
