Chapter I: The promised child

In the year 2979 of the Third Age, upon the wind-haunted shores of Anfalas where the great waters of Belegaer eternally wage their ancient war against the steadfast cliffs, there came into the world a child of destiny, Judarion. He was born unto the house of Thaldor Cirandor, a lord of stern countenance and matchless valor, whose lineage stretched back unto the ancient mariners of Westernesse. His mother, the Lady Elendriel, was possessed of such grace and healing wisdom as to recall the gentle arts of the Eldar, her hands bearing the blessed gift of mending both flesh and spirit.

In the haven of Lond Cirion, where the salt-laden winds bore tales from distant shores, young Judarion waxed strong amidst the lore of ages past. The very air was thick with stories of great deeds and noble sacrifices, while the song of steel upon steel and the eternal voice of the sea shaped his earliest memories. Thus was he shaped by both the stern virtues of warfare and the tender mercies of healing, as befitted one who would one day bear the mantle of leadership in troubled times.

From the first flowering of his youth, Judarion was marked for the path of the warrior-guardian. Upon the storm-wracked beaches and weathered headlands, he and his sworn companion Tauron - bound closer than brothers by oaths unspoken yet iron-strong - honed their craft in the arts of war. Under the watchful eye of his sire, whose wisdom had been bought with blood upon many fields of valor, Judarion mastered both blade and command, tempering the steel of his spirit with the profound compassion inherited from his mother's gentle heart.

In the fullness of time, when the stars shone bright upon the Western Sea, Judarion's heart was captured by the fair Anwen, whose quiet strength and luminous spirit called to mind the tales of noble ladies in ages past. Their union was blessed beneath the ancient stones of Lond Cirion, and ere long they were gifted with a son, Isharion, whose coming brought such joy as to make the very waves sing with gladness. For a brief season, blessed by the Valar, peace and contentment reigned in the house of Cirandor.

Chapter II: The Call of War

That peace was not to last. The dark whispers from the East grew louder, and the shadow of Mordor lengthened. The call to arms echoed through every fief of Gondor. Judarion, now a father and a husband, answered that call without hesitation. He joined the ranks of the Sea Serpents, the 7th Legion of Anfalas, a force known for their mastery of both land and sea. It was a legion that bore the sigil of a serpent-entwined trident, a symbol of their unyielding defense of Gondor’s southern coasts. Judarion rose swiftly through the ranks, his skill and courage undeniable. By the time the storm of war gathered its full fury, he had attained the rank of First Sword-Lieutenant, commanding a fierce platoon known as The Serpent’s Maw. These were men who, like him, had been tempered by the relentless tides and the constant threat of Corsair raids. Their banner was a fearsome one—a pair of black sea-serpents coiled about a drowning ship upon a field of crimson. Their enemies learned to dread its appearance, for where the Serpent’s Maw struck, death was sure to follow.

That peace, like the gentle mists upon the morning sea, was destined to fade ere long. From the uttermost East came tidings of darkness, whispers borne upon fell winds that spoke of shadow and flame, and the realm of Mordor stirred once more in its ancient malice. Through every noble fief and far-flung haven of fair Gondor rang the clarion call to arms, clear and terrible as the horns of doom.

In those fateful days, when the shadows lengthened and the winds bore ill tidings from afar, Judarion, bearer of sacred duties both paternal and matrimonial, hearkened unto the clarion call with a heart laden with both stern purpose and grievous burden. Into the hallowed ranks of the Seventh Legion he was received, Known in the tongue of the Eldar as "Lhingril", the Sea-serpents of Anfalas, whose battle-cry of old rang fierce and fell: "Unto the depths we draw our foes, where darkness eternal awaits."

Their standard, wrought with cunning craft in days long past, bore upon its face a serpent thrice-coiled about a trident of pure silver, gleaming like starlight upon storm-tossed waters. This ancient device, passed down through generations unnumbered, spoke of their ceaseless vigil over the wave-haunted marches of Southern Gondor, where the salt-winds sang ever of valour and vigilance against the shadow-ships that prowled those treacherous waters.

Beneath that proud banner gathered the finest warriors of the coastal realms, their armor adorned with scales of silver-steel that caught the light like fish-mail beneath the waves, and their blades bore the blessing of the sea-lords of old. Thus was Judarion numbered among these most noble guardians, whose lineage stretched back unto the days when Númenor still rose proud above the western waves.

Swift indeed was Judarion's ascent through the ranks of that storied host, for his valor and prowess with blade and bow could not long go unmarked. Ere the gathering tempest of war reached its full and terrible might, he had attained the most honored station of First Sword-Lieutenant, and unto his command was given that most fell company known in whispered tales as The Serpent's Maw. These were warriors whose spirits had been forged in the crucible of endless tides and tempered by countless battles against the black-sailed raiders of Umbar.

Their battle-standard struck dread into the hearts of all who stood against them - twin serpents of midnight hue, wrought with terrible aspect, coiled about a foundering vessel upon a field of deepest crimson. Throughout all the lands of the Enemy, it was well known that where the dreaded Serpent's Maw did strike, thither also came the cold hand of doom, and few indeed were those who lived to tell of their passing.

Chapter III: The March

In the days of his youth, Judarion had dwelt amidst the ancient tales of valour and glory—tales of noble knights who, clad in mail that gleamed like starlight upon the waters, rode forth to safeguard the hallowed realm of Gondor. In those tender years, his heart was filled with songs of great deeds and mighty victories, sung in mead-halls where golden firelight danced upon carven walls. Yet when at last the horns of war echoed across the land, and he took up arms in answer to that dire summons, he found that such tales were but pale shadows, mere whispers of a truth far grimmer and more fell than any bard's telling.

From their ancient keeps that stood proud against the ever-restless seas came the Sea Serpents, their banners snapping in the salt-laden winds, marching forth at the bidding of Lord Golasgil, whose line stretched back unto the days of ship-kings. At their fore strode Judarion, bearing the mantle of leadership over that most dreaded company, The Serpent's Maw. With stern purpose did he lead his warriors from the wave-swept shores of Anfalas, their hearts heavy with foreboding as they turned their backs upon the grey seas of their forebears and set their faces toward the gleaming towers of Minas Tirith.

When at last they came unto that mighty citadel of stone and memory, the very heavens above grew dark with terror unnameable, as the fell beasts of the Enemy wheeled and circled like shadows of doom. In that hour, hope grew thin as morning mist, fading like the last ember of a once-mighty flame in the gathering gloom of a storm-wracked night.

There came no respite, nay, not a moment's peace to draw breath anew. Scarce had they passed beneath the mighty gates of the White City when the clarion call rang forth—bidding them hence to Osgiliath, that most ancient of realms, long the steadfast sentinel of Gondor against the creeping shadow that dwelt in the East. In those hallowed streets, now laid low, a tempest of flame and crimson did rage, where once-proud spires and noble halls stood now as naught but broken remnants, their weathered stones bearing witness to the fell deeds wrought thereupon, slick with the mingled blood of both defender and foe alike.

Forth from the darkness came the Enemy, like unto a great tide of shadow made manifest, an endless host of fell creatures and twisted forms, seeking to overwhelm the last bastions of the West beneath their numberless ranks. As they crossed o'er the ancient bridge that spanned the mighty Anduin, the very heavens grew dark with the beating of terrible wings, and the air was rent with shrieks that froze the very marrow, melding with the cries of Men and the song of steel upon steel.

Judarion, girt about by the steadfast warriors of the Serpent's Maw, pressed ever forward through the maelstrom of battle, his blade rising and falling in a dire rhythm most terrible to behold. The very air grew thick and heavy with the reek of mortality and the bitter tang of burning flesh, while great Anduin, fairest of rivers, ran crimson with the lifeblood of the fallen, its sacred waters forever marked by the madness of war. The lamentations of the dying echoed in Judarion's ears, whilst the thunderous roars of fell beasts and the shrieking of Orcish hordes merged into a terrible symphony that assailed his senses like unto the relentless waves that beat upon the shores of his homeland.

In those hallowed and broken streets, where each footfall echoed with the weight of ancient sorrows, Judarion, son of the Western shores, tasted first the fell draught of war's bitter cup. Like morning mist before the rising sun, so too did his boyhood dreams of valorous deeds and songs of glory fade into the cruel light of truth. What remained was naught but the cold steel of necessity and the iron price of sacrifice, paid in blood upon the stones of yesteryear.

With Tauron beside him, steadfast as the stars of Elbereth, brother not by blood but by the sacred bonds forged in the fires of youth, Judarion wielded his blade not for the glory of minstrels' tales, but for the precious breath of those who followed his banner. 'Twas there, amidst the crumbling majesty of fair Osgiliath, that the full measure of leadership's burden lay heavy upon his shoulders—not merely the gleaming crown of command, but the crushing weight of souls entrusted to his keeping, each life a sacred charge written in the ancient scrolls of duty.

When at last the white stones of the river-city could no longer be held against the tide of darkness, Judarion and his valiant few, these last sons of the proud realm, were compelled to withdraw unto the towers of Minas Tirith. They crossed o'er mighty Anduin in solemn procession, their hearts heavy with remembrance, these once-proud defenders of the realm now bearing the marks of bitter struggle upon their raiment and spirits alike.

Yet no respite awaited the weary, for as they drew nigh unto the walls of the White City, the fearsome engines of the Enemy hurled their burning spite against her ancient stones, and the very air was rent with the thunder of war-drums and the lamentations of those who stood fast upon her battlements, their voices rising like unto the echoes of Ages past.

In the great battle upon the Fields of the Pelennor, where doom and destiny intertwined beneath a sky wreathed in shadow, there came such tumult and strife as had not been seen since the Elder Days. The valiant men of Anfalas, though lesser in arms and number than their noble kindred of Dol Amroth, fought with the fierce courage of those who stand at the very precipice of fate. Thither rode Judarion, Captain of the Serpent's Maw, his ancient blade gleaming with fell purpose as he clove through the ranks of the Enemy, like unto the great serpents of legend whose name his company bore.

At his side fought Tauron the Bold, whose mighty laughter rang clear above the din of battle, a challenge to the very powers of darkness that assailed them. Together they stood, as brothers-in-arms of old, their swords rising and falling in deadly harmony. But lo! When the great beasts of Harad thundered forth, those terrible Mûmakil whose tusks were as spears of old and whose feet shook the very earth, cruel fate struck its blow. Ere Judarion could cry warning, Tauron was taken, his mortal form broken beneath the trampling feet of those fearsome creatures of the South. His eyes, once bright with the fire of battle-joy, gazed lifeless toward the pitiless heavens.

In that fell moment, a shadow deeper than any cast by Mordor's armies fell upon Judarion's heart. Though his sword-arm continued its deadly work, and his blade sang its song of death amongst the foe, the spirit within him grew cold as the ancient stones of Fornost. When at last victory was won, and the black standards of the Enemy lay befouled in the gore-drenched earth, it brought no solace to his grieving soul. For in each face of the fallen, he beheld the visage of those whose lives had been entrusted to his keeping, and whose trust, in his mind, he had failed to honor.

In the grim aftermath of that fell battle, scarce moments could be spared for lamentation, though the hearts of men were heavy with sorrow untold. The Sea Serpents, their noble ranks grievously thinned like autumn leaves scattered by a bitter wind, were bidden to journey northward to wrest Cair Andros from the Dark Lord's grasp - that ancient isle-fortress where the waters of Anduin sing their eternal song 'midst stone and shadow.

Thither rode Judarion, leading his valiant men across the swift-flowing waters that had borne the vessels of kings in ages past. With fury that burned bright as the star-glass of the Elder Days, they assailed the befouled battlements where once proud banners had flown. Like the wrath of the Valar unleashed, they drove forth the servants of the Enemy, cleansing those hallowed stones of the darkness that had defiled them. Yet even as the last foul creature fled before their righteous steel, victory rang hollow as an empty helm upon the fields of war.

Each warrior who fell beneath his command weighted Judarion's spirit like the very chains of Angband, until at last came the final doom before the Gates of the Black Land. In those dark hours, when hope hung by a thread more tenuous than the silk of Ungoliant's youngest child, the Heir of Isildur made his last desperate gambit. To the very teeth of Mordor they marched, where no green thing grew and the very air was poison.

Upon that desolate plain, where naught but ash and shadow held dominion, Judarion beheld the fall of Lord Golasgil, that noble son of Gondor whose wisdom had been as a light in the darkening world. Like unto the great lords of old did he fall, his sword-arm dealing death even as the tide of Orkish filth overwhelmed him. Though Judarion's blade sang its deadly song amidst the press of battle, each stroke bore him further into the depths of despair, like one who walks willing into the endless night of the Void itself.

Chapter IV: A Hollow Victory

When at last the Shadow in the East was vanquished and the One Ring cast into the fires whence it came, Judarion, son of Thaldor, returned unto the fair halls of Lond Cirion. Yet the sweet victory that all had longed for tasted as ashes in his mouth, and the glad tidings of the people fell upon his ears as distant echoes in the halls of time. Though Anwen, fairest flower of the western vales, and young Isharion, in whom the blood of ancient Númenor ran true, did embrace him with hearts full of joy, he found naught but emptiness in their loving welcome.

In the watches of the night, when all others found rest, Judarion's dreams were haunted by the shades of those who had fallen beneath his command. Like the whispers of the dead in Dagorlad of old, their voices called to him, each name a wound that would not heal. The noble warrior of Gondor sought refuge in the bottom of wine-cups, gambling away his inheritance in the shadows of common houses.

Neither the tender supplications of Anwen, whose grace was as the morning star, nor the merry laughter of his son, could pierce the veil of darkness that had descended upon his spirit. Thus it came to pass that on a night when the bitter winds howled like the wolves of Angmar, Judarion took up his sword and departed, leaving behind all bonds of love and duty.

Northward he journeyed, through lands where the memories of elder days grew dim, and his path led him far from the ancient virtues of his forebears. He who had once stood proud among the warriors of the White City became as a wandering shade, selling his sword to any who would pay in bright gold. The wine-cup became his closest companion, and violence his daily bread.

In those dark days, his deeds were as varied as autumn leaves: sometimes standing as champion to maidens beset by brigands who plagued the wild lands, other times serving as a fell instrument of terror for those merchants who, in their folly, did forsake their sworn oaths of tribute. The boundaries twixt valor and dishonor faded like mist before the morning sun, leaving naught but the clink of coin and the crimson stain of blood upon his hands.

Chapter IV: A Blade For Hire

By the time he reached Bree-land, he was a man hollowed out by the choices he had made. It was in the heart of Bree that he stumbled upon The Hound’s Prowl, a grim and brutal arena hidden away from the prying eyes of the town’s more respectable citizens. The arena was a place where men bled for the entertainment of others, where cheers and jeers mingled with the scent of sweat, blood, and the acrid smoke of cheap torches. It was a pit of savagery, where the desperate fought for coin and the powerful wagered fortunes on the lives of the broken souls who stepped into the ring. The arena was ruled by Maldrath, a man whose reputation was as dark as the shadows that clung to him. Maldrath was a figure of power and fear in Bree’s underworld, the kind of man whose name was whispered with both reverence and dread in the taverns. He was a master of secrets, a puppeteer who pulled the strings of Bree’s hidden underbelly. Slaves, whores, smugglers, and killers—all of them danced to Maldrath’s tune. He was not a man of noble birth or military prowess; rather, he was a master of survival, a man who had clawed his way to the top of the muck by knowing what people desired and how to exploit it.

Judarion entered the arena on a night when the air was thick with the roar of the crowd and the stench of spilled ale. He was no longer the disciplined officer who had once led the Serpent’s Maw; he was a man with nothing to lose, and in the arena, he found a twisted kind of solace. The clash of steel, the rush of blood, the bone-crunching sound of fist meeting flesh—it all drowned out the memories that plagued him. He became one of the crowd’s favorites, a fighter who seemed to care little whether he lived or died. It was his ferocity, his willingness to step into the fray without hesitation, that drew Maldrath’s interest. One night, after a particularly brutal fight that left Judarion standing amidst a pile of defeated foes, Maldrath summoned him. The shadows of the arena’s back chambers seemed to cling to the man like a second skin as he watched Judarion with eyes that missed nothing.

“You’ve got talent,” Maldrath had said, his voice as smooth and cold as polished stone. “But talent alone doesn’t keep a man alive in this world. What you need is a purpose. A way to use that blade of yours to earn something more than a night’s worth of cheap ale.”

Maldrath offered him a chance—a way to make real money, to put his skills to use beyond the blood-soaked sand of the arena. But there was a price, a dark condition that came with the promise of gold. The contracts were lucrative, but they came with unspoken rules. No questions asked. No loose ends left untied. Judarion was no longer a soldier bound by honor; he was now Maldrath’s blade, a tool to be wielded in the shadows where the light of Gondor’s banners could not reach.

And so began Judarion’s descent into the deepest corners of Bree’s underworld. The work was dirty, steeped in blood and betrayal. On one day, he would be tasked with retrieving a lost relic for a desperate noble who sought to restore his family's fallen prestige. On another, he would be sent to silence a man who knew too much or to rough up a tavern owner who had refused to pay protection fees. Judarion carried out these contracts with cold efficiency, for the pay was good and the ale flowed freely. Maldrath paid well, but the true cost was Judarion’s soul, which he sold piece by piece with every job completed. Maldrath’s arena was more than just a place of combat; it was the heart of his empire, a crucible where the desperate were forged into killers, thieves, and mercenaries. The fights were merely a test—a way for Maldrath to sift through the rabble and find those willing to do whatever was necessary to survive. Judarion was one such man, a broken warrior whose blade was now wielded for the highest bidder. But even as he buried himself in the blood and grime of Maldrath’s world, Judarion could not escape the ghosts that haunted him. The faces of the men he had led, the eyes of Tauron staring up at him lifeless on the Pelennor Fields, the laughter of his son, Elion, which had once filled his heart with joy—all these memories flickered at the edges of his mind like dying embers.

Thus began Judarion’s descent into the moral abyss. No longer bound by the ideals of Gondor, he became a blade for hire, carrying out contracts steeped in blood and treachery. Whether retrieving lost relics for desperate nobles or silencing those who knew too much, Judarion’s every act further eroded the man he once was. Yet, even as he buried himself in Bree’s underworld, the ghosts of his past lingered, a flicker of his former self refusing to be extinguished.