Company of the East Road

The night air was thick and damp as Deorla reached the lowlands where Ithilien’s greenery withered into pale reeds and stagnant pools. A ghostly mist rolled over the earth, swallowing the moonlight until only her breath and the faint drip of water could be heard.

She had traveled for hours without rest—north, then east, always keeping the stars of Eärendil behind her. Her cloak clung wet against her armor, and the scent of rot grew stronger with every mile. At last she found a rise of broken stone above the marsh and made her camp there, too weary even to eat.

Knackered Neekerbreeker

The tavern of Knackered Neekerbreeker buzzed with the hum of conversation, but none spoke louder than the old man by the hearth. His voice, raspy and sharp like dry grass, carried above the clatter of mugs and laughter.

OOC – Author’s Note:

The woods of Ithilien were alive with the hunt.

The first arrow whistled past Deorla’s face, snapping through a birch trunk. The second struck her horse’s flank — a warning shot, not yet meant to kill. The cries of men followed soon after, echoing between the trees:

“In the name of the Prince of Ithilien! Drop your weapon!”

The lands of Anórien stretched before Deorla like a tapestry of shifting hues. Beyond the waterfalls and borders, the countryside was dotted with half-abandoned farms, their fields thin and tired from years of war. Gondor was healing, but the scars were deep, and such scars could be used.

The night was ink-dark, and only the breath of stars shimmered faintly above the towering forests of the Aldburg Wood. Deorla rode in silence, the hooves of her mount—the Harbinger—striking the mossy floor like low drums of war. The creature was bone-armored and wreathed in withered leaves, a beast born of shadow and decay.