rohan

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.

The road stretched endlessly before her, beaten and dry beneath the early summer sun. Deorla walked—her boots scuffed, legs sore, cloak tight around her frame. She had no horse anymore.

But she was used to walking.

The land itself seemed at peace now. She saw no riders, no merchants, no enemy scouts. Even the wind was calm. Fields rolled on her left and right, broken only by distant fences or rotted wagon wheels half-swallowed by tall grass. For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency behind her steps.

(This RP is done via DM friend of mine and lots of dices rolls)



Night fell like a wolf’s shadow upon the Gap of Rohan.

The stars were swallowed by storm clouds, and the wind ran cold through the hills. On that narrow pass between the White Mountains and Isengard’s ruined scars, a war born of whispers began.

The days wore on with the quiet rhythm I had grown to trust , the creak of leather straps, the ring of axe on wood, the whisper of wind through the high grass. Eomen stayed. That, in itself, told me more than his words ever could.

Ethel came to me one merry morn in spring, as many flowers had started blossoming, and the golden sun gently warmed the frosted grass. Tall tales she had heard from Thilwend, the esteemed sergeant of the guard, and to me Ethel asked if I would gather more stories from those that still remembered, as she had always loved listening to my tales of yore. 

The brushing soothed the horse more than it soothed me, though I suppose I pretended it did both. His coat, dark as a thundercloud, gleamed beneath my hand. He was a good creature. Strong. Still young, still restless. Much like another soul I’d been expecting. I heard the boots before the voice, quick, clipped steps that hadn’t yet learned to walk with patience. Then came the greeting, sharp with youthful pride.

I am a woman of peace, of good order, of enough for all. So I was raised, so do I still live. I see no benefit in chaos, and poverty of goods or of spirit. We are the Rohirrim, the Horse-Lords, and by that title should be honourable and trustworthy, else what is a ‘Lord’ but a baying dog not wanting his bone while depriving it from others? 

Our days seem to grow ever darker, even as winter has finally left us and the sun rises up earlier each morn, and stays up until later in the eve. Yet there is still that crude feeling of unrest in the air, paired with the smell of distant black smoke and an ominous mist rolling down the mountains. The worried whispers and watchful eyes among the guardsmen keep speaking of a shared fear, and Denholm does all he can to keep the morale up in these times of turmoil.