"I heard from a friend who stood watch that special night. That night war was brought to us yet again. A rider in the night came to Mithlond. His helmet was bruised, his coat of arms torn apart, the blood of a severe wound encrusted to his armour and tunic. Those who saw him, thought: 'It had finally begun' ..."
"Angmar had sent forth its legions of foul creatures, in an attempt to overthrow the kingdom of Arnor. Though the rider that came pleading for aid was too late... Fornost had already fallen, befouled by the Witch King himself who now sat on the royal throne of Arthedaín. Hîr Círdan wanted not to ride out, for we lacked in information about our enemies, and in number. It was a hard decision, though we all understood. He did not wish to risk the lives of those he swore to keep safe, for such a little chance of success."
"Weeks after the messenger arrived, the first refugees reached the borders of our lands. We did our utmost best to shelter and tend to them. I can still remember how we opened the door to my homestead, taking in several families. The expression of hope, of relief that lay on the faces of the Dunedaín, is one not many of us will forget. We could not let such act of evil go unpunished. Nor did we plan to..."
