You happen to find one document among a pile of parchment, maps, and scrolls littered across the table in Draugrandir's cabin that seems to have been written recently, the ink still fresh. In writing that appears hurriedly scratched upon the paper you read...
I was born within the Marshwater Fort of the Midgewater Marshes in T.A. 2966 on August 28th. Húriel, my mother, and Ohtarandir, my father, had another son, Meglirandir, four years prior. Húriel's forebears can be traced back to Númenor, being tall, fair skinned, raven-black haired with grey eyes. While Ohtarandir had a mingled bloodline with the Middle Men of Eriador, although he did not look it besides having somewhat ruddy skin and hazel eyes. His forefathers' life spans were slightly lessened because of it. I suppose age will catch up with me eventually.
The Marshwater Fort was not always a breeding ground for spiders. It had once been a keep in days of old before the Kingdom of Arnor had fallen. At the time of my birth it served as a safe haven for Dúnedain, constantly guarded and well-supplied, having been left for ruin in the aftermath of the Kingdom's collapse. My family lived in the company of many others until I was of age to become a Ranger. I was taught to read and write, told long spans of history, studied maps of the world, began training in herb lore and other means of survival, and undertook my first lessons in war.
When I was a boy of ten my brother and father left the Marshwater. Ohtarandir had been gone much during the time there, to fulfill his duties, but Meglirandir was old enough now to join our father in more than the typical venture into Chetwood or the eastern hills bordering the Lonelands. They were going far into the North Downs, to Esteldín, so that Meglirandir could swear his oaths. Their parting left me yearning to become a man as well. Seeing that her son was distraught, Húriel gave counsel that went unheeded at the time, but often guides me to this day.
She said "Do not be so eager to become a part of the troubles that forsake our kin, my child. Soon enough you will be in their place. Too soon will you take part in the horror that is war and see those you love taken from you unfairly. Never forget that war is not something to wish upon yourself. Those that are reckoned the greatest of warriors, your father among them, hope for peace and my only hope is that you may someday live to see it." The reality of war came home months later, when my brother returned without our father. A Ranger from Esteldín named Himdir traveled with Meglirandir to keep him safe on the journey and to recount the tale to our family.
Himdir's tale was that he had been slain by Orcs near the ancient, long deserted Northern capital of Fornost along with seven other Rangers there that day. Orcs were rarely seen in large numbers since the utter defeat of Angmar, but their breeding in remote, unseen tunnels and caverns nearby seemed to be growing by the day along with their boldness. This particular band outnumbered the Men five to one, there being only ten Men among them. Normally those odds would have been sustainable, but Ohtarandir took a stand in front of Meglirandir, shielding his son from the Orc's arrows with his body. The other Rangers fought bravely in a ring around his corpse, his son too grieved to do anything but weep at his side. All but one other than Himdir fell.
My mother thanked Himdir for the safe keeping of her son and offered him to stay in the Marshwater for as long as he wished. To her surprise, he said that he was already given orders from his captain in Esteldín to stay with Meglirandir, to shake his fear and prepare him for the years ahead. Himdir became a constant mentor to us through years of grueling training. We admired his skills and bearing, respected him even when we were pushed past exhaustion, looked up to him like an elder brother. He taught us much on the ability to draw deep within to push on when the body was wont to do so, running at full speed for great distances, up long slopes or the uneven, saturated ground of the Midgewater until our lungs felt as if they were bursting, our hearts leaping from our chests. What we learned of marksmanship, swordplay, riding, would later prove invaluable.
It was Himdir who led me to Esteldín when four years had passed, when time to swear the oaths had come. Meglirandir came also, meaning to redeem himself in the eyes of our kinfolk. The visit proved well, no ill fate became of it and Ohtarandir's sons began their duties as Rangers. We returned to the Marshwater on our own, for Himdir was bound to his place in the North Downs once more. He awarded us with daggers made in the forges there, simple but sharp and lethal, when we parted.
Upon our return, our mother had two deep green, hooded cloaks waiting that she had sewn. It was not long before they were weather worn and fading from the sun. These cloaks served well for many years to come, throughout our service among the Border Rangers of the Shire and Bree land. We gained swift renown as being tireless, undaunted in the face of the Enemy, and skilled beyond our years. This was especially true for me, with a fire burning within, driving me to prove my worth. I was often counseled by my elders, grim and stern veterans all, to contain my over zealous, brash nature. They accounted this to youth. Whereas Meglirandir showed all the qualities of a leader of Men. Being calm, but lethal in battle, eloquent, courteous, and respectful in speech. He became a great captain of his own company years later. However, I was always better suited to lead in another way, becoming First Scout. As I grew older, continuously seeing first hand the brutality of war, my brash ways gave way to wisdom.
