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.
“Ah, you young ones don’t know nothin’,” he said, pointing a crooked finger at a curious stablehand. “You think all the dark ones died with that eye atop the tower? Ha! There’s one still walkin’—and some say she ain’t even alive.”
“Who, old Bram?” asked a guard, half-smiling.
“Them call her Deorla,” Bram said, lowering his voice, drawing the crowd in. “Used to run with merchants once, the Company of the East Road, honest folk, or so we thought. But she weren’t no merchant—she was the Herald of the Unseen War! A servant o’ the Shadow himself!”
Someone gasped, another laughed nervously.
“Aye, laugh if you must,” Bram hissed, “but I’ve heard from a rider out of the Gap that she fought Gamling the Old himself—nearly took him down! They say her armor was black as midnight, her horse red-eyed and smoke-breathed, come from the pits o’ Mordor itself.”
He took a sip of ale, slamming the mug down for effect.
“And when she fled, the ground near the river burned for three days. The White Company tried to catch her, but not even Faramir’s rangers could find her trail. Some say she crossed into Gondor, some say Dunland. But me—” he leaned closer, eyes glittering— “me, I say she’s out there still. Waiting. Gathering her strength.”
A silence fell. Then, a woman at the back, her voice trembling, spoke:
“They say she wears a bird’s mask... to hide the fire burnin’ where her face used to be.”
Bram nodded slowly. “Aye. The Shadowflame never dies easy.”
The fire crackled. A mug dropped somewhere.
And outside, thunder rolled over the Bree-Lands.
Hands of Helm
The night was cold in the tavern of The Hands of Helm where the ale was warm and the talk ran wild. Near the fire, an old rider named Harlfynn leaned forward, his scarred hand gripping a mug of mead. His voice carried through the chatter like the low growl of a storm.
“Listen close, lads,” he began, eyes glittering, “for there’s a name the Mark don’t speak no more. Deorla.”
He paused, letting the name sink in like a curse.
“They say she rode with us once—trained among the horse-archers of the Eastfold, proud and fierce. But after the War, when Sauron fell, she vanished. Some said she died. Others whispered she turned traitor.”
One of the younger riders scoffed. “A woman can’t outlive Mordor itself.”
Harlfynn snorted. “You ever seen a woman who rides a beast wreathed in ash and thorns? Aye, I didn’t think so. She’s still ridin’. Saw her myself once, by the old Gap road. Cloak black as crow’s feathers, eyes like coals hid beneath that bird mask she wears.”
The tavern grew quiet.
“She fought Gamling the Old once, or so the tale goes,” said Harlfynn, his voice lowering. “Would’ve taken him down too, if not for his guard. After that, she disappeared. The White Company searched the valleys for her scent, but they found only scorched earth and dead hounds.”
A gust of wind shook the door. The candles flickered.
“They say she cursed us all,” Harlfynn murmured. “Cursed the Company o’ the East Road that betrayed her. Cursed the Rangers who hunted her. Said she’d return when the world forgets her name—and then, the Unseen War begins anew.”
He raised his mug in mock toast. “To Deorla, the Shadowflame. May she never ride this way again.”
But no one joined his drink.
Outside, the wind howled like a horse in pain.
Extract from the Annals of the White Company
Recorded by Minas Darnen, Scribe of the White Tower, in the Third Year of the Fourth Age.
"There are rumors that persist, despite the cleansing of the East and the fall of the Dark Lord. Whispers of a woman once bound to the Shadow—Deorla, called the Herald of the Unseen War."
"Prince Faramir ordered her pursuit, believing her to be a remnant of Mordor’s hierarchy—one who might rally the broken remnants of the Eye. The White Company rode hard, crossing waterfalls and ruins along the Rohan border. Yet she eluded all pursuit, vanishing into the wild lands beyond Anórien."
"Some among the rangers claim she commands the loyalty of creatures twisted by the Dark Years—boars, wolves, and worse. Others swear she was seen kneeling beside the tombs of Rohan’s kings, whispering curses upon their lineage."
"No confirmation of her death exists. Some say she fled to Mordor to claim the ashes for her own. Others… that she waits for the Shadow to stir again."
"The Eldar of Ithilien name her 'Mor-nossë'—the Dark Flame that walks in daylight."
End of record.
