The fire between them burned low, settling into a bed of coals that glowed like watchful eyes. Deorla stood over the map Shereg had spread across a scarred table—Mordor, broken into jagged regions by ash, iron, and old rivalries. Once, she had walked these lands as a servant. Now she looked upon them as something to be taken.

“I am done surviving,” she said at last, her voice calm in a way that made it dangerous. “I will take all of Mordor. Every pit, every tower, every broken banner still clinging to the idea of power. And I will unite it.”

Into the Greenwood

As were me usual custom, I began me tellin' me grandkids' bedtime story in the spot where'd I'd ended the evenin' before...

It was during one of Atgar’s visits in Bree, for delivering an order of smoked meat to the Prancing Pony, that he stumbled upon one very interesting notice, just next to the stables in Bree’s west gate. The notice was posted on behalf of he Town Council and was concerning Pickdean, a village to the south of Bree.