Riddermark

Curse ye foul fiends for the havoc you wreak upon us! Etheswitha cursed bitterly as she in vain tried to keep up with her main group of travelling companions. The wind battered and sieged through the chill cold of Caradhas the Cruel, swatting Etheswitha around endlessly. She smacked her head in her foolishness. This wasn't what she had expected! How was she supposed to survive this weather in nothing but cold armour and a steel Greatsword, whose blade could shatter at any moment?

After a week of respite and re-evaluation of their options the Rohirrim are once again to ride, this time east, by the Great East Road, towards the Lone Lands and Ost Guruth.

That last week had most of the riders on the edge, for some yerned to go back home and see their loved ones, while others couldn't wait to ride down the plains of Rohan chasing the enemy back where they came from.

The time had come. Swords were sharpened, armors were polished, horses were bridled. After two whole weeks of gathering supplies and warriors, the Eored was ready to depart.