Herald of the Unseen War

The woods of Ithilien were alive with the hunt.

The first arrow whistled past Deorla’s face, snapping through a birch trunk. The second struck her horse’s flank — a warning shot, not yet meant to kill. The cries of men followed soon after, echoing between the trees:

“In the name of the Prince of Ithilien! Drop your weapon!”

The lands of Anórien stretched before Deorla like a tapestry of shifting hues. Beyond the waterfalls and borders, the countryside was dotted with half-abandoned farms, their fields thin and tired from years of war. Gondor was healing, but the scars were deep, and such scars could be used.

The night was ink-dark, and only the breath of stars shimmered faintly above the towering forests of the Aldburg Wood. Deorla rode in silence, the hooves of her mount—the Harbinger—striking the mossy floor like low drums of war. The creature was bone-armored and wreathed in withered leaves, a beast born of shadow and decay. 

The golden light of early morning filtered softly through the latticed shutters of Deorla’s hidden house. The air held a rare stillness — not the kind that comes before a storm, but the quiet pause before history begins to turn again. Outside, birds stirred in the brush, and smoke curled gently from the stone chimney. Inside, Deorla stood before a shape half-concealed beneath the floorboards — a white chest, pale and cold like ice, as if winter itself had been shaped into wood and steel.

The sun was beginning to set behind the white peaks of the Starkhorn as Deorla stepped into the small fenced paddock behind her secluded home. Firebryn stood there already, brushing down one of the four horses that had belonged to Deorla—now well-groomed, well-fed, and visibly pleased to have their mistress home again.

“You kept them in fine shape,” Deorla murmured, trailing her hand over the flank of a dark bay mare.

The road stretched endlessly before her, beaten and dry beneath the early summer sun. Deorla walked—her boots scuffed, legs sore, cloak tight around her frame. She had no horse anymore.

But she was used to walking.

The land itself seemed at peace now. She saw no riders, no merchants, no enemy scouts. Even the wind was calm. Fields rolled on her left and right, broken only by distant fences or rotted wagon wheels half-swallowed by tall grass. For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency behind her steps.

(This RP is done via DM friend of mine and lots of dices rolls)



Night fell like a wolf’s shadow upon the Gap of Rohan.

The stars were swallowed by storm clouds, and the wind ran cold through the hills. On that narrow pass between the White Mountains and Isengard’s ruined scars, a war born of whispers began.

"Damn it all, she got away!", I exclaimed.
"So it really was her?" Guri asked.
"Yes", I answered. "Did you see how those orcs looked at her? How she, at the last moment, decided not to draw her swords? She knew we would recognise them."

The cave yawned wide before her like the mouth of some slumbering beast. Deorla stepped into its gullet with blade in hand and eyes sharp in the dark. The scent of old fire, unwashed bodies, and rotted meat clung thick to the air. This was no mapmaker’s den. It was a nest.

Orcs. And not few.

The sun rose thin and pale above the hills of Dunland as Deorla moved swiftly across the grasslands. Each step brought her closer to the Gap of Rohan, and with it, a turning point in her quiet campaign.

She had declined the offer of Galtrev’s loyalty—for now. Her words to the chieftain had been firm, veiled in smoke and patience: "When the time comes, I will send for you. When I have accomplished what I must." That time had not yet arrived. Not while her blade still moved in the dark.