Edoras

          It took not the eyes of an Elf to behold the oncoming gloom, groping fingers of brown clouds reaching up over the edge of the world.

“How was the magistrate?” Belegorn teased playfully, his normally deep baritone voice jumping an octave higher to a normal man’s voice, looking bereft of the squire Baranor whom he had unceremoniously dumped into a local stable’s haybale. He carried his distinctive feathered-helmet in the crook of his arm and waved with his free hand.

           Daylight strengthens in the skies over Edoras, although far-sighted eyes can see a darkening wall of gloom beginning to climb over the edge of the world from the East.  The people of the city are shaking off the dreadful passage of the Flying Terror that swooped over Meduseld, before winging its way west and north towards Isengard.  Once it passes out of sight, the Rohirrim se

           Night descends upon Edoras as the sun dips beneath the edge of the world, watchfires and lamps beginning to shine in the gathering gloam.  From the main gate of the city, a road runs straight between two rows of mounds, seven upon the left hand, nine upon the right:  the Barrow Field, where sleep the kings of the Riddermark.