The Rohirrim

Dear Father, My body is bitten by the freezing cold of the high and impressive Misty Mountains and I can hardly hold the quillpen in my hand. Not only is the hand trembling from the cold, thinking back on our last meeting with the Enemy is even more cause for shivering limbs.

Dear Father, Dark news from the land of long nights. One of my men has fallen in combat. Isenrid no longer light up our path nor does he find me safe passage or campsites hidden from brigands and orcs.

Dear Father, Many a moon have passed over the dark trees in the shadow of the Old Kingdom of the North, or shall I say the Fallen Kingdom of the North, since I sent my last report. Few good news can I pass on to you in this letter which I write in the old ruins of Esteldin, an outpost against the enemy in the north. Ill tidings, though, I have in abundance.

Dear Father, I must put my faith in the ranger bringing you this message on his way to Gondor, I have no option since I myself can not take it, nor can I spare a sword as things have unfolded up here in the north. The mist of ignorance has turned into the darkest night. Where shall I start.

Dear Father,