Rangers

I had ter pay thirty copper coins fer that bath! But after an hour with that stinky Finch ... i had ter get the stink o' him off my hair, an' the filth o' his hogs offen my boots.

But Steora swifthand is a clever lass ... so I still made a few coin on the deal. An' I aint givin' the money back to the Burnt Man!

So Gyth's Burnt Man orders me ' Steora, you up an' go an' find The Finch.' An' I knows what He is like iffen I says no ... so I has to go down ter the Mud Gate through all that pig-filth and find him.

And so - it is done. The course is set, and even the loss of my fine horse cannot dampen my elation. The stone winnows as it will, but winnows not I.

I return triumphant to my men, alive, exultant. My blood taken and accepted. No taint of madness behind my eyes, not driven wild by the raging powers within the stone like a lesser man. My own men congratulate me while they look on sidelong. What may I yet become unsettles them, warring with the tantalising question... how high will they fly, in my train? Confident that my rise must now be assured.

Such a gathering! To see so many folk of the star together. I do not know how long it has been since we met in such a number. I should ask Oldgrove - he prides himself on history. Perhaps he will recall it.

A gathering by chance at the shore of the lake at Tinnudir, though Adunzil and I had hastened there at Filrean's call some days earlier. A hard fast ride for me. The pain that results from so many hours in the saddle, offset by the thrill and ease of movement that being a-horse always brings.

heh.

That went better than i could have hoped for.

Duresen't start out well, though. Master Oldgrove brings me ter the Bridgetown... an' up pops more of them grim northerners ... and then... that old bastard hisself, the helm-giffer. I realises master Oldgrove is an even better liar than me.

'You be safe with me lass' he says.

Curse it all!

I swear, I'd give my right hand to the fire had I the foresight to stay out of this whole affair. Thinking back to it now, I see the folly of my acceptance to their "quest". What was I thinking? What was I expecting? It was clear from the beggining there was more at work here than I suspected. Or later feared.

The filth scatter as I ride out in my glory. The cold mists curl like tattered banners about the fetlocks of my horse. My chosen men spur on hard to try to keep close, but my horse has no peer - and neither do I.

We erupt from the grinning gates, spike-toothed portcullis swinging above us, down into the cold hard valley. Above me on the stone walls a brazen trumpet blares out my challenge to the North.

Amlarad instructs me – 'dig deeper'.

There is a presence in the air since he pulled me from my snowbound tomb. I catch him looking at me sidelong with his steady grey eyes, as though trying to unravel a story. Then I am compelled to look at him, and he shifts quickly away, busying himself with bow or knife or wood.

I have recently received this journal a long time ago as a sign of thanks from an old woman I have helped, now it felt like the time to use it...

Many moons have passed since my travels in Ennor have begun. Since I have left Gondor, my kingdom, where I grew up, since I journeyed to Eriador and put my blades and crafts to use there, since I begun fulfilling my role as a Ranger. 

And it seemed to me that I lay on the edge of an ice-sea, entombed in foam, solid and crystalline. Above me, held in icy abeyance, the waves frozen in the act of breaking. Far above, the night-sky's stars held fixed in their courses, glittering like spray caught in moonlight.
 
And a ship sailed over the unyeilding sea, and and a voice moved over the waters.
 
'Echuio, Elwing ... Echuio!'
 
And the command fed my spirit, and it burst into flame in the chilled space of me.