It was in spite of the muttered warnings of the locals that Ethein of Gondor, former warden to Minas Tirith's Houses of Healing, made his way across the sun-bleached fields of the Lone-Lands. He'd spent the last few months lending his knowledge of herbs and poultices to the aid of the Eglain, the people who struggled to make their living in these hard lands. Now, however, his time was his own, and his fancy moved him to tour the area's most magnificent landmark. The peak of Weathertop was visible from miles around, covered in the ruins of a kingdom long past, and the subject of Ethein's fascination whenever he found himself traveling by.
The journey had begun around mid-day, from the Forsaken Inn, with Ethein's travelling gear slung casually over his shoulder; a shield was strapped loosely to his arm, satchels and a scabbard hung from his waist, and his spear served as his walking stick for the journey. He'd made no effort to hide his travel through the mid-day sun of the lone-lands. At the very least, he had the advantage that orcs and goblins shunned the daylight. Most did, in any event. Not so, apparently, the small group that he could hear skulking some distance behind him, as he trekked up the weathered path to the summit.
They orcs, however many they were, kept to sparse tree cover and the occasional rocky outcropping, for stealth. However, the crunch of yellowed grass and the sound of metals and leathers on them betrayed their every step. Gradually, Ethein had begun to slow his pace as he walked toward the peak of Weathertop, as he journeyed upward. His pursuers grew bolder as the distance between them closed, eager to believe their prey was tiring. Ethein listened to the pace of their boots grow harder and faster, until they were suitably confident in their 'ambush' and had broken into a full run. It was then, that he finally responded. Rolling his spear off his shoulder, Ethein set his weight against a charge, the weapon held tightly at what he estimated to be the chest-height of an orc or the face of a goblin, and with a sound like the snapping of wet wood he was already at one foe less. Only one other orc remained, where Ethein had expected at least two, and he seemed bolder at the prospect of his share of the loot effectively doubling. He took glancing, clumsy swings at Ethein's shield, as the man stepped back in attempts to give himself room to draw the sword he kept for close-quarters fighting. Instead, however, he looked at the orc's unsteady footwork, and decided his blade wasn't necessary. He took a strong lunge forward, leading with the full weight of his body behind the shield, and the fight was over.
Ethein worked his spear out of the chest of his fallen foe, while wincing at the sound of mail and orc as they clattered and banged down the steep face of Weathertop. Incidents like this, even in broad daylight, were far more commonplace than they would have been several years ago, when Ethein first come to Eriador. This fact, and the small number that felt confident taking after an armed man, made him worry; apparently, they'd gotten quite used to easier prey along the Greenway. As the repeated banging of mail against rock faded into the distance below, Ethein rested his spear against a dessicated column, drew a wineskin and bundle of bread from a belt pack, and sat down.
Finally able to relax, Ethein took a long draw from his wineskin. It was filled with a freshly poured house ale which was exactly what one could expect of something brewed in a place called 'The Forsaken Inn.' He leaned against stonework laid ages ago, and in the light of the late afternoon sun, it wasn't difficult for his minds' eye to fill in the glory that untold years of age and downfall and ruin had brought to this place. He looked at the shattered stonework and the scavenged layout and could easily imagine the original structures that these ruins stood in memorial of. It was to his discomfort how much his mental reconstruction reminded him of the White City of Minas Tirith.
Ethein turned a small piece of bread over and over in his hand, sipping again at the ale. He'd thought often of Gondor, ever since sailing up the Baranduin River to take residence here in the North. More and more, he found himself reminiscing over the great structures of his homeland, comprised of the same sort of majestic and lasting stonework that now lay fallow across these lands. And he found himself wondering what sort of remains would be left behind by the timbers of cities such as Bree-Town, faced with a mounting darkness of its own.
