The battered Ranger walked into the Forsaken Inn with slow and confident movements, moving around people with ease toward his destination. A corner table, covered in shadow was the resting place for his tired legs, and as he slumped into the small booth, his feet extended themselves onto the table. As he readied his pipe, hood still up, a man approached the table. "Would ye' like anything to drink, misser?" asked young staffer. A long pause occurred between the two as the Ranger lit his pipe, and took a draw from it. As he exhaled, his answer came in a faint voice. "Pint of ale." responded the Ranger, signaling the staffer to walk away.
The mind of the Ranger wandered to many topics as he inhaled the sweet pipe-weed from his old churchwarden, first of which was what he had been doing for the past month. Angmar had been just as he had remembered it previously: dark and foul. Only one of their company of scouts had been wounded by an orcish arrow while on the road to Angmar, and he was now safely recovering in their haven in the North Downs. He had gotten back to the Lone Lands the previous evening, and had spent some time catching up with the Eglain in Ost Guruth. Now, he was on his way back to the camp to check in with his captain, Aeruthuil, at their camp. Stopping at the Forsaken inn was just to rest before his journey back to the Breelands tomorrow.
Jon Flint was having what some would consider an existential crisis as he rode out of Breetown and into the night. Much had happened in the previous months that had warranted this sudden state of anxiety and confusion, including his "father's" death back in Osgiliath only a couple months back. As the old man lay back in his death bed, he had called for Jon to come to him. Quickly, Jon had obliged, only to learn that this man was not his father at all, but a man that had took him in when they had found his mother in an orc encampment all those years ago. The old man took his final breath while saying the name "Marina" to Jon, who then ran outside in haste to his horse. All he had were the clothes on his back and his weapons, but he rode North nonetheless, needing to get out of Gondor.
Why had he thought the old man his father anyway? They did not have the same color hair at all, and Jon was significantly taller, as well. Regardless, the old man had raised him like a son for all of these years, teaching him to fight. He had been given the name Jon, short for Jonduil, by the old man, who, when he had found Jon, was no more than a middle-aged warrior. There was nothing left for him in Gondor now... and so he rode to Eriador to start fresh.
When he had arrived to Eriador, he had stayed in a couple lean-to shacks abandoned by the previous owners. Only eating small amounts of food had led for him to become very thin and lean, and his clothes fit loosely around him.
When he had arrived to Breetown, he had not met a friendly face in a month. Here he was met by several, including a rohirric woman, her balding husband, a rogue-ish man dressed only in crimson, a silent elf, and a bear of a man.
Now he was riding out of there again, for his thoughts consumed him when he was a part of civilization. He was no one, with no family, no purpose, and no reason to stay in one place. And so he fled to the Lone Lands.
