The days grow shorter and I am restless. I passed into Eregion not one fortnight ago, to try to establish the extent of the Dunlending presence in the north. It is as we feared. In the shadow of the mountain these wild men grow ever bolder, and should they seek to exploit our weakness now is the time. I am haunted in my dreams by the cries of the women and children whose houses were burned in the Fold, haunted by visions of the White Hand in his tower, planning the destruction of our people. We must act.
I have journeyed to to a small encampment by the Gate of Sirannon, where elves and dwarves have banded together in desperate hope. Perhaps this is as it should be. We are not yet in the final hour: though the grass seems to wither ever so slightly, it's colour fading to yellow from green, my horse still thunders under my feet.
