Many roaming bards and traveling merchants have brought stories and descriptions of Bree back to their homeland -- though rarely related to the village itself, an insignificant mish-mash of cobble, tile, and wood in an endless sea of jade green glades, forests, roving plains coated with beautiful tricolor flowerbeds, and cultivated land. While many in Bree had hardly the will or the means to experience the beauty beyond the hedge wall, there were still those that roamed the land freely. Some made ends meet by setting up camps close to frequented roads and apprehending caravan drivers for items of value and abducting travelers, demanding ransom from oftentimes destitute families.
Others chose to guard the roads for the coin, hired and put to the task by influential merchants frustrated with the terrorism and racketeering their caravans suffered at the hands of many brigand bands hiding among the ancient ruins scattered across the land.
Very few were bound to guard the roads by creed. And even fewer now remain.
One of those travelers, in particular, had set out from his camp on the Greenway, walking along its vast length with the aid of a beech walking stick pacing his step. Whenever he kicked the pebbles along, a brown wolf-dog soon followed suit in a proud, confident gait. A hooded man, clad in an assortment of chainmail, leather, and dark green-woven fabric, had picked that day for his trip south. It was no short trek by any means, but on one of those midsummer days, the sun reigned supreme in the sky above him, its rays scorching his clothes. But even under these conditions the man and his loyal hound pressed ever forward, stopping for nothing.
By the eve the pair had reached the valley of Andrath and its murky lake. It was there that they paused for a moment, setting up camp by the drooping shadow of an oak tree. There the traveler rested his weary legs for a while, resting his back against the trunk. While the dog slept in the shade, the man dug a hand inside of his knapsack, pushing past all sorts of miscellaneous utilities to retrieve a single rolled-up yellowed scroll. He carefully unfurled it and gazed upon the drawing within' - a map, of some sorts, transcribed and copied from an original piece. He purses his lips and lets his eyes gradually fall down, stopping at a narrow passage with a depiction of a wide fortress standing guard over the solitary path; "Glawar Dîn", the Sunlight Pass -- a name lost in time.
In truth, no one knew what the Southguard ruins were once called in the elder times, or to what extent they were utilized by the Lords of Cardolan. Old tales of his people spoke of a Prince erecting a vast fortification to cover a passage located in the midst of two tall hills leading in to the lands of Cardolan proper. Owing its namesake to the beauty of the dawning sun rising from the mountains behind it and illuminating the land, like Minas Malloth and so many other ruins of his kin, they stood crumbled, dotting the vast green plains of Bree, forgotten by their peers and overlooked by the good folk of the land. And like almost all of the former strongholds of his people, bandits had long defiled and looted the treasures within', turning it into a hive of evil and .villainy, robbing and demanding tribute from all that dared pass, if not worse.
For a long time, not only the light of the sun shone over the tall towers of 'Glawar Dîn', for after the great plague had devastated the lands of Cardolan and decimated its sons and daughters, the bonfires were lit almost daily. Eventually, as Cardolan was doomed to fail, the fortress was abandoned. And as its high walls crumbled and collapsed from neglect and disrepair, so did its grand memory.
And so he stood and began approaching the grand ruin with a slow gait, almost as if careful not to stir it from a deep slumber. The closer he wandered the bigger the crumbled towers before him grew; and so did the once high walls, chipped, bashed, and cracked into scattered pieces. For a moment in front of him, an image materialized, and he stood, looking in awe; from the tumbled rocks rose anew the high walls hugging the mountainside from one end to the other, the symbol of the seven-pointed star, the Odogil, etched above its crenels. In the middle lay a great arch with a gate of great craft; molded from dark iron and graven with three stars on each side of its dome, crowned by one greater than all. Sculpted into the walls were forms of Kings of the past, judging in their eternal wisdom all those who dared pass through its gates. The towers rose around the mountain like dragon's teeth, each draped with extinct, lost banners that no longer adorn any household or keep of Middle-earth. There it was; the craftsmanship, elegance, and skill of the race of Man, manifesting right before his eyes.
The man smiled for a moment, a genuine smile, at that.
And just as it appeared before him, a vision of what once was, so did it vanish, blown away by a sudden gust of wind. The rebuilt fortifications trickled away and retreated into the deepest caverns of his fantasy, collapsing before him like a citadel made of sand.. back into what it truly is. A ruin, neglected by all, overlooked by the chronicles of history and infested with brigands and abominations. He could see their bonfires burn bright within'. He could hear their sneers and jeers, their snide laughs. They were the masters of the pass now -- and its light would shine only on those they let live.
His smile faded in to a frown, slowly. He felt a heavy burden in his heart. Truly, how could they let such a thing come to pass? How could they have let the heritage of their people undefended against evil? By what virtue does one think it is nobler to die for the reclamation of the City of Kings than ruins such as this? Is hope so far gone that a trip southwards would be better than trying to reclaim the treasures of his people?
Doubt ever gnawed at him. He had lost his purpose a long time ago and he was convinced that a journey south would help him rediscover it. But now, even that lay in jeopardy. Even then a glimmer of hope remained in his heart that he would make the trip, one way or the other, alone or with the company of another. Hope that the sites of his people would be reclaimed eventually, even if not by his hand. He had no other option but to hope.
He turned on his heels and pursed his lips, gritting his teeth. The way south was shut. Taurrandir took a long look over his shoulder one final time at what once was; and what will never be the same again.
He needed to press on.
