Until recently the Ranger of the North resided close to the ruins of Annúminas. There with his companions he kept a keen eye on the crumbling testament to the former glories of the Dúnedain, watching for those seeking to enrich themselves on the grave-goods of their forefathers and keeping the roads safe for any who still reside in that land. Recently however he has moved south, to the stricken town of trestlebridge where he spends days or weeks at a time wandering roads both north and south on errands none but he and his closest companions know. 

On rare occasions his journey takes him to Bree or the surrounding villages, although for never more than a night. There wild game, hides and tales are exchanged for lodgings, ale and news. To those that know him in recent days the man has had a fey, far off look in his eyes. Distracted by something unspoken, the Ranger’s hand will drift to his blade’s hilt, not through threat but as if the bejewelled and polished grip offers him some insight to whatever it is that he seeks in the far distance.