Men of the Mark

"Waelden! Come over here, quickly!" I cried, with a mixture of horror and relief. Relief that the answer to the mystery, the cause of so much death to the orcs was solved; horror at the terrible wounds the man bore. My shoulders sagged in near despair as I sank to my knees on the grass beside him. 

My armguards felt stiff in the still chilly morning of Faldham, the leather was dry and in dire need of oil and grease. Summer had lovingly laid its warm arms around us all, but before the sun had risen, there was still a cold sensation that lingered in the air for some time while the sun still struggled to spread its warmth. I looked to my companion Yllfa who stood by my side, her hair a glittering gold in the morning light, and her attire fit and ready for the expedition ahead.

The tall grass drifted in the wind as we rode across the plains not far from Edoras. Far out in the fields a tall windmill loomed, its sails slowly rotating as the rusted mechanism inside ground stone against stone, eagerly pushed on by a northern wind. A herd of wild horses grazed nearby, paying little mind as we passed. The largest stallion tilted his head and looked at me for a moment; his big, brown eyes so full of life and wild, raw and untamed emotion.

I was trembling inside. Anger, disgust, disbelief all hailed me as one . There was a short but overwhelming sense of nausea that almost caused my knees to give way.

Then came the sound of hurried footsteps ascending the stairs, as he ran to my side.

Yllfa speaks :

“Westu Goldmod hal!”

After a moment's consideration I gave my greeting to the ruddy faced guard, standing to the right of the main gate.

The following is a brief summary of some of the events that transpired between the kinships of Durin's Folk and Men of the Mark in recent times, as seen and chronicled from the perspective of Rohan and its people.<

a dream, a disturbing thought, a recollection of old memories… interrupting my sleep.