Mathijs

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Bree, Combe, Archet, and Staddle were the primary settlements of the Bree-land: a fertile, wooded region in northern Eriador. It was inhabited primarily by Men and Hobbits, though Dwarves often passed through on business, and Elves occasionally used its less-trodden paths to reach their mysterious destinations.

 

For many centuries, Bree-land was peaceful and prospered - something its inhabitants often attributed to their no-nonsense attitude and good characters, though in reality it was the Dúnedain rangers, secretive Men who the Bree-landers often looked down upon and mistrusted, that watched over this land. 

Despite nothing much ever happening in Bree-land, there were the occasional cases of villainy or other disturbances (domestic or otherwise), as in any land occupied by Men. It was for this purpose that the Men of Bree-land maintained a small regiment of voluntary officers known as the Bree-land Townsguard. The Townsguard were made up mostly of the sons of rich farmers or those rich farmers that had retired, for they had to provide their own equipment and did not receive any pay for the days they spent patrolling Bree-land's many country roads and hamlets. 

 

During the War of the Ring, when the Bree-land saw a marked increase in ruffians and other unsavory folk, the Townsguard was expanded, its equipment partly funded by local business owners such as Barliman Butterbur of the Prancing Pony, Bree's famous inn. Under the leadership of Captain Alcott, a grumpy but fastidious fellow, they made contact with those Dúnedain that had not ridden south to aid their chieftain and fought hard to keep the minions of Shadow out of their lands.

In another age, many thousands of years ago, the combined forces of the Eldar, Edain, and the Valar besieged Angband, fortress of Morgoth - the Dark Enemy of the World - and destroyed it. Morgoth was then cast into the Void, to wander in emptiness. His servants, many in number, were slain and scattered. Orcs found their doom by the thousands. Dragons were brought low. Balrogs were decimated; only one is known to have survived.

 

Trolls too found their numbers greatly reduced, but they have ever been reclusive, and wilder than most of Morgoth's other creatures, having been created as a mockery of Ents. And so, even as the Thangorodrim were laid low and their Master's pits bare, scores of Trolls were far away, hiding in caves upon distant mountain ranges. When their Master's will vanished into the Void, they began to wander. Many of them crossed the Blue Mountains before Beleriand was cast into the Sea, and scattered across Eriador and the Misty Mountains, splitting off into subspecies: Hill-trolls, Cave-trolls, Snow-trolls, and other, less distinct variations. Some made it further, climbing across the length of the Misty Mountains towards the Gap of Rohan, then seeking in shelter the White Mountains.

 

Trolls are vicious creatures of limited intelligence, and wherever groups of them coexist, civil war is ever brooding. In time, a group of smaller, weaker Trolls were given the choice of exile or execution by the local Troll-king. Their group, no larger than two dozen in number decided to leave. It took several days of brutal infighting for everyone to realize that living was better than being dead.  

 

In those days, Numenoreans hadn't yet began the large-scale deforestation of Middle-earth's southern lands, and so the Trolls were able to cross into what would later be Southern Gondor. And so they left the cool, shaded comforts of the mountains and made their way south, through a forest that did not seem to end. The journey was slow, and highly uncomfortable. They spent their days cowering from the sun below shaded canopy. Caves were hard to come by, and whenever a strong gust of wind split their leafy roof above, small rays of sunlight fell through, burning their skin and turning the spot to a lump of stone. At night they covered small distances, howling from the punishment they had suffered during the day. 

 

Their leader, a remarkably stupid Troll by the name of Honk, was convinced that the sun would grow smaller the further south he went, and that they would soon come across some new, cool mountain range they could settle in. This never happened. One night, several months after their exile from the White Mountains, Honk found himself and his group out of the forest and looking upon a rolling landscape of barren plains. Erupting in an angry panic, his underlings strangled him and ate him. They spent many weeks at the edge of that forest, pondering what to do. 

 

When all food sources had fled their vicinity, they gathered for one final deliberation. The facts spoke for themselves: going back meant suffering the daily pain of the peeping sunrays, only to end up back in the Troll-king's territory, where they would be killed. Going forward was an unknown: some Trolls claimed they could see rocky outcroppings on the horizon, where they might take shelter. And, they said, who knows? There might be more mountains. 

 

And so they decided to undergo their suicidal journey into the scorching land known as Haradwaith. When, after the first night of frenzied running, they could only find a cave large enough to fit half of them, the other half was beaten bloody and made to await their demise before the rising of the Southern sun. When it had gone back down, the Trolls that had managed to secure a spot inside the cave came out expecting to find the stony corpses of their friends, but instead found them only half-dead, the tops of their heads and shoulders covered in stony outcroppings. Though none of them were smart enough to understand it, their slow, continued exposure to sunlight in the forest had caused them to develop some degree of immunity to the sun's deadly rays. Their outcast brethren recovered swiftly under the coolness of the desert night and took bloody revenge. And so their number was halved anyway, in reverse order. 

 

The rest of the journey was predictable: though the sun was no longer a deadly threat, it still burned badly, and no distances could be covered beneath its glare. During the day they rested beneath the shade of rocks or sparse trees, or inside the huts of Men, who they ate as they went. Still, no mountains appeared. Instead, after months of laborious journeying, our Trollish dozen found themselves at the top end of an enormous cliff, looking down. The drop stretched for miles and miles, like a rift in the world. Beyond and below it they saw a sea of bright green, stretching as far as their beady eyes could see.

 

Over time, the Trolls multiplied by inbreeding, further decreasing their wits and increasing their pockmarked mutations. Now living under the far-stretching canopy of the jungles of Far Harad, their skin turned green and stony over the course of sunny generations, and their arms lengthened to accomodate the climbing of enormous trees. It took several centuries before these Jungle-trolls reentered the stories of Men - which they did fearsomely, destroying several Numenorean expeditions and their camps. To this day, their presence is feared amongst the Southrons that dare dwell in the southern jungles of Haradwaith. 

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When his father died in the War of the Last Alliance, Amroth, son of Amdír, became the King of the Galadhrim. Amroth was a kind King, free of the sense of superiority possessed by many of his Sindar kin. He spent his peaceful reign ruling in the manner of the Silvan elves, for he loved Nimrodel - a Silvan elf-maid. Nimrodel did not share Amroth's tolerance to all kin and creeds - she greatly disliked the Elves that had come back from the West, fearing they would only bring more grief and turmoil to the Golden Wood and Middle-earth at large, as they had done many years before, during the Great Wars of the First Age. 

 

She would not marry him unless he took her to a land free from war and misery, so Amroth vowed to take her to the havens at Edhellond, where they would forever depart Middle-earth. For a while they traveled together, until a sudden snowstorm seperated them while crossing the White Mountains. Amroth reached Edhellond and waited for her there aboard the last ship the Elves there had built, until a great storm unmoored his vessel and sent it out into the Bay of Belfalas. When Amroth realized at dawn what had happened, he leapt into the waters and drowned trying to reach the shore and Nimrodel. The nearest land to his place of drowning was a tall, green hill, which was henceforth named Dol Amroth in his honor. Nimrodel eventually reached Edhellond but found it abandoned. Nobody knows what happened to her afterwards. 

 

During his reign, Amroth had surrounded himself with Elves that reflected his own best qualities: kind, courageous, and full of love. Not all of them were of noble birth, and for those that weren't, Amroth decreed it so. They were Sindar, but Silvan also, and Teleri. They called themselves the Knights of Amroth Amdírion, and would ride out amongst their King in times of war. Amroth did not tell anyone he was leaving Lórien, and for a long time no word of his fate reached the ears of the Galadhrim. Some of his subjects began to doubt their lost King, but never the Knights of Amroth, for they assumed he must have had good reason to leave, and when they learned what it was that had driven him away and what it was that ultimately killed him, they were filled with reverent sadness. It was decided that they would continue to honor their oaths of love and fealty. For two thousand years the Knights of Amroth Amdírion carried on fighting under their King's banner, until the destruction of the Ring and the downfall of Mordor. It was then that they traveled to Edhellond, following in the footsteps of their King, and built a ship to carry them towards the Undying Lands.

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Dunland.  Formally known as the hilly land just west of the Misty Mountains, north of the Angren river, the land stretched further south at the end of the Third Age, when the descendants of Freca an exiled Rohirrim King, still contested the fertile land that lay further south.

 

Ever since Freca’s time, there have existed two distincts cultures within Dunland: the descendants of the House of Haladin, second house of the Edain, having dwelt there for years beyond counting, and the descendants of Freca and his people, a much younger culture, through whose veins runs the mixed blood of the Dunlendings and the Rohirrim. The latter dwelt mostly in the lands between the two rivers and the White Mountains, which they named Frecalund,or the Triangle. It’s capital was Wulfborg, named after Wulfgar, a prominent Dunlending King during the War of the Ring.

 

Wulfborg, T.A. 3018.

 

The final shafts of sunlight fell through the vents at the top of the long hall.  Dust danced like fireflies. Long banners hung unfurled from the rafters, depicting scenes of victory and lamentation – the history of Dunland, of Rohan, and of the House of Freca.

 

At the end of the hall, upon a raised, wood-carved throne inlaid with green gems, sat Wulfgar, King of Freca’s folk and the Dunlendings. Beside him, on a lowered seat, sat his son: Brant, a boy of sixteen.

A sudden creaking and cracking was heard, then the doors of the hall swung open. A guard, bearing the Black Crow on a long, oval shield, hurried through and spoke to Wulfgar.

 

‘There is an emissary of Orthanc here to see you, lord.’

 

Wulfgar’s expression grew dark.

 

‘Send him in.’

 

The doors creaked and cracked, then swung open. The failing light of dusk bathed the hall in silver-grey. A hooded figure, surrounded by several of Wulfgar’s household guard, was escorted in. He was of small stature, with a bent back. He walked slow and steady, but bore no staff.

 

When he reached the throne, he cast back his hood, revealing a mangled, pointed face. Silence fell over the hall. A maid, upon seeing the face of the visitor, made herself scarce.

 

‘Hail Wulfgar Brynjarsson, of the house of Freca,’ he spoke. His voice was cracked and whispery. Then he noticed the boy.  ‘And hail to you, Brant Wulfgarsson.’

 

‘Greetings, half-orc,’ Wulfgar replied. ‘What business have you in Wulfborg? Speak quickly, for we do not lightly tolerate your presence here. Any of my men’s spears could slip from their hands and into your belly.  I would not fault them.’

 

‘I come on behalf of Saruman of Many Colours, Lord of Orthanc, First of the Five Wizards. In his wisdom, he has decided to intervene in the unjust treatment of the Men of Dunland by the strawheads to the east. Many Dunlendings have already joined his cause. Will you give him your allegiance?’

 

Wulfgar remained silent for a while. Brant looked at the emissary, then at his father. Then his father met his gaze, rolled his eyes, made a vague gesture, and slouched down on his throne.

 

Brant spoke. The emissary’s face grew puzzled. ‘We have heard tell of Saruman’s generosity. But we have no wish to go to war. We have achieved a tenuous peace here, south of the Adorn, and reap a plentiful harvest. Théoden Horsemaster has not troubled us for several years. As you see, Wulfborg has grown prosperous of late.’

 

Wulfgar clapped in approval. ‘I have taught you well, my son. Now make yourself scarce, mongrel, before I test my newest blade.’

 

The emissary did not look impressed. ‘Théoden has grown lethargic, it is true. And so you have been allowed to thrive. But for how much longer?’

 

Wulfborg, T.A. 3019.

 

The heart of winter. The cold stalked the streets of Wulfborg. The King was in bed, covered in layers of furs. His wife lay beside him, snoring softly. But he could not sleep. His gaze was trained upon a particular rafter. In the gloom of night,its rough wood reminded him of something of his childhood. He grasped at the whisp of memory, but it would not take hold.

 

Suddenly, horns were sounded. The King leapt from his bed, strapped his sword to his belt, and hurried outside, where he was met by his guards.  Horns answered horns – a great racket echoed over the snow-covered fields beyond the walls. Followed by his guard, Wulfgar climbed them in great haste, and was dismayed at what he witnessed. There was a sea of torches, held in hand by great orcs and men dressed in the garb of the wildmen that lived north of the river.  

A familiar voice called forth.

 

‘Hail Wulfgar Brynyarsson, of the house of Freca,’ it spoke. ‘The war will soon commence. Does your decision yet stand?’

 

Wulfgar did not answer. Instead, he turned to his guard, who had hurried up the walls behind in great haste. Einar then spoke: ‘They appeared suddenly my lord, setting their torches alight in concert. We received no word of warning.’

On the black horizon, a faint glow could be seen. ‘Ravndal burns,’ said Wulfgar. He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword and closed his eyes.

‘Think fast,’ said the emissary.

 

Wulfgar did not need much time. ‘I accept,’ he yelled. ‘Saruman will have my sword! Now leave this place!’

 

‘Saruman is kind. He understands the risks of marching in winter. But he requests that you bring your men to Isengard once the snows melt.’ answered the emissary. ‘Before springtime. Or you will all suffer the same fate as Ravndal.’

 

Wulfborg, T.A. 3019, February 23th. 

 

Women lamented as the host departed through the gates of Wulfborg. Wulfgar rode at the head, with Brant at his side. Behind them rode the men of the King’s household guard: fifty of his finest warriors. Behind them came a long line of riders bearing spears and long rider shields, no less than fifteen-hundred. Lastly there came a company of archers: five-hundred, carrying great bows and long quivers full of black-feathered shafts. No more men could be found: Wulfgar’s people were not numerous. The King had emptied Frecalund.

 

As they trudged through fields made muddy by the recently vanished snow, Brant spoke to his father.

 

‘When do we tell them?’ he asked.

 

‘When we must,’ answered Wulfgar. ‘And no sooner. The White Wizard is skilled in the art of subterfuge. No doubt there are spies in our ranks.’

 

‘What if they will not listen?’ continued Brant. ‘What if the Prince rejects us?’

 

‘These are dark times,’ answered Wulfgar. ‘This is not mere political strife. Saruman sought to blind us with the plight of my our people, to use our weakness to further his own goals. Those that have fallen under his sway will never find the world they hope for. Orcs do not congregate around the righteous.’

 

The difficult terrain lenghtened what would have been a two day’s march to three. It was the 26^th of February when they reached the Gap of Rohan. When they approached the crossings at the Fords of Isen, they came upon a terrible sight. Bodies were strewn about the landings. Streaks of red and black blood colored the fine stones. As they continued, the tragedy expanded: numerous more bodies could be seen, scattered beneath tattered Rohirrim banners. A great battle had taken place: Orcs on the one side, the Men of Rohan on the other.

 

Wulfgar dismounted, told his men to hold, and walked alone into the stream. His mind raced. Dead men in shining mail, stained in blood. Orcs marked with the White Hand of Saruman.

 

His mind grew numb as Wulfgar calculated his position. His plan had been to cross into Rohan and set up some manner of alliance with the Rohirrim. To set aside their differences and stand against a common foe. He had never trusted Saruman: often the White Wizard had sent him gifts of tribute, demanding nothing in return. He had appeared at Wulfborg once, when his father was still King. Saruman’s voice had been compelling. He had spoken of the injustice inflicted upon the Dunlendings, and of how justice would inevitably be served. His words had been met with praise. That night, Wulfgar could not sleep. The image of the Wizard, appearing without notice and saying everything his father wanted to hear, would not leave his mind.

 

In the distance, a horn was blowing: the Horn of the Mark. What choice was there now? If he remained, the strawheads would not hear his words. They would blame him for the atrocity that occurred there, and would take up arms against his men. He could march to Isengard and lay siege to it, but he would have no hopes of winning: the Ring of Isengard was wide, Saruman likely outnumbered him, and even if he had the advantage of numbers, he had no means of setting up a supply line to maintain the siege. He could march his men back home, where they would be left to await either the wrath of Saruman or that of Théoden, who would surely come for him, having seen Wildmen in his enemy’s ranks.

 

There lay but one path before him, if he desired to have a chance at sparing his lands and people.