Ingold55Durail walked several paces behind the elf. An oath, he had made it to himself in the darkness, and oath that promised protection to a friend. That friend now dead... Dead at the hands of a beast. He had changed roles and made an oath to protect another, this was the one he was following....
Shadows were his home now, a sword his companion. He was the unseen, the Shadow Warrior! His enemies called him the Black Flame, his friends knew him as Durail. Ranger and hunter, warrior and peace keeper. This was his job, his profession.
The elf arrived at the
fords of isen, and Durail moved off to the side.
Raw determination shown bright in his eyes. Courage and
valor, he had fought and won, he would do so again.
The Savage cries of the uruk-hai rose in the air as they charged the Rohirrim. The pungent smell of sweat arose from the Rohirrim, they were scared but brave. Durail pulled Flame, and closed his eyes. Death, the day would be full of it, and if first impressions were to account for anything, the defending men would die at the hands of the savage uruks. So why did they fight? Because the enemy had to be thwarted, stopped, or slowed.
Cries, soul piercing screams…Durail held his eyes shut the uruks were using crossbows…the screams intensified, he had twenty seconds before the enemy would be upon him.
Nothing mattered right now. He shut the shouts and screams out of his mind, he shut every sound out of his mind except for the footsteps of his enemy. five seconds…
Durail raised his head and looked into the eyes of his enemy, it wasn't a man so their would be no remorse. Tuilin was exactly thirty feet from his right, and was fighting well, he wouldn't need Durail for now. A smug grin showed on his weather worn face.
The Uruk swung, Durail blocked. Pulling a dagger from his cloak he shoved it into his opponent, he turned his upper body and blocked another attack, he then twisted his legs and slammed the dagger into this uruk. Two in fifteen seconds.
Flame burning bright its heat added to the fray. He sliced his sword through another uruk, then stabbed another one straight through. None were behind him, he could hold this position for hours…
The uruks had pushed through the Rohirrim lines now. Durail could not longer keep the rest of the battle out of his mind. The river was stained blackish red, and puddles of red were in the ground where the dead now lay. The wounded were being slaughtered and hacked into pieces, the uruks feasted on the dead. Durail pulled back and watched the horror. The battle was lost, but they had fought gallantly.
_____________________________
_____________________________
______________
•
Durail, Shadow Warrior Companion • Man
Strength: 8
Vitality: 4
Resistance: 8
Ranger. Hunter 1.
Skirmish: Exert Durail and add a threat to wound a minion skirmishing a
Man or an Elf.
•
Flame, Weapon of Fire Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength: +3
Bearer must be Durail. He is
damage +1.
Response: If Durail is about to take a wound in a skirmish, add two threats to prevent that wound.
•
Durail's Cloak, Special Gift Possession • Cloak
Vitality: +1
Bearer must be Durail.
The minion archery total is -1.
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Elf_LvrSilvarin was running.
What was he running from? A battle.
He didn't like that very much.
But it would be foolhardy to stay and fight. The uruk-hai of Isengard had broken the Rohirrim ranks at the
Fords of Isen. They had held up fairly well; the enemy was losing men faster than they. However, they made up for it with sheer numbers. The most recent assault by a horde of
warg riders had scattered the defending forces.
Though he had been separated from Dirthon and Duinihir, he was glad at least to have his two of his closest friends with him; the dwarf Rorin and the elf Tuilin riding alongside. It had taken much persuading to drag Rorin fromt the battle, but now the three heroes were in full retreat.
A pleasant surprise had arrived on the battlefield in the form of Durail, weilding his flaming sword. Durail was one of the few warriors left alive who remembered Silvarin's old days in Mirkwood and the events that followed.
As Silvarin thought back to those old days, his hands tightened on Aruthrin and Lindrodrel, his twin swords. Though he had left them behind when he pursued the Iceblade, he found the heavier longsword he had been weilding to be a bit more difficult. His first order of business before coming to Rohan was to collect the blades from Mirkwood. In fact, he hadn't had much time to spend in Mirkwood before riding to the aid of Rohan; after the quest for the Iceblade had ended, he had travelled to Lothlorien in search of his old friend Corvus, who was, unfortunately, no where to be found. When he had finally arrived in Mirkwood, he had seen Ectheow's letter on his doorstep, and left the very next day.
Now Lindrodrel had found its sheath as Silvarin was fleeing, but it also freed his hand to work his magic. A
warg fell to a burst of lightning from his fingertips, it's rider was left to the mercy of Tuilin's bow. But all in all, these efforts were futile. The enemy had won, Silvarin knew it. But he wouldn't let a single one of his friends or comrades die if he could help it. He had seen enough death already to fill two lifetimes.
"Though it looks like I'll be seeing more..." he thought, sadly, as
Elfhelm's army was driven from the Fords.
*
Silvarin, Last Guardian of Mirkwood Companion * Elf
Strength: 6
Vitality: 3
Resistance: 7
While Silvarin bears a hand weapon, he gains
hunter 1.
Each time you play a spell that exerts Silvarin, you may heal him (limit once per phase).
"A word is stronger than the blade."*
Aruthrin, Heirloom Poessession * Hand Weapon
Strength: +1
Vitality: +1
Bearer must be Silvarin.
Each time Silvarin wins a fierce skirmish, you may heal another companion.
*
Lindrodrel, Heirloom Possession * Hand Weapon
Strength: +1
Bearer must be Silvarin. This possession may be borne in addition to one other hand weapon.
Skirmish: Discard 2 cards from hand to exert a minion Silvarin is skirmishing.
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Dáin IronfootOn foot now, Rorin stood as tall as he could, axe in hand, and roared a challenge at the oncoming Uruks. He was alone, but even with a great army behind him, he knew he would probably not survive long. Literally thousands of Uruks, a greater force than he had seen even at the Battle of Five Armies in his youth, was only moments away. They didn't even seem to notice him, a lone figure standing between them and their objective: the
Fords of Isen.
"Horses," he mumbled as he prepared to deliver his first (and perhaps final?) blow....
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One year ago.... They had arrived back at Bree without further incident. No more dead warriors rising from the earth, no more unearthly screams of the icewargs, not even another deathly chill on the wind. The Iceblade was destroyed, the wintery storms had ceased, and seemingly everything foul in the lands around them had vanished with them.
Over the next several days, the heroes, one by one, said their goodbyes and departed for their homes, or wherever they felt fate called them next. Those that stayed enjoyed many nights of fine ale, old tales, and good company with their new friends. But the group was smaller every night, until only a handful remained. Curubethion had been one of the first to depart, with Duinihir promising to follow soon. Adalard the Hobbit longed to see the Shire again, and had made his way back with Curubethion, who promised to look after the small warrior before returning to his silent watch in the northern lands. Ectheow had bartered with a local fellow for a horse and made his way south, not knowing even himself what might lie ahead. The Elves had departed together, except for Silvarin, who had plans to search for another friend in Lothlórien before eventually making his way back home. Rorin fully understood his reluctance to travel straight back to Mirkwood given his history, and though the guilt they shared over their pasts had been left in the icy wilderness of their journey, they each still felt a deep hole inside. Their friendship now, sharing their experiences and knowledge over the last few days, was the type tales were written about. Even after nearly everyone else had gone, the Dwarf and the Elf spent many nights together, laughing and lamenting, with Ryle and Ellar often joining in as well.
Eventually, even they knew it was time to go. Ryle longed to rejoin his people, the Ortans, despite Rorin's long pleading for him to instead come home to Dale. Ryle assured his friend he would make his way home again, but only when the time was right, and then he was gone. Silvarin bid his farewells, also promising that if he could, he would visit Rorin one day, and vice versa.
That left Rorin and Ellar to make the long journey back to Erebor, which ironically DID take them through the
Old Forest Road in Mirkwood itself.
Rorin had settled back in as a blacksmith, and over the next few months, felt a growing sense of dread. The goblin attacks from the north had risen steadily since his arrival, and then the black messenger that had sought news of Hobbits and offered "great reward and lasting friendship" with Sauron himself had returned, and Rorin had been one of the select Dwarves that met him with Dáin Ironfoot,
King Under the Mountain. "I will return by the end of this year," the messenger had warned, "and will not offer friendship again. Lord Sauron's patience wears thin."
"As does mine," Dáin had replied. "I will give you my answer when I am ready to do so, and not before. Now
be gone!"
The messenger had hissed angrily, reminding Rorin, for some reason, of the icewargs that still haunted his dreams. He was chilled to the bone, but as resolute as Dáin: they would not be intimidated by this or any other messenger, no matter who their master might be. The Dwarves had held out in Erebor before, and they could do so again if need be.
"I will return," the messenger had finally replied, spurring his dark horse away. "Consider well the weight of your answer." Then he was gone.
The thing that really made Rorin's stomach turn was not the messenger, but the fact that the goblin raids that had become almost an everyday occurrence ceased that very day. No goblin nor Orc nor
Warg set foot inside the realm of Erebor and Dale for weeks. As frightening as their attacks were for the general populace, their sudden end left them even more fearful.
Rorin met regularly with Dáin, Thorin
Stonehelm, Glóin, and others, as well as the men of Dale with greater influence among their people, including Ellar and even Ryle's father, who seemed willing to bury the hatchet with Rorin in favor of protecting their peoples. These meetings were often energized as they discussed how to answer Sauron's servant when he returned...an answer they all knew, but were greatly mindful of the certain consequences. It seemed no coincidence that a seeming peace had settled over their realm in the face of certain damnation; the goblins and Wargs were certainly gathering, preparing for an organized battle against their enemies as soon as they openly defied the
Dark Lord. They envisioned that the
black rider would not be returning alone, but fully expected a great army at his back.
It was at this time that Ellar visited Rorin in his shop one day.
"Ellar!" Rorin had greeted him heartily. "What brings you by? A meeting I have not yet heard of?"
"No no, my friend," the other had replied, a troubled look in his eyes.
"What is it?" Rorin demanded. "Is it Ryle?" The Dwarf had not heard from his friend for two months, as their regular correspondence had come to an abrupt halt after Rorin's last letter.
"No, not Ryle. Well, not directly," Ellar considered. "I DO have a letter, however."
Rorin took it and read quickly, looking up partway through. "Ectheow?"
"Keep reading, friend," Ellar said simply.
After finishing it, Rorin furrowed his brow. "I understand what he asks, and I would aid him. If Rohan falls, and Gondor beyond it, we would be hard-pressed to stand against...Him." He paused, thinking. "But we cannot spare an army now. You know as well as I that we will need every Man and Dwarf able to bear arms soon enough, and we need them HERE."
"I know," Ellar said sadly. "But what can we do? We cannot let them stand alone. They will be slaughtered...."
"And Ryle and Silvarin and Ectheow and the others will be killed alongside them," Rorin interrupted. "I know." He sat down and pulled out his pipe, taking a deep puff and exhaling slowly. He looked around his shop, and shook his head slowly. "How did it come to this?"
Ellar said nothing. There was nothing to really say.
"
I will go to Rohan," Rorin said at least. "I am but one warrior, but I will do what I can to aid Rohan and forestall the doom to come. I would rather fight my battle now, to
whatever end, then sit here and wait for it to come to me. But Ellar," he grabbed the man's arm emphatically, "you MUST ensure all is ready here. I will be counting on you. Be my voice here, and do not let anyone let their guard down. This war will find its way here, whether it is tomorrow or years from now. We must be ready."
Ellar nodded solemnly. "We will be, my friend. I will see to it."
Rorin glanced around his shop again, knowing it may well be the last time he would see it, and finally rose. "I will tell King Dáin myself. First, I must pack my things. Is there a horse in Dale that I can...uh...borrow?"
"Of course. I'll see to it," Ellar said with a grin, despite the situation.
"I will not let one of those blasted beasts throw me again!" Rorin said, flustered. "I know full well what you're thinking about!"
"You should have seen the look on your face," Ellar chuckled. "I swear that horse was laughing at you."
"And so were YOU, which is why I promised you I wouldn't be riding those trails again with you!" Rorin retorted, but had to fight off a grin of his own. That hadn't been one of his finer moments, and Ellar knew it.
Ellar laughed openly before turning serious again. "Be careful, my friend. If Rohan is half as threatened as Ectheow believes, you are walking into the front line of the greatest battle of
our time. Remind Ryle of that if you see him, too." He rose. "I will have some cram ready for you, along with the horse. Come and see me when you are ready." With that, he gave a final nod and ducked back out, leaving Rorin alone with his thoughts.
It took Rorin only minutes to pack. His battle axe was first out, and quickly sharpened as it hadn't been since the quest for the Iceblade. With his armor on, and several smaller axes and provisions stuffed away, he took a final glance at the picture of his father Balir on his worktable.
"Remember, Rorin," his father's words came back to him again. "It is not what we do, but who we are that matters."
"Aye, father," Rorin said softly. "But my deeds will be loudest in the coming days," he said as he closed the door behind him.
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It had taken many days, but Rorin had finally reached Rohan. A rather
barren land, he thought, sort of like the lands to the north of Erebor, though with much warmer weather. The horse Ellar had provided was a sturdy beast, thankfully, and seemed to enjoy the rich grasses and wheat found in the fields around them whenever they stopped to rest.
Before long, Rorin reached a great river. "This must be the Isen," he thought aloud. The Fords had to be close. Deciding now was a good time to take their final rest, he dismounted (never an easy task for a Dwarf) and made his way to the edge of the water to fill his near-empty flask. The sun was rising, and the colors of the sky reflected off the water. All seemed to be at peace.
He was just standing up to make his way back when he noticed it. He had stooped to fill his flask near a small, calm inlet of the river, where the water barely flowed. As he looked down, ripples began to form, first along the edges of the water, and steadily moving inward.
The ground was shaking.
Rorin was more curious and surprised at first than anything. But it took only a pair of heartbeats for him to realize what it meant.
Unsheathing his axe, he climbed back onto his horse and looked around. They must be close....
They were. To the north, just appearing over the crest of a hill, came the Uruk-hai.
Rorin spurred his horse on, trying to force it to turn south and make for the Fords. But the beast had other ideas. It turned...and took out right from under Rorin, throwing him to the ground. It bucked and neighed wildly, and then was gone.
This was why he hated them so. "Horses," he mumbled, turning to face the oncoming army. There was no time to hide, and no time to run. He was probably less than a mile from the relative safety of the
Rohirrim camp, but not nearly close enough. The Uruks were upon him. He raised his axe and prepared to deliver his first (and perhaps final?) blow....
Out of nowhere, he heard a loud neighing again. Had his horse returned? He didn't have time to look, as he swung ferociously and took the lead Uruk's head right off its shoulders. The others then seemed to notice him, as if for the first time, looking at him in disgust, like a fly that needed to be swatted away. This lone pest dared oppose them?
Rorin found himself completely surrounded, Uruks on all sides. He had never faced these crossbreeds before, but anyone watching wouldn't know it as his axe felled foe after foe. Several blows connected on the Dwarf's armor, but he was able to shake off the pain and come right back. Black Uruk blood soaked the earth, and the bodies piled on top of each other, but
still they came, an endless tide of death. Rorin knew his time had come. The odds were impossible from the very beginning, and death was exactly what would be washing over him at any moment.
Just then, as he prepared to surrender to his fate, he heard weapons clanging nearby, but not his own. He heard a voice calling his name...HIS name! Someone else was here, and trying to reach him. Ryle?
No. As he finally caught a glimpse of his unexpected ally, it was another face he saw tangling with the enemy. One he had not expected to see at all.... "Ranger!" he called, wielding his axe with newfound fervor as he attempted to cut through the chaos and reach the mounted man.
Curubethion shouted his own
battle cry and swung his sword in long strokes, only feet away now. The two finally reached each other, and with incredible strength, he hoisted the Dwarf up. Rorin swung up and sat backwards behind the ranger, hacking at the angry mob as Curubethion fought his way towards the water.
Rorin risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw that they were making towards a narrow section of the river, hopefully one was the water was shallow enough to cross.
It was. They finally made their way there, and the Uruks roared but did not follow. They had other objectives ahead, and knew that they could always come back for their prey later. There would soon be nowhere safe for the ranger and the Dwarf in these lands, and they would be finished off later. They marched on towards the Fords, not even bothering to look down at their dead.
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Curubethion barely slowed as they crossed the river, spurring his white steed up the bank and racing south. They had to reach the Fords before the Uruks. The Rohirrim would need every man—and Dwarf—they could get.
"Master Ranger!" Rorin exclaimed again, finally catching his breath and his wits.
"Are you hurt, Rorin?" Curubethion replied over his shoulder.
"I don't...no, I don't think so, lad," Rorin said. "What in the name of Durin are you doing here?"
The ranger looked back and smiled. "I might ask you the same," he said. "But I think we both already know the answer."
"Ectheow?"
Curubethion simply nodded.
"Well then, I guess I am fortunate I'm not the only one who was running a little behind," Rorin called against the rushing wind as they sped on.
"I was a bit delayed, yes," Curubethion said. "I hope I will be able to explain soon. First," he pointed ahead, "we have other things to worry about."
Rorin looked and saw that the battle of the Fords was already well underway. The Uruks they had encountered probably hadn't even been the initial force, as hundreds of men and Orcs and Wargs and Uruks already lay dead, some floating in the water like bloody corks. Rorin could see some familiar faces already. Dirthon and Duinihir were surrounded by Uruks much as Rorin had been only minutes before, but seemed to be holding their own for now. Tuilin the Elf was firing arrow after arrow into the enemy forces, one of which flashed by another familiar friend: Ectheow, who was doing the Rohirrim proud atop a
black steed, hacking and slashing anything in his path. Nearby, a warrior dressed all in black himself stood out, and though Rorin did not know him, he was immediately impressed by the manner in which he dispatched enemy after enemy, facing each seemingly without any fear.
But then it was their turn to enter the fray, as Curubethion's horse splashed back across the water and into the battle.
"Thanks for the ride, Ranger, but we Dwarves do not fight from horseback," he called.
Curubethion nodded, understanding. He swung his horse around to provide a small bit of cover for the Dwarf as Rorin leaped into the enemy, tacking three Uruks into the shoreline as dove. He jumped up first and dispatched them, then turned left and right,
seeking new foes. There was certainly no shortage, as Uruks and Orcs and Wargs and even ragged Men swarmed across the battlefield. The Rohirrim fought valiantly, easily taking down more enemies per soldier than each enemy combatant claimed before falling themselves. But it was a lost cause from the outset. The numbers were badly skewed in the enemy's favor, and Rorin realized why Ectheow's letter had sounded so desperate. The Rohirrim were brave and gallant, but they were clearly outmatched...unprepared for so numerous and so fierce an enemy. Rorin had fought many foes in his time, but even he was surprised at how recklessly ferocious these foes were, especially the Uruks. For every one slain, two more rose up, and twice as
enraged as the last.
But as long as the Rohirrim and his friends stood, so would Rorin. He tried several times to fight his way over to a familiar face as it would flash by, but was never able. He realized the folly of fighting this battle on foot, Dwarven pride or no, but too late.
Finally, near the end of his strength at last, Rorin started as an unfortunate
Rohirrim soldier fell beside him, he and his horse topping into the water with a loud splash. Rorin momentarily forgot the battle, seeing the boy's stunned face. It was half gone, a sight that nearly made even Rorin sick. What remained showed a lad barely out of his teenage years.
Rorin surveyed the field around him. Very few friendly faces were still to be seen, and increasingly more and more hideously twisted ones approached as the Uruks continued to stream onto the field. The few Rohirrim he did see were riding away from the battle, in full retreat.
"Rorin!" came a familiar voice, and the Dwarf saw Silvarin and Tuilin beside him, mounted on Rohirrim steeds. "It is lost! Come...quickly!"
Rorin almost ignored him, clutching his axe tight and thinking for a moment of diving back into the fray. How could Rohan stand if they fell here? This was but the first in a series of dominos, with his home in Erebor coming only a bit further down the line. If the Rohirrim lost here....
But they already had, and Rorin knew it. With a frustrated roar towards the enemy, he climbed aboard the horse that had fallen at his feet moments before. Happy to have a rider now that seemed to want to head AWAY from the Uruks, the horse took off at a full run, following the two Elves from the battlefield. Ahead, Rorin was happy to see Ectheow and Curubethion and others able to ride away as well.
But where was Ryle? Rorin glanced back for the final time, searching desperately for his friend, but he was nowhere to be seen.
It would be folly to turn back, though Rorin considered it. He could only hope that, like some of the others, his young friend had made it out alright...or run even later than he and Curubethion had.
He tightened his hand on his axe as the other held onto the reigns. This battle may be lost, but HIS war wouldn't be over until his friends and his home were safe. Even if next time, he WAS the only one left to stand in the enemy's way.
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•
Rorin, Dwarven Defender Companion • Dwarf
Strength: 6
Vitality: 3
Resistance: 6
Damage +1. Hunter 2.While Rorin is unwounded, he may not be overwhelmed unless his strength is tripled.
Skirmish: Exert Rorin to take a
event into hand from your discard pile. Limit once per skirmish.
"I would rather fight my battle now, to whatever end, then sit here and wait for it to come to me."•
Rorin's Battle Axe, Final Work of Balir Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength +2
Bearer must be a Dwarf. Bearer is
damage +1.
If bearer is Rorin, each time you play a
card during a skirmish involving him, you may exert a minion in that skirmish.
A traditional double-bladed weapon, the battle axe carried by Rorin is trimmed with ornate symbols and was the last crafted by his father before Balir's death.•
Rorin's Armor, Hauberk of Steel Mail Possession • Armor
Vitality +1
Resistance +1
Bearer must be Rorin.
Each minion skirmishing Rorin loses all damage bonuses (except from possessions or artifacts).
Tough, durable armor enables Dwarves to shake off blows that would cripple others.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
•
Curubethion, Northern Dúnedain Companion • Man
Strength: 7
Vitality: 4
Resistance: 8
Ranger. Hunter 2.Each time Curubethion wins a fierce skirmish, you may exert a minion skirmishing a ranger.
At the start of each regroup phase, if Curubethion did not lose a skirmish this turn, you may heal another companion.
Long a defender of the Free Peoples of the north, Curubethion rode as quickly as he could to aid those in the south as the war for Middle-earth began in earnest.•
Dagmor, Slayer of Darkness Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength +2
Bearer must be Curubethion.
He is
damage +1.
Each time Curubethion wins a skirmish, you may exert him to discard a Shadow condition. Limit once per turn.
Named after the weapon of the legendary Beren Erchamion, Curubethion's blade has slain nearly as many foes as its namesake in the defense of Middle-earth.•
Curubethion's Cloak, Gray Mantle Possession • Cloak
Resistance +1
Bearer must be Curubethion.
While the fellowship is at a forest site, each minion skirmishing a
ranger is site number +2.
Each roaming minion skirmishing Curubethion loses all hunter bonuses.
Always shrouded in mystery, Curubethion was also often shrouded in shadows when he did not want to be seen.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
machetemanRyle was loath to leave that happy company in
the Prancing Pony, and he longed to return to his homeland with Rorin, and see his beloved Dale again. But it could not be so, his duty to the league is what concerned him now. A long march awaited him, and there was no one there in the darkness, no one to comfort his heavy heart. Even in the frigid waste searching for the elusive iceblade and being harried incessantly by wolves and specters, he at least had friends. But now, there was no one, his duty was with his men, but his hart ever wandered. He was so very alone.
He raced east and north and wandered the wilds to find his men, they had no home, they wandered always, and were nigh impossible to track down, for so unpredictable was their travel, and so swift was their pace. But at last Ryle found a trace. And he followed that trace until it led him back west to the Misty Mountains. Then the trail tuned south, and followed the mountain range to the end, where at last Ryle overtook his quarry.
About 50 meters from the camp Ryle heard a shrill whistle, varying like a Brown Thrush. The group of men was alerted now, but before they could send a whistle in reply Ryle whistled a message to the sentry. A stunned silence could be felt in the air. Before long the small company had circled Ryle, and Falvon, who had led in Ryle's place, walked up to him sword in hand.
"My friends, what lead you so far south?"
"Ryle, you reckless vagabond! I wouldn't have thought you'd track us all the way down here!"
"Well, it looks like I have," Ryle smiled and they shook hands and slapped each other on the back.
But then Falvon leaned close, and whispered into Ryle's ear, "I'm glad you're back, for truly, we've had to track a deserter these past months."
"A deserter? But the men of the league are free to ask release from their oaths."
"Aye, but this man wasn't released from oath. He murdered a man when we were outside of Bree, and we've been tracking him ever since."
Ryle spent several weeks among his men and friends, but his heart was restless. At last he gave charge back to Falvon and set out for Dale. It was when he was lost in mirkwood, in the dark and evil near Dul-Gulder that his old friend Aeglirnen the eagle returned. And the two of them made their way out of the forest and north to the Iron Hills. And to his grumpy old friend Rorin.
But alas! Rorin had departed in haste not long before. Ryle knew Rorin well, and could feel that something was amiss. He had felt it when he left
the Prancing Pony. The days were gray for Ryle, but he went at last to Dale and the house of his father. There he learned that the king had taken counsel with Rorin and the other Dwarven leaders concerning the defense of the people. But then Rorin had left without a word and the thought was that he had deserted, fearing the orcs were planning an assault which would bring ruin to the dwarves of the Iron Hills.
Ryle anxiety grew, and he was assured something was dreadfully wrong to cause his staunchest friend to leave in such a manner. After replenishing his provisions, Ryle set out again this time tracking his friend to wherever fate may have carried him. He found the trail when he
discovered broken bits of cram along deep heavy hoofprints. The young wanderer smiled; a light was at last rising above the darkness.
Ryle bought a horse from a farmer and was swiftly overtaking his large dwarven friend. But he was slowed by the necessity of following the tracks, and he could not reach the Dwarf. He came to the
fords of Isen, where at last the reason for Rorin's departure was made certain. The bodies of the slain lay in ruinous heaps as feasts for the delighted vultures. The battle was over, but Ryle's sword was growing eager for blood.
At long last, upon a distant rise, Ryle caught sight of a group of men and elves and one rather large dwarf who was upon a horse.
_____________________________
_______________
•
Ryle, Leader of the Ortans Companion • Man
Strength: 5
Vitality: 4
Resistance: 8
Ranger.While bearing a possession, Ryle is vitality +1.
At the start of each maneuver phase, if Ryle has resistance 6 or more, you may heal a
Man or ranger (and remove
if Ryle has resistance 7 or more).
"‘...that boy has potential even he cannot fully see.'"•
Blade of Dale Possession • Hand Weapon
Strength: +1
Vitality: +1
Bearer must be a
Man or Rorin.
While you can spot a
follower, bearer is strength +1.
While bearer is Ryle, Shadow cards may not discard this possession.
And finding himself without weapon, Rorin drew forth the sword, and smote the encircling goblins while Ryle was still lost in the dark of unconsciousness. Ortan's Gear Possession • Pack
Strength: +1
Resistance: +2
Bearer must be a
ranger.
Response: If you play an event during Ryle's skirmish, you may exert him and add a threat to take that event into hand instead of discarding it.
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legoles3333After his adventure with the ranger Curubethion and his companions, Legoles headed back to mirkwood and resumed his position as
captain of the king's guard.
February 24th, 3019Legoles was at his house in mirkwood when an elf appeared and said a messenger had been sent asking for him personally, curious, Legoles went out of his house and was faced with a messenger who was most definitely a man.
February 28th, 3019Legoles was quite near the
fords of Isen as he had ridden hard for four days, he had come south and ridden past Fangron and was now coming down the river Isen. he was just remembering how the news that his friend Ectheow had contacted him and requested his assistance in defending the
fords of Isen from the army of Saruman.
March 2nd, 3019Having ridden for six long days to arrive here, Legoles was now exhausted as he prepared for fighting the force, no, the army that Saruman had brought here, near him was Tuilin, an elf and kindred spirit, they had become friends during their long march in the north. and to the far left was Duinihir, a ranger from the lands south and a great fighter. soon, they heard the Uruks approaching, and they prepared for battle, as they saw the uruks break out of the fog, He saw Tuilin fighting hard to his right and Duinihir throwing himself like a monster to his left, and then the uruks were upon him, and he was no longer aware of anything but his heart racing and his aching arms.
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ok here is me and my stuff
*
Legoles, Captain of the Guard Companion - Elf
Strength 7
Vitality 3
Resistance 7
Archer.*
Legoles' Sword, Ancient Blade Strength +2
Bearer must be an Elf.
If bearer is Legoles, he is
damage +1.
*
Legoles' Bow, Weapon of Mirkwood Resistance +1
Bearer must be an Elf.
Archery: If bearer is Legoles, exert him to wound a minion (limit once per phase).
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