Our adventure begins on a dreary, rainy night on January 19th of the year 2965. The Company has gathered here in the Prancing Pony, thankful to be out of the rain that pours from the darkened skies. Here we have Dorim Stonebreacher, a Dwarven Treasure Hunter; next to Dorim, Bergil, son of Udalraph, a Ranger of the North, and next to Bergil, Arinor, son of Balis, from Laketown. They've only known one another for a short time...

But before we speak of that, allow us to rewind the days and even years, to three years ago, when you, Dorim, spent your youth in the Dwarf-halls of Harmelt - which lay at the southern end of the mountain range of Blue Mountain, atop a hill called the Stone of Fire. It was there, that the mines were drying up, and the Dwarves were growing restless.

Dorim however, turned to the archives. There was much to uncover there, such as stories of King Arvedui, who hid treasures in the mines of Scowle Hill while fleeing the Witch-King. It was during this time, not only did Dorim learn of other treasures in the world, but also that the world was far older and far more perilous than he had ever come to realize. Secluded within the stone walls of the Blue Mountain had given many dwarves a false sense of safety.

Despite the danger, something called to Dorim to seek out these lost treasures; not to horde them, but rather to reclaim them, and ensure such relics were not destroyed, or worse, fall into the hands of shadow. One might call what Dorim sought to do as burglary, he however, saw himself as a reclaimer of the lost. There was one thing that called to Dorim, as it perhaps called to all the Dwarves, was beyond the Misty Mountains lay the oldest of cities and ancestral halls of his people, Khazad-dûm. Though Moria was now a place of “melancholic gloom” and dread, and forbidden entrance to by the Dwarves, under the order of the ruling King, King Dáin II Ironfoot. Still, Dorim dreamed of braving the darkness, to reclaim the lost secrets and fabled treasures, and to perhaps lead his people back to greatness, where once again, they could mine for Mithrill.

We now follow you Dorim, as he leaves the Blue Mountain...

Dorim was merely sixty one years of age, as he began his venture beyond Blue Mountain. A dwarf full of hope and optimism that he can recover some of these relics that had fallen and been forgotten by the ages. As he began the descent down Blue Mountain, his hand rested on his trusty mule named Plotka, whom he had spent a great amount of time with and had grown quite fond of. Plotka was just as stubborn as any mule, except for when it came to Dorim. Plotka seemed enamored by Dorim and would have probably leaped across any ledge no matter the distance, if Dorim had asked it of Plotka.

This February 14, 2962, as the two made their slow descent down the Blue Mountains, a chilling fog crested over the opposite side of the Blue Mountain and made its way down, like an avalache made of fog, moving in slow motion, in a persistent effort to try and consume Dorim within the grey mist. It was not long, despite how slow the fog moved, before Dorim and Plotka soon found themselves in the thick of it. Visibility was shattered by the density of the fog, and the trail down the stone path became extremely dangerous as one false step could send the duo tumbling into the grey shadows, never to be found.

The fight off the cold that the fog brought, Dorim pulled his hood over his head. Dorim muttered how the grey fog reminded him of the dense spider webs sometimes seen in the depths of Blue Mountain, the less traveled roads, in which spiders reclaim. Dorim shuddered. He hated spiders.

Despite being a Dwarf, telling time beneath the mountain was different then trying to tell time endlessly lost in the grey mist that had come down over the valley. Simply by judging how many nights he had slept, Dorim guessed he'd spent six days within the confines of the fog. He and Plotka had safely managed to descend down Blue Mountain, but it could not be clear if the'd been walking in circles for the last three days after they had descended. Even the food and hunting seemed scarce, as if the fog had chased away, or perhaps even consumed the wildlife that had been unable to flee its grey tentacles. 

The density of the fog had almost caused Dorim to stumble into a small camp; pulling himself short and signaling to Plotka to top; he looked at the two figures, trying desperately to pierce the fog. Dorim paused and regained his composure and used the fog to his benefit to stealth into the fog and learn more; and overhears one of the two dwarves mutter, "This fog is not natural I tell you! We need to get out of this fog and get this merchandise to our clients!"

Dorim, seeing that its dwarves, and that they had food, spoke softly, "I mean no harm. My name is Dorim Stonebreacher, I too, am from Blue Mountain."

One of the dwarves jumped to their feet, a weapon drawn. "Come out of the fog!"

Dorim stepped closer. "It is only myself and my mule, Plotka."

The other dwarf stood and placed his hand on the shoulder of the dwarf with the weapon drawn. "Come, friend. It will be nice to have the company of another dwarf this night. My name is Floki, my companion here with his weapon drawn, is Hornbori. Go on, put the weapon away, Hornbori, it is no goblin or orc that moves in the fog tonight, though we have seen some of them, so pardon our concern."

Dorim sat as close as he could to the fire, but it provided little warmth as they sat, eveloped by the grey fog, still they were able to cook their meals and share their food. "Where do you go from here?" Dorim asked.

"First, we travel west to trade some of our goods," Floki gestured to a concealed wagon, next to which his own mule was tied.

"Why do you conceal the wagon?" Dorim asked.

"Common practice, in case ruffians are near, they won't see the merchandise and be less inclined to rob," Floki answered as he chewed on the meat he'd been grilling a moment ago. "Though in this blasted fog," he looked around, "that crazy grey wizard could shoot off his blasted fireworks, and naught a person would see it." Floki swallowed his meat he'd been chewing on, then looked to Dorim. "So what brings you out into this blasted fog to be wandering alone if you're not a merchant?"

Dorim nearly choked on his food; he certainly had not wanted to mention he was a treasure hunter, especially after Floki had mentioned that the wagon was to protect it from a ruffian's eyes; though ruffians and treasure hunters were two very different things, in the eyes of many, there was no difference. Dorim coughed and tried to clear his throat, stammering over his words.

Floki smiled, "I am not nearly as young as you, Master Dorim. I am no fool. You moved quietly in the fog. You travel alone. Your mules does not have much on their back. There are few people skilled in such ways and travel as light as you do. You are clearly no Ranger of the North, though taller than most Dwarves you may be; so that tells me you're a treasure hunter. There's no shame in it, if you're honorable about it and don't violate customs and treat what you find with disrespected."

Dorim flushed red, though the fog hid it well. "Perhaps I could travel with you. There is safety in numbers."

Floki turned to Hornbori, who shook his head in a negative manner. "I am afraid our paths will not be the same come the day, should the day ever pierce this blasted fog. We travel east to trade with some merchants to the east. However, for you, your path should lie north. If you continue north, you will eventually pass the Tower Hills, identifable by the three towers that sit upon those hills. Venture east along that path, and you will find youself in the Shire, full of the Hobbit-folk. Continue East along that road and you will eventually find yourself in Bree. In Bree, seek out the Prancing Pony. It's there where others, who might need the kinds of services you might be able to provide, can be found."

Dorim had wanted to say more, but a stern glanced, even through the dense fog, from Hornbori, made it clear that Dorim would not be welcomed on their travels. In the morning, the fog had remained, but the sun had finally weakened its hold. From time to time, the fog broke apart, and the sun would shine through. Floki placed his hand on Dorim's shoulder, "Take no offense to Hornbori. We've had an ill dealing before with another dwarven treasure hunter, who did not honor ancient customs, but I will speak no more of it. I bid you well on your travels, Master Dorim."

One final breakfast meal was shared, and Floki and Hornbori continued east, while Dorim thanked them and moved north with Plotka. It'd only been two days, and though the fog had lightened up, it still prevented visibility - it was then that Dorim and Plotka, had yet again, nearly stumbled into someone - this time, two human ruffians had their sword drawn - and two other humans, one standing near a black horse, with white flecks on its face - his sword drawn, defensively - and another, dressed similar to the man near the horse, with his bow out, pointing at the ruffians.

One of the ruffians repeated, "Just give us the horse, and the two of you can walk away from this." Seeing Dorim emerge from the fog, the human ruffian pointed his blade to the startled dwarf. "Turn around dwarf, this is no business of yours and you don't want the kind of trouble we would bring you."

Dorim heaved a sigh. These ruffians represented everything that tarnished the good name of any treasure hunter. These were the kinds of people that Floki and Hornbori hid their wagon from, even in the dense fog, and probably had been the very ruffians that the two may have seen while traveling in the fog. Dorim owed nothing to the two other humans, who by the looks of things, did not look like the people of Bree, with their furs - these looked, perhaps like people from Laketown, which Dorim was familiar with, if for no other reason than the stories that surrounded Smaug.

Dorim heaved a sigh, and placed his hand on Plotka's hip, and using the density of the fog, drew his bow and fired - and with deadly accuracy. The arrow struck the ruffian chief in the chest. The ruffian chief, surprised, looked down, and moments later collapsed to his knees, his eyes vacant of any life. The other ruffian looked around in surprise.

The human near the sword, took advantage of the ruffian's surprise, and brought his two handed sword down, across the ruffian's chest, creating a massive wound, and the ruffian collapsed to the ground.

The human wiped his blade off and looked to Dorim. "To whom do I owe my thanks, Master Dwarf?"

Dorim put the bow away. "The name is Dorim Stonebreacher," he replied.

"An honor to meet you, Master Dorim," the human said. "My name is Arinor, son of Balis. I hail from Laketown. My companion," he nodded to the other human who had put his bow down, "is Jerick, son of Erûn. We have come from Laketown, where at one time, I was a Captain, and Jerick, my companion, was a guard who served me. He is a great friend of mine and a better champion."

"Laketown is far from here," Dorim noted. "What would bring you so far this way?" Dorim caught a glimpse of something near the ruffian leader and knelt down to pick it up. He nearly gasped in shock, as he realized it was the hilt of a dagger - the blade had been broken - but it was of Dwarven make. That had not been why he nearly gasped - it'd been the ball at the hilt of the blade - that's what had reflected the sunlight for a brief moment - it was Mithrill. But how had this Ruffian come to own it?

"A fair question, Master Dorim," Arinor said, bringing Dorim back from his thoughts, he looked as Arinor was checking on his horse. The horse thumped the ground with its foot. "My apologies, it would seem my steed is offended that I have not introduced him as well, as he was clearly sought by the ruffians - this is Gilestel." The black stallion was tall, strong, proud and entirely black, as if made of the starless night itself; save for its face markings, which at first glance might have appeared as cast off white flecks of some sort, but in truth was its fur, almost giving it a night sky appearance. "As for what we are doing this far, as you asked; we've heard news of strange things afoot beyond Laketown. Orcs and goblins that have been moving more openly. Restless spirits in ancient graves. As if something stirs those things touched by shadow once more. I am sure your kind, Master Dwarf, know the story of Smaug and Lonely Mountain. Well, I am or was, a Captain of the Guard in Laketown - and these murmurings of shadow have grown louder. I can not ignore them and perhaps allow another drake or something worse to take hold of the land. Jerick and I have wandered the lands, aiding the people as we find them, investigating what we hear. And it has been grim, Master Dwarf, if I am to be truthful. Orcs, goblins, trolls; restless spirits, it's all been true. I believe something stirs them, though I know not what it is. And yourself," Arinor nodded, "you travel alone and light, yet you are no ruffian. What brings you to travel these dangerous roads?"

Dorim shrugged, and gave a vague description of how there were some 'family heirlooms' he'd hope to recover that had been 'stolen' from his family. Arinor nodded, and patted his sword. "This is my father's blade. It's all I have of him. I was but a young child when Smaug came. My father pushed my mother and I into the water, as Smaug's flame reigned down. When my mother surfaced with me, the sword was all that remained, somehow unblemished and untouched by Smaug's flame. If someone had ever taken this, I would hunt them down until my breath no longer came to me. So, I understand your mission, Master Dwarf. Perhaps we can travel together for a short while?"

Dorim nodded, thankful to share the road with companions... but his hand was in his pocket, where his fingers rubbed the ball at the end of the broken dagger... Mithrill...

It'd only been two days later, the company of three, with their two horse and one pony came to another figure on the road. He too, was on a horse, though his horse was positioned sideways, as if to block the road. "I may be an old man, but I could hear the three of you chattering as you came up the road." His piercing blue eyes seem to break though the density of the fog, though his robes, hat and beard, all seemed to be made up of the same color.

Arinor smiled, "Gandalf, what brings you here, near the Three Towers?"

"I might ask you the same, Arinor, son of Balis," Gandalf smiled as he dismounted his horse. "You are a long way from home. I went to Laketown and spoke with your mother and she told me that you got it in your head that you were going to go on an adventure! You! You're a Captain! Is your duty not to Laketown?"

Arinor smiled again, "It is. But I feel that I must do more. Laketown is secluded, and it was that seclusion that allowed the terrible Smaug to take over Lonely Mountain. I will not be hidden away and wait for such evil and shadow to creep its way in again. I will go out there," he placed his hand on his blade, "to face it with the courage of my father."

Gandalf looked sad for a moment, "Balis was much like you, Arinor. Brave. A captain. You have followed in his footsteps and taken strides to be out of his reflection. I am proud of you."

"You said you went looking for him," Jerick muttered. "Why?"

"Oh, Jerick, son of Erûn. You are usually attached to Arinor, since childhood. I should have guessed one of the three voices I heard was yours," Gandalf smiled, though Jerick did not smile. Jerick was typically far too serious for the nonsense Gandalf usually brought with him. "You are correct. I was looking for Arinor. I have need of several people to look into some things for me. However, some of the things will require fitting into tight spaces and understanding what they might be getting into." With a thump of his gnaled, wooden staff, Gandalf shoved Jerick aside. "Perfect! I see you have already found a wonderful treasure hunter! None other than Dorim Stonebreacher! A good decission," Gandalf nodded and turned. "Now, we just need someone who knows this land well. A Ranger of the North. I know just where to find one. The three of you, venture to Bree. Seek out an establishment known as the Prancing Pony. Speak to the owner, Barnabas Butterbur. Let him know I've sent you."

"If I am to follow you with these things you want us to look into, I would like to ride to Laketown and see my mother again," Arinor, nodded.

Gandalf looked sad for a moment, his eyes, mournful. "That would be a good idea, Arinor," he said faintly. He cleared his throat and his smiled returned. "Now, where would I find a Ranger of the North... Ah, yes! Weathertop. Strider should be there!"

The scene and the date now change to December 24, 2963, to an area known as the Angle, south of the Trollshaws, as a young Ranger of the North, by the name of Bergil, son of Udalraph moved quietly through the snow blanketed forest.

Bergil, son of Udalraph, grew up most of his life in this area; the Dúnedain lived in the Angle since it was protected by the river Hoarwell in the west, which could only be crossed below its sources at the Last Bridge and the river Loudwater in the east and it was close to the elven refuge of Rivendell. Bergil, son of Udalraph was well aware that Rivendell was near; because during his time in Angle, he'd seen the Elves moving through the trees, with their bows and lethal accuracy towards any troll, goblin, or orc who traveled too far east into Trollshaws. Bergil, son of Udalraph had never been to Rivendell, but from his observations of how these Elves fearlessly defended any who traveled too far East into the Trollshaws, had guessed, somewhere beyond the Elven defense, the home of Lord Elrond lay.

Bergil, son of Udalraph had heard of Lord Elrond, because the other Rangers of the North, such as his father, spoke of him with great reverence. His father, like his father before him, came from a long lineage of great riders named for their 'stirrupless' nature, who many said were one with their mounts, traversing the lands surrounding Erador, with uncanny speed and swiftness. However, becoming a Ranger of the North had never interested Bergil, son of Udalraph and with brothers older than him, such as Thorondir, his father was preoccupied with them as successors, giving Bergil time to do what he had pleased, which usually meant, observing nature and being away from everyone.

He could sit for hours, staring at the dirt between grass blades, looking for movements, trails, a lone ant - then the arrival of dozens of others. He was fascinated how they communicated wordlessly, working together to carry things one hundred times their weight, or assembling war against invaders to their den, all without the use of words. He was often teased by Thorondir, whom he was closest to, among his elder brothers, for searching for fox dens, building homes for rogue snails, and bringing him injured birds to mend.

As Bergil got older, his mother recruited him to run errands and aid her business as a seamstress. Here, he heard the daily gossips of the village, the constant rumors, complaints, conspiracies, the constant... fear of others. This made him think of the ants, the ants who communicated without the noise of words.

As Bergil gradually came of age, things started to change. The desperation and fear in the voices Bergil heard in the village and the stories almost felt a degree worse. It was as if a sense of paranoia and fear had seeped deep beneath this skin and was now bubbling forth. It was an eeriness he could not shake off. Rangers, like his brother Thorondir and his father, were out for longer and father travels, with sparse visits home... and when they came home, their faces always looked long and drawn. He could even sense a change in the creatures around him, a hesitance that almost mimicked the fear he heard in the people of Eriador.

He realized he could not hide any longer and that he must take up his own heavy cloak and sword and he had a role to play in whatever it was that was now looming, stretching further across the land. There was a desire to bring peace, not only to his own people, but also to the land.

Bergil looked like a typical Ranger of the North, he was tall, but lanky. He was still young, not hardened both in spirit or body, but the shadows of the world. His leather corset was crafted by his mother, and perhaps the only thing on his person, that he cared for. His hair was unkempt, his leggings and boots, muddy from the snowfall that soaked the soil. Bergil had been out on his own in the forest of the Angle, the snow and the wind, biting into his flesh like an animal with a thousand razorsharp teeth, due to the chill of the winds. The wind howled around him and just as he stepped into a clearing, he now wondered, had the howls solely been the wind?

For in front of him, was young, grey wolf pup, no older than a year, its front, right paw, ensnared in a bear trap. The young wolf looked up at Bergil and did not growl, instead it tried, again, to pull back on the beartrap, in hopes of freeing itself from the terrible, metallic maw. Bergil looked around for a stick to pry it open, uncertain how a trapped wolf might react to him had he gotten too close. The heavy snow had buried the sticks, and even digging for one proved to be fruitless, as his fingers began to sting from the cold. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out some of his own food and threw it to the wolf to feed on, to distract it while he pryed the trap open. He had not had to pull it open far, before the young wolf saw that its paw had been freed, and pulled away from the trap. Bergil, while the young wolf, who may have been stuck in this trap for days, continued to eat the food provided, began to mend and heal the wolf, who did not seem to mind Bergil's gentle touch.

After Bergil completed the mending, and the young wolf pup had finished the meal provided, it limped away into the forest, its grey fur soon blurring with the snowfall and shadows. Movement on a ledge drew Bergil's attention quickly; and there he saw a grey wolf, whose size was larger than any he'd seen before. The large grey wolf seemed to stare down at Bergil, as if observing him, perhaps memorizing his scent; but there was not malicious in the eyes of this massive wolf, rather a sense of intelligence and thanks. After a moment, the wolf turned its head to the left, and vanished from sight as the snow came down harder, just as the wolf left, almost immediately obscuring its view. A howl was heard, though this was not the wind; this was the beautifully haunting song of a very large wolf, and as it sang its song, Bergil's heart, was inexplicably filled with hope.

As the days turned into weeks, Bergil had patrolled the lands between Angle and Bree for months, the stories of gossip increasing. He'd heard that Thorondir had often gone to Weathertop to meet with one of the most respected Rangers of the North, a man by the name of Strider, who even his father obeyed (and her father obeyed few and far between). Bergil began his trip through the Lone Lands on this night.

The Lone Lands were a desolate land, primarily full of wild life; but things moved through the Lone Lands, for desolation attracted shadow, where no one dared walk, the forces of shadow spread. Goblins and orcs had been reported moving through the Lone Lands. Roughly one day shy of reaching Weathertop, as the night fell around Bergil like a fog made of shadow, it was unclear if it had been his own imagination getting the best of him from all the stories he'd heard; but as he walked this night, along the Great East Road, followed by the pale moonlight that seemed to keys its white glowing eye, keenly on him, he too felt as if he were being watched this night. As weariness begins to overcome Bergil, he spots the orange glow of a campfire, and a figure sitting with its back to him. Due to the firelight being in front of the figure, Bergil cursed, for he could not make out if it was man, elf, orc or goblin that sat alone by this fire. He placed his hand on the hilt of his weapon, not only to draw it quickly should he need to, but to also hold it so it did not clatter against his body and alert the figure near the fire, as he drew closer.

With a quickness that caught Bergil off guard, the figure had grabbed its bow and spun to one knee, an arrow knocked and ready. It was then, he could see the figure more clearly - human, but not just any human - it'd been his brother Thorondir. He ran up and hugged his brother. "You are a sight for sore eyes," Bergil said. "I was just growing weary when I saw your campfire. But what are you doing here?"

Thorondir smiled, though the shadows cast upon his face, seemed darker than before. "I am on my way to Carn Dûm, to the north, the land of the fabled Witch-King. I am sure you've heard the people speak; they sense something. Forces of the shadow are restless, as if something stirs them to move. Goblins and orcs in the Lone Lands, trolls moving through the Trollshaws, restless spirits in ancient tombs." He looked down at the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes before he spoke again. "Strider sends me to Carn Dûm to keep an eye on it. I will be gone for many months this time."

"Let me go with you," Bergil pleaded. 

Thorodir laughed, "The fox den maker wants to come to the shadowlands of the Witch-King? It seems only yesterday, you had no such interest in becoming a Ranger of the North, and now you would walk with your brother into one of the most feared lands, without hesitation?"

Bergil nodded, "You're my brother. I would follow you anywhere."

Thorondir ran his fingers through his young brother's hair. "You can not come with me," he said finally. "I can not live with the idea that something might happen to you under my watch."

Bergil sighed. He was disappointed. He could see Thorondir's own doubts about his voyage to Carn Dûm. "Rest brother," Thorodir said, "we will part ways in the sunrise, but we will see each other again."

The following morning, Bergil gave Thorondir a long hug, and though he refused to believe it, something sank in his heart; as if this might be the last time he would see his brother. The stories Bergil had heard, not only from his father, but the other Rangers who spoke of the Witch-King - it was a being of such immense evil and power, that the darkest of sorcery bent to his command with the greatest of ease - necromancy. That power had turned the land of Carn Dûm to a land of endless winter and endless evil that even gone from the lands as the Witch-King was, the evil that emanated in the land, infused within the very stone and soil, lingered and hungered to consume all who possessed any hope in their heart.

It had taken two more days before Bergil reached the base of Weathertop. As he began to ascend, the night grew darker. As he grew closer and closer to the top, moving through the disheveled path. Formerly known as the Tower of Amon Sûl, in 1409, the forces of the Witch-king attacked Weathertop, burning the hill and destroying the fortifications on and around it. It was there that King Arveleg I was slain in defense of Weathertop alongside, or concurrent with, the last prince of Cardolan. Now all that remained were stone ruins; forgotten by many, save for the Rangers of the North who remembered what had happened here and now used it to keep watch over the land so that such evils could not be committed again. It is for this reason, as Bergil ascended this massive hill that was one thousand feet up, and heard the sounds of combat, he drew his sword and pushed his body as quickly as it could to reach the top - where he pulled himself short. There in the center of the ruins, two orcs attacked two humans. The humans did not look like the frugal Rangers of the North; though the two humans were dressed in furs, their armor and weapons, and even their horses, showed that these men had come from some sort of weath. Without hesitation, drew his bow and fired a shot at the orcs as he raced to stand by the humans, throwing his bow aside and once again drawing his blade. Whether it's fear or the training that Bergil had taken from his father, but rarely paid attention to, that now naturally surfaced in the face of the enemy, Bergil brought his sword down, two handed, and cleaved the orc's chest wide open, who fell back gasping, death quickly claiming the surprised orc. The human next to Bergil, parries the blows from the other orc, who was unaware his compain had been slain by the newly arrived Ranger of the North. Without hesitate, Bergil ran his sword through the orc's back, delivering a piercing blow that the orc looked down at the blade protruding from its chest, just as Bergil pulled it out, and the orc collapsed.

"This keeps happening," the human with the bow muttered. "How are you, Arinor?"

The human whom Bergil stood next to, holding his sword, now dropped to one knee. A gaping wound in his side. "I will be fine, Jerick," he said.

Jerick shook his head. "The campfire was a bad idea, this high up. Once it got dark, it was hard to see out there, but we probably looked like a candle to the orcs."

Arinor sheathed his sword and lifted his mail shirt. "The orc got lucky," he growled, staring at the open wound that now freely bled. Arinor looked up, "To whom do I owe the rescue?"

Bergil sheathed his sword, "My name is Bergil, son of Udalraph." He looked between the two humans. "Who are you? By your attire and horses, neither of you are Rangers of the North. Do you know where Strider is?"

"I know not of this Strider, and you are correct, neither of us are Rangers of the North," Arinor replied, as he winced, sliding his mail shirt back down. "By the looks, and how you cleaved though those orcs, I would guess you, however, are a Ranger of the North. My name is Arinor, and my companion here is Jerick."

"What are you doing here in Weathertop if you are not Rangers of the North?" Bergil asked, as his eyes scanned the ruins, for any sign, hidden as it may be, where the other Rangers of the North might be.

"We are returning to Bree," Arinor replied. "Or, I am. Jerick, my companion, and childhood friend, only follows me to Bree, before he returns to Laketown."

"As you can see, trouble seems to find my Captain easily," Jerick muttered, matter-of-factly. If it's an attempt at humor, it is said in such a manner, that it feels cold and brutal. "I am impressed by how easily you cleaved through those two Orcs. Tell me, would you escort my Captain to Bree and ensure his safety? This would allow me to return to Laketown sooner, as Bree is still five days from here. If you could escort Arinor to Bree, this would save me ten days to return to Laketown sooner."

Bergil looked, "What is your business in Bree, if I may ask?"

Arinor smiled, "Should you choose to accept the offer to escort me there, it is only fair that you ask. As I have said, I am from Laketown, and twenty-two years ago, Smaug attacked Laketown and killed hundreds of my people. Including my father," his eyes go to his sword when he speaks of his father. "But even before then, the Dragon had claimed the Lonely Mountain as his own one hundred and seventy one years before that. I've heard rumors of things dark and sinister moving again, and I will not sit idly by why this shadow extends its hands across the land. Another companion I met on the road waits for me there to return. We could use someone with your skill."

Bergil seemed uncertain. He looked down at the two dead orcs at his feet. Killing them had come easily. "I don't know," he said, more unconsciously than anything else.

"He needs to rest," Jerick cut in. "No campfire, however, like I said originally," his glance was a scolding one at Arinor, who only shook his head and smiled. 

"He means well," Arinor whispered, "though sometimes it is hard to tell."

The following morning, as Bergil's eyes opened, he saw an old man, with a long, grey beard, and robes and pointy hat to match, holding a gnarled staff. "Well, I do hope you slept well!"

Arinor looked over his shoulder, as he'd been cleaning his wound. "Gandalf?"

Even Jerick, who'd been awake for hours, started. Gandalf had not been there a moment ago - there was no way. How had this old man ascended Weathertop and not been seen by Jerick who was vigilantly walking the ruins? Wizards! he cursed to himself.

"I came here seeking Strider, and instead, found the three of you sleeping up here!" Gandalf smiled. "But I suppose one Ranger is just as good as another, by the looks of things!" He glanced over his shoulder at the two slain orcs from the previous night. "Bergil, son of Udalraph, I have need of your services!" Gandalf looked to Jerick, "I assume you will continue your own voyage back to Laketown?"

Jerick nodded, "I will wizard. I'd rather my Captain return with me and not follow the whims of a wizard, but I will do as he says and return to Laketown to keep our people safe there and warn them of the things we've seen."

Gandalf nodded. "That is wise of you, Jerick, son of Erûn. For you, Bergil, and Arinor - you already know Dorim. He's there at the Prancing Pony. I assume you can introduce Bergil and Dorim?"

Arinor nodded, "I can, Gandalf."

"Good! I would do it myself, but I have business to attend to! The three of you, go to the Prancing Pony. Trouble has a way of finding you, Arinor," Gandalf said as he stood up. "Keep an eye out, help the people of Bree. Something stirs, and I have yet to uncover what it is, but they will need the three of you; Bergil, Arinor, and Dormir! Keep in mind, the lessons learned! A friend may appear anytime on the road," he nodded, to Arinor, "and oftentimes, mercy is a gift granted, that may yet be returned with a treasure far greater than a troll's horde!" This time, his piercing blue eyes fell on Bergil. "Now off with you!"

And so the Company came together, and Arinor, Bergil and Dorim would begin adventuring together, forming not only a Company... but a Fellowship... and ... Friendship.

But those stories have yet to be told.