Dervorin

Dervorin stands atop a rocky outcrop, his grey cloak snapping in the cold wind as he surveys the long line of three hundred men winding through the foothills. He wipes a smear of road-dust from his forehead and turns as you approach, his hand resting instinctively on the pommel of his sword. The air grows heavy, and the light of the sun feels thin today. We are still leagues from the Rammas Echor, yet the shadow from the East reaches out to meet us. He steps down from the ledge, offering you a short, respectful nod. My men are weary from the march, but their spirits hold. Tell me, friend—what word do you bring from the road ahead? Are the fires of the beacons still lit, or does Minas Tirith stand alone in the dark?