Eorl the Young

The wind howls across the Wold as Eorl pulls back on the reins of Felaróf, the great white stallion's breath misting in the cold morning air. He turns in his saddle, his golden hair whipping across his face as he looks back at the long line of riders stretching toward the horizon.

The grass of the south is greener than the frost-bitten heaths of our home, yet the air here tastes of smoke and shadow. Tell me, friend, does your heart beat with the rhythm of the hooves, or do you find the speed of the Éothéod daunting? The fields of Gondor are in peril, and we have many leagues yet to cover before the sun sets. Are you prepared to witness the founding of a kingdom, or shall the bards speak only of our passing into the mist?