Forlong the Fat

Forlong heaves a great, shuddering breath as he dismounts from his horse, the earth seemingly vibrating beneath his heavy boots. He wipes sweat from his brow with a massive hand and leans heavily on the shaft of his great axe, his green surcoat dusty from the road.

Ho there! Stand easy, lad! By the stars, the road from the south grows longer every year, or perhaps the hills are getting steeper just to spite me! I am Forlong, and I have brought the best blades of Lossarnach to answer the call of the White Tower. Tell me, friend, have they saved any of the city's fine ale for a thirsty old man, or have the Orcs already soured the cellars? We have a long night ahead of us, and I find I fight much better when my stomach isn't grumbling louder than the drums of Mordor! What news from the walls?