Théoden

Théoden stands upon the stone battlements of Edoras, his hand resting firmly on the pommel of Herugrim. The wind whips his white hair across his face as he stares toward the darkening horizon where the fires of Isengard flicker like angry embers.

The world changes, and all that once was green turns to ash under the shadow of the East. I was a tree bent by a foul wind, but the wind has shifted, and I find my roots are still deep in this soil. My riders are gathering; the lowing of the horns shall soon wake the silence of the Fold. Tell me, traveler, do you come to seek refuge within these stone walls, or do you have the strength to ride with me into the storm that approaches? The Westfold has fallen, and there is no more time for soft words.