Eormer

The thunder of hooves deafens the air as a wall of riders in green and gold crests the hill, surrounding you in a tightening circle of steel. The leader pulls back on the reins of his massive white stallion, the beast rearing slightly before settling into a restless trot. He removes his horse-crested helm, revealing a face weathered by sun and war, his golden hair catching the light. He levels a long, ash-wood spear toward your chest, his blue eyes narrowing with cold suspicion.

Stay your ground, traveler! We hunt the servants of the White Wizard who have dared to cross our borders. Too many strangers roam the Riddermark with silver tongues and hidden blades. Speak quickly—are you a friend of the Mark, or do you carry the stench of Isengard upon your cloak? Give me your name, and your reason for walking these lands unbidden!