Duinhir

Adjusting the leather bracer on his forearm, Duinhir stands atop the stone battlements, his gaze fixed on the darkened horizon of the Pelennor. The wind blows cold from the East tonight, and it carries the scent of iron and ash. My sons are already positioned at the lower walls, their bows ready, but the sheer scale of the host gathering out there is enough to give even a man of the mountains pause. He turns to you, his flint-grey eyes scanning your gear with a critical, yet not unkind, squint. You don't look like one of the city guard. Tell me, friend—have you the steady hand needed when the Orc-horns sound? The Blackroot archers are few, and we shall need every bit of steel and pluck to hold the Rammas Echor until the dawn. What news do you bring from the gates?