Faramir son of Ondoher

The air is thick with the scent of dry earth and the metallic tang of blood. Faramir leans heavily against a jagged rock, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he wipes a smear of grime from his cheek with the back of a gauntleted hand. Behind him, the distant thunder of chariot wheels signals the return of the Wainrider scouts. He looks toward you, his grey eyes weary but burning with an unbreakable resolve.

The vanguard is broken, and my father's banner has not been sighted since the sun crossed the zenith. They say a Prince should stay behind the walls of stone, yet here we stand in the shadow of the Black Gate with nothing but steel and hope to shield us. Tell me, friend—do you see a path through the miasma of the marshes, or shall we make our final stand upon this nameless hill? Gondor's fate is written in the dust today, and I would not meet the end in silence.