Middle-earth.
The spring of the year 2940 of the Third Age, one year and ten months before the Battle of the Five Armies.
The roads of Eriador were still sodden with rain, and three figures rode eastward, their deep green cloaks dripping as they went. Upon the rise of a hill they halted, lowering their hoods and revealing three youthful faces—two men and a maiden, all tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed, bearing the likeness of the Dúnedain.
The younger man at the rear spoke first:
"Just ahead lies the River Hoarwell . Cross the Last Bridge and follow the Great East Road another half day, and we shall reach Dessen."
The tall and comely maiden added:
"By reckoning, Ailin, Elger, Idhrion, and Erken should arrive there today as well."
The wind stirred, lifting the dark hair of the rider at the fore, unveiling a visage both fair and noble. His eyes were calm, yet gleaming with wisdom beyond his years—eyes that seemed to hold a depth vast enough to embrace all things of this world. He bore the mien of one born to kingship, and though still young, a gravity of spirit clung to him.
His name was Ryan Eowenríel. Ten years ago, he had crossed into this world of legends—into Middle-earth itself.
Here dwelt the graceful Elves, the stout-hearted Dwarves, the foul Orcs, the peace-loving Hobbits, and the five Maia sent from the undying West of Valinor.
Ryan had first arrived in this realm as a boy of ten, lost in the wilderness. Chanced upon by Rangers, and being dark-haired and dark-eyed like the Dúnedain, he was taken for one of their lost children, and thus raised among them.
But the North-kingdom's people had long since fallen from their ancient glory. Once they had numbered in the hundreds of thousands; now but a few scattered tribes roamed the wilds of Eriador. Their chieftain, Arathorn II, had been slain by Orc arrows in the Ettenmoors, and his lady Gilraen vanished with their infant son. Leaderless, the Dúnedain of the North fell into brokenness and division.
Ryan, with his own eyes, had witnessed these proud folk dwindle and fragment, struggling in the wilderness. Without kin of his own, he took up the path of the Rangers at sixteen, bearing the burden of resisting the Shadow and defending the free folk of the North.
Through four years of blood and battle, he gathered to himself loyal companions. And not long ago, a strange boon awakened within him—his system:
[Host: Ryan Eowenríel
Level: 1
Experience: 25/100
Strength: Top-tier Elite
(Ranks: Warrior, Elite,Epic, Legendary,Mythic, Fabled)
Buff: Born King — Growth rate ×3]
The system had begun at Level 0. With each rise in level, Ryan's body and soul alike were reforged, and a new buff bestowed. The first, "Born King," was his innate gift. In slaying Orcs not long ago, he had gained his first level, a strengthening of body, and the gift of thrice-swift growth.
But Ryan was never content to remain but another Ranger. Since fate had cast him into this legendary world, he was resolved to carve out a destiny of his own. The gift of the system only strengthened that resolve.
Thus he began to plan.
In the tale of The Hobbit, Thorin Oakenshield's company, journeying east from the Shire, would in the Troll-woods encounter three trolls. Thereafter, they would gain from the trolls' hoard three Elvish blades of renown, along with wealth of silver, gold, and stores of food. Knowing this, Ryan had set his course: to act before Thorin's company, and claim the hoard for himself.
Half a month ago, he had summoned his followers to gather at Dessen by the River Hoarwell. Along the way he had met with two of them, a brother and sister—Arion and Alaina. Both were warriors of topmost elite rank, though their faces seemed youthful. In truth they had passed fifty years, but being Dúnedain of pure Númenórean descent, their lives might reach two centuries. Among their folk, they were yet young.
Ryan himself, though clothed in mortal flesh, did not truly belong to this world at all. Only his likeness to the Dúnedain allowed him to pass as one of them.
When Arion and Alaina had finished speaking, Ryan swung back onto his steed.
"Come. We must reach Dessen by sundown. This venture is vital to us, and much must be prepared beforehand."
"As you command, my lord!" they replied.
The three rode swiftly on, the sun drying the rain from their cloaks as afternoon waned.
….
The River Hoarwell flowed down from the northern Misty Mountains, racing southward past the Ettenmoors, until it joined with the Bruinen to form the Gwathló. Only one crossing spanned it—the Last Bridge, built in the Second Age.
Some hundred miles from Rivendell it lay, two or three days' ride along the East-West Road, and beyond it stretched the Troll-woods, where trolls and Orcs prowled. For this reason, travellers and merchants alike would seek rest and shelter in Dessen, a township on the river's edge.
Dessen, ruled by the House of Dulod, numbered two thousand souls. Close to Rivendell, its folk traded with Elves, learning crafts of forging and smithwork, and prospered by selling fine weapons and handiwork. Thus had it grown to be a hub of trade in the northern lands.
Ryan, Arion, and Alaina had intended to await their companions there. But as they neared, they beheld a column of smoke rising black against the sky—and by their seasoned eyes, it was no cooking fire.
A wolf-howl split the air.
"Wargs," Alaina said grimly.
Arion drew his sword in a flash, muscles taut, his gaze wary.
"Ride!" Ryan spurred his steed forward. The others followed, hard upon his heels, racing toward the doomed town.
…..
At that very hour, Dessen was in peril of utter ruin.
Hundreds of Orcs, with trolls among them, had fallen upon the town in the shroud of dusk. Fire consumed the houses; corpses lay strewn in streets and alleys. Women, children, and the aged fled into the lord's castle, while the men took up arms in desperate defense.
Before the castle's gate a terrible struggle was joined. Archers on the walls loosed volley after volley, while a score of armored guardsmen, clad in full harness, strove against foes tenfold their number. These were the household guard, led by Grinwald, lord of Dessen, and his son Torvin.
Father and son fought valiantly, and their courage lifted the hearts of all about them. Again and again the Orcs were driven back, their crude weapons unable to pierce the mailed guard.
But the Orc-chieftain was a towering brute, clad in black rusted armor, wielding a great war-hammer. As he watched his forces falter, his face grew dark as stormclouds. He turned to the two trolls at his side, four meters high, and with a harsh, guttural cry commanded:
"Go! Shatter their pride—let fear devour these wretched Men!"
The trolls bellowed, a thunderous sound that shook the earth, and lumbered forward, great clubs in hand. The Orcs fell back to make way.
A shadow of dread fell upon the defenders, and some gave ground unwillingly.
Seeing this, Lord Grinwald, white of hair yet unbent of spirit, spoke to his son:
"Torvin, if this day one of us must fall, it shall be I. You must retreat into the castle and guard those within. Should I perish, you will be Lord of Dessen."
"No, Father! I will not leave you!" Torvin cried.
But Grinwald's tone grew stern:
"Torvin Dulod! Would you see the bloodline of our house end here? By my command as lord, return at once!"
His voice softened: "I love you, my son. If I fall, bear these words to Isabel. Guard your sister well."
Torvin drew a shuddering breath, then at last obeyed, retreating with five men into the castle. As the gate closed, Grinwald smiled with grim relief. Turning to his ten companions, he raised his sword and cried:
"Hope may seem but a shadow, and death our near fate—but so long as our kin live on, hope is not quenched! Dessen shall not fall! Warriors, with me—unto death, for life!"
With that, the aged lord charged upon the trolls, his guards close behind, their voices ringing out in one great roar:
"Unto death—for life!"