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Tales From the Lone-lands

Wide are the lands of the old North-kingdom, where the sea-wind howls over stony hills and bends the grasses of the empty plains. It plays amid the ruins of cities and the barrows of kings, and whistles in the mountaintops of the east. Ask the wind for tidings, maybe, for you will seldom meet travellers in the Lone-lands of Eriador.

But if you know where to look — under the hills and in hidden valleys, along the old roads and the secret refuges, the guarded lands of Shire and Bree — then there are still dwellers in the Lone-lands west of the mountains, east of the sea. They are few in number, for these are wounded lands, ravaged by forgotten wars and plague, beset by foes in days of old, but for the most part they are friendly folk. Ask them for tales, and they have tales aplenty — merry tales of foolery and misadventure, tales of ancient kings and heroes, tales of adventure in far-off lands. A fire may warm a traveller’s cold feet, but it’s story and song shared among friends that warms the heart. Find those who yet dwell in the Lone-lands, and you will hear tales to stave off the dread of night.

Wide are the lands, too, between Eriador and Mordor, where the Shadows lie, and while vague rumour has come up the Greenway of war in far-off Gondor, the folk of Eriador still sleep untroubled, believing the Enemy pays no heed to them. They are wrong. Agents of Mordor are moving, creeping north to stir up sleeping evils and prepare the land for the war to come. A dark time is coming, a final war to put all the realms of the Free Peoples under the Shadow and plunge the land into everlasting despair. And these tales of Eriador, too, are part of the one great tale of desperate hope: the tale that began at the Beginning, the tale of Beren and Lúthien, of Turin and Eärendil, of Elendil and Gil-Galad… the tale of Middle-earth, the tale of Arda Marred.