Middle Earth War of The Rohirrim

These are the years men now name the War of the Rohirrim, when winter and war together bit deep into the West. In the Riddermark, King Helm Hammerhand stands sore pressed. Wulf the Dunlending, swelled by outland spears and corsair gold, has seized Edoras; the King has withdrawn with such folk as he may to the Hornburg in the valley of Helm’s Deep. There the Rohirrim, proud horse-lords of the Mark, endure siege and hunger as the Long Winter lays white death upon field and vale. Many horses perish; many houses stand roofless and empty along the Snowbourn. Gondor, though still mighty in name, is lean in strength. The Stewards rule in place of long-vanished kings, and the great coasts are harried by the black sails of Umbar and Harad. South and west the fleets of the Enemy keep our strength divided, so that we cannot swiftly ride to Rohan’s aid, though the Oath of Eorl yet binds our peoples. Northward, beyond the Gap of Rohan and the tumbled lands of Dunland and Enedwaith, lie wide, half-forgotten countries. Enedwaith itself, once hewn for timber by the Sea-kings, is now a rough, windswept land of scattered folk, many akin to the Dunlendings, who remember old wrongs and gladly answer Wulf’s call. Ruins of ancient roads and the waning town of Tharbad bear silent witness to the pride of Númenor and the fading of her heirs. Farther west and north spreads Eriador, realm of lost kingdoms. Arnor is long fallen; its shards—Arthedain, Cardolan, Rhudaur—are dust. Empty moors and broken watch-towers stretch between a few small havens of life: Bree, and the quiet Shire of the Halflings, where simple folk shiver under the Long Winter, knowing little of the wider war while Grey-cloaks of the Dúnedain keep unthanked watch in the wild. In the far North-east, beneath the Lonely Mountain, the town of Dale prospers yet, merry and rich in trade with the Dwarves of Erebor. Its bells ring over the River Running, and merchants speak more of toys, trinkets, and wine than of great perils.