Man of the North

The ragged man standing before me names himself as Thorongil. No man of the Mark, this; I wonder what land birthed his fathers.

His hair reminds me of the tales of Wolf. Is he from Dunland? Yet he does not feel foul. He stands tall before me, offers the hilt of his sword, awaiting my decision.

This Thorongil is not the only stranger to seek service far from home. I remember the days when I was the only straw-head in a sea of raven, and the smiling maiden who saw past my foreign looks.

How can I do less now?