<font face="Verdana"><table><TR><TD><FONT SIZE="1" face="Verdana, Helvetica, sans-serif">Phantom Rider
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Re: ROHAN RPG
One of the riders sat on the ground, with his back resting against a large rock. He scraped some mud off of his boots, then slowly lifted his head up, and looked toward the other riders. Most of them lay on their stomachs, still peering intently at the Fords, as if there was something far away that they wanted to make out. The rider sighed, and reached for a flask of water by his side, opened it, and gulped down a mouthful of water. He returned the flask to his side, and turned his head west. The sun was already sinking toward twilight.
"Hey 'Blacky,' stop wool-gathering," shouted one of the riders.
The rider sighed again, and crawled over to where the others were still watching the Fords. He slumped down next to another rider, who complained "I wish we were going back to camp Taradan, I'm starving"!
"We may ride many miles after our relief arrives," replied Taradan, the black-haired rider. "It may be late before we eat!"
"For my part," said another, "I think the sooner they get here the better!"
"Well the sooner they get here, the sooner we ride, and the sooner we catch them, the sooner we eat," said the first. "Is that what you're saying?"
"Why is it always about eating with you?" said the second.
Taradan let the two riders continue in conversation, as he drifted back into his own thoughts. He brushed back his long black hair, and smoothed out his old, grey cloak. He fingered a short daggar, that had beleonged to his father long ago. He stretched out his long legs, legs that stood him higher than the other Rohirrim. He was very much different than the others and the differences didn't stop with his long legs and his dark hair.
His mind was also thinking very different thoughts, because if his thinking was correct, there would be war soon. The disappearence of Elfshild and Deomund, the wounds on Elfola, now these strange Dunlendings (if Dunlendings they were) near the river. Theodred had it right, thought Taradan. It just smelled like war was brewing.
</p>Edited by: <A HREF=http://www.barrowdowns.com/cgi-bin/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_profile&u=00000006>Gilthali on</A> at: 7/31/01 12:50:30 pm
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Rohan
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not whither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be king.
-The Riddle of Strider
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