[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

Though there is but one Warg Rider, mighty in legend and song, yet not alone is he among those who have dared in their temerity set bridle to the noble Warg. Indeed, his legend hath but proven the spur that hath kindled in Elf, Man, Dwarf, Orc and yea even Hobbit, to assay this self-same feat.

Of these brave yet misguided souls, the most have perished; their souls unhoused by the blazing wrath of the Wargs, who brook no attempt to master them. Yet others, the proud and noble few, have found favour with the wise Wargs, and have become their allies; being borne without saddle or bridle, for none the Warg chooses to bear of his own accord is suffered to fall from his broad back. And of these mighty Warg-friends, the greatest that is told of in the tales of the Elves is Morsil, the Dark Sheen.

It is told that in the days of Orodreth there lived by the Narog a solitary Elven warrior, skilled in war and song; and the goodwill of bird and beast was his, for he had vowed that never should any creature fall needlessly to his blade. Such a one was Morsil, a lone wanderer of hill and glen. And he was mighty among the Elves of Nargothrond, and failed never to answer the summons of his lord, nor the call of a friend in need.

So it came to pass that on a time his wanderings brought him into lands where dwelt of old a noble tribe of Wargs. Their chief and guardian was the mighty Warg-lord, Balcarkh, who is known also as the Jaws of Fate. Balcarkh knew well of any who passed within his realm, for the beasts, the trees, even the very wind were his allies, and news came to him from all quarters of happenings both great and small. Resolved to punish the insolence of one who would enter his kingdom without due obeisance to his majesty, the great Warg strode forth to meet the intruder, and so it was that he came alone to the edge of his realm and into the hunting grounds of the Petty Wargs. These creatures are more often found in the service of the Orcs and Goblins, for they lack the dignity and freedom of spirit that are the mark of the True Warg. Envious they are of their cousins, and yet contemptuous, for lacking honour in themselves they see it not in any other. And they came upon the dread Warg-lord and fell upon him in great numbers, for it was their way so to bring a strong foe to his knees. Nonetheless it went ill with them that day, for fully half their number were slain before first claw or fang were laid to the Warg-lord's flesh; yet their claws were smeared with poison, and they came upon him with such fury that the day would have gone ill with him had not Morsil come by in his hour of need.

The mighty sword of Morsil sprang unto his hand, shimmering with an inner flame as do the weapons of the High Elves; and he fought by the side of the great Warg until the foe were routed and lay piled about them. And his skills of healing were applied to the treacherous wounds of the Petty Wargs, and so was formed the alliance of Morsil and Balcarkh, whose deeds are writ large in the legends of the Elder Days. Indeed, many an age after their story ended, a bard of Rohan wrote of them a lament, a fragment of which yet remains, though oft misremembered as a chant for the Rohirrim.

Where now the Warg and his rider? Where are the lungs that were blowing?
Where are the sword and the hauberk, and the bright pelt flowing?
Where is the claw on the harpstring, and the red tongue glowing?
Where are the mate and the lair, and the young Wargs growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.