Dusk is nearing. Navigating quickly through the streets of the fourth circle, you aim for the familiar Rutting Walrus. A shoddy inn, but it’s where you both agreed to meet. As you enter the normally empty and spacious bar, you find it filled with soldiers on leave. The nauseating smell of old ale and bodily stench hits you like a wall; this is the kind of place you prefer to avoid. In the corner, you spot Ungoránë sitting with three other soldiers, the dice rolling. Smiling upon making eye contact, you turn toward the bar. A smelly, unshaven bartender stands behind it, polishing a glass. “A tankard, if I may..” you utter politely. Grunting, the bartender dumps a bottle of beer on the bar, saying “That’ll be 10 pieces, please.” War didn’t come cheap. Wondering how he will spend his money if the war is lost, you reluctantly pay for the overpriced beer. Sitting down with the four soldiers in the corner, you nod toward Ungoránë in greeting and start to introduce yourself to the other three.

All four soldiers have their own sets of cups and dice; you try to follow their game. The cups hide the dice, and it seems to be a contest of who is the better bluffer. Each cup conceals five dice, and they appear to be betting on how many of the same kind are hidden under all the cups on the table. “Five three’s!” yells the soldier to your left. “Eight three’s.” Ungoránë replies quietly. The next soldier calls him a liar and forces them all to lift their cups. The soldier to your left has three threes of his own. Ungoránë shows his cup, which hides two threes among his dice. That’s a total of five, still three short of Ungoránë’s claim. You look toward the last two soldiers, the one calling the bluff lifting his cup. No threes. The tension rises among the gamblers as everyone looks at the final soldier, waiting for him to lift his cup. Of his five dice, three are threes! Ungoránë grins mischievously at the losing soldier, who must now remove one of his dice from the game. The game moves on, and in the end, barely any dice are left on the table. The soldier to your left has one die. Ungoránë has three dice, and the next soldier has one die left. The final soldier is all out of dice and has already lost. Heavy drinking and hazardous dice seem to be what these soldiers live for. Still, Ungoránë seems younger than the other soldiers here. Carefully, you mention this. “Well,” Ungoránë starts. “I probably am younger than most ‘ere. Once I thought it to be a noble thing, to serve our land. Even so, it has cost me dearly.” Arcing a curious eyebrow at Ungoránë, you urge him to continue. “There’s no way there’s three sixes on the table!” the soldier to your left suddenly exclaims. It’s just him and Ungoránë left now. Four dice are on the table. He lifts his cup and smirks victoriously at Ungoránë. His one die shows a four. Wetting his lips, Ungoránë carefully places his hand on his cup. “Oh really, would you like to double our stakes on that claim or perhaps just say I’m right and walk away from the table?” Ungoránë asks. “Are ye mad, whelp! Show me yer dice, we got ‘an ‘onest game going!” the soldier almost shouts at Ungoránë. The smirk is gone, and his expression now resembles that of a rabid dog. Ungoránë looks almost disappointed as he lifts his cup. Three sixes—he wasn’t lying! But why does he look disappointed? There’s a growl from the soldier who just lost, saying “I know you cheat, but I can’t prove it. Next time, if I catch you I’ll skewer you like a little piglet on a roast…” Ungoránë gets up from his seat and walks toward the disgruntled soldier. He bends down to him, whispers something, and returns to his seat. “You’re right. I’ll be off,” says the soldier who just threatened Ungoránë. “Are you coming, Peter?” The soldier to your right also gets on his feet, and they leave the Rutting Walrus together. Ungoránë and the last soldier who stayed at the table burst out laughing, and for some reason, Ungoránë shares some of the winnings with him. The third soldier also rises, tells you both to have a good evening, and you’re left with Ungoránë. Grinning with an almost golden glint in his eye, Ungoránë says “I guess I got a bit distracted. You were asking about my age and all that. I guess it would make more sense telling you how the story starts. In the countryside of Lebennin of the Five Streams, East of Pellas in Landor of the Arnach district or rather in the Land of Stone, Gondor to you foreigners; that’s where I hail from.”

Ungoránë lifts his tankard as he continues the story. “ I grew up on a small farm and lived a quiet life as a lad. My brother Abrazân and I were always busy playing Soldiers and Yrch; every single time we would argue about who would be the ones serving our great Lord Denethor II, Steward of this fine land. Sometimes the Enemy would be Orch, sometimes Southron or even Corsair. We had 3 other farms in the area and all of the lads would join in when we warred. The other lads were Azruthôr, Zimirtarîk, Zainakhôr and Sakalbên. Zimmi was my brother’s age and as the name goes it was rather fitting; a tall boy and built like an ox. Sometimes when we played and he was a Southron, he would carry his younger brother Azzie on his shoulders; pretending to be an Oliphaunt. Both Zaikho and Sakal were the only boys at their farms. None of the girls would ever play with us, as they probably didn’t have our taste for the fight. Of course we also had rivalries amongst us, but I’m sure it was nothing more than anyone else growing up. I would always team up with my brother, if I could. Even if it meant being some scum of a Corsair or an ugly Orch. Sometimes we would even take our games to the river and the Corsairs would have a raft. This way they could raid the shores and the brave soldiers would be there to defend. Else they might be Yrch that hid in the forest.”

Ungoránë scratches his shaggy chin as he continues. “As all boys we loved the old legends; some we could relate to easier than others. Our favorite story in the long winter nights was about Thorongil, a brave man who served Lord Ecthelion II, Steward of Gondor. Back then the Corsairs were often raiding the ships of Gondor, traders and fishermen, even the Gondorian Navy at times. Farms and smaller settlements along the coast were far from safe, hard times it was for our kinsmen. But also as my Dad would tell the story, the trouble with the Corsairs was why Lord Ecthelion ordered Thorongil’s voyage. South to Umbar and from there the Corsair city called the Havens. With a tactical first strike and only a handful of men, Thorongil caught the Corsairs by surprise! They burned and sank many a ship and Thorongil confronted their Captain. It was a crippling blow to the Corsairs and Thorongil even defeated and killed their Captain. To this day, no one knows what happened to Thorongil after that. He left the service of Gondor. If he still lives, he must be an old and gray man by now.”

Again, Ungoránë takes a good swig from his tankard, reminding you that you also have a beer. Quickly, you take a drink from your bottle and ask “But legends aren’t enough to make a boy pine for the hard life of a soldier.” A look of sorrow flashes over Ungoránë’s face as he sighs and continues. “Often my brother and I would fish by the Anduin; our farm was close to the river. There we talked and fantasized, dreaming of how our lives might turn out as adults someday. Oh, how we could envision ourselves being soldiers. Wearing some sparkling suit of chain emblazoned with the black tabard of Gondor, proudly displaying the White Tree of Minas Tirith. Sometimes we joined our dad when he went to town, to sell crops or perhaps barter for something we needed. Often we encountered soldiers on patrol and a few times we saw them at the market. Always awestruck by them, some with shields and halberds, some with battle axes and some armed with bows. They were treated as heroes, we all knew their sacrifices for Gondor. The front was no guarantee for their safe return. The Shadow appeared to never run out of reinforcements; Southrons, Easterlings and Yrch. “

“My brother was three winters older than me, and my heart was filled with jealousy the day he left to enlist. Our mother wept, begging Abrazân to stay; howling about how she dreaded the day he would fall in combat. Still, our father knew it was inevitable. Ever since that day everything changed; nothing was like the past. We had neighboring farms and boys there for me; still I longed for the sound of battle. The warhorn calling me to the defense of Gondor. Envious of the glory that I now thought my brother experienced, valiantly slaying Orch by Orch. Fighting shoulder to shoulder with other proud men of this fine land, in a squad or maybe in a company. The honors he would be claiming. Oh, my heart yearned for the battle! To fight the Southrons and the Yrch, keeping the Shadow at bay. To get to walk the streets of Minas Tirith, clad in the noble garment of those serving the Steward. If I were only two winters older.”

Biting his lower lip before continuing, Ungoránë halts the story. A thoughtful look flashes across his face before he takes a quick drink from his brew. “Later that summer I just couldn't take it anymore. Determined, I prepared what clothes I had and gathered my meager earnings. It was to be a long journey to enlist. Lying would be required if my age was brought up. I got up in the middle of the night and snuck out as quietly as I ever knew. Traveling southwest, towards Malrach. It was closer than Pellas, but in Pelargir’s outer district. There I managed to stumble across a patrol heading for Pelargir and they showed me the way to enlist. Pelargir Keep. Oh I can still remember walking into that enormous building, looking forward to sign up for duty. Crowds of people everywhere, but no one wanted to help me find the right office. When I finally managed to locate the Captain’s office, I found him face focused into a stack of papers. At first he looked happy to see a new recruit, then he started asking about my age. ‘Seventeen winters, sir.’ I said as I gulped. I guess my rugged looks from being a farm boy helped cover my mere age of only fifteen winters. It didn’t take long before I was transferred to Minas Tirith and its defenses.”

Your eyebrows tighten as you look at Ungoránë. “But your name, it’s Elvish?” you curiously ask. “It’s a name I earned, according to one of the Officers at Osgiliath. It’s a long story, really.” he answers. Looking absent now, a grim expression falls over Ungoránë’s face, and he lets out a sigh before continuing the story. “Well, Minas Tirith was just my first stop along the way. A mere guard, shuffled about as needed, from the battlements to the look out towers. Tedious, as I was eager to join the battle. But it did serve a purpose; there all would be schooled in the art of fighting. I did hunt with a bow when I was younger and at least we thought we knew how to fence. Real techniques I learned in Minas Tirith, but the creativity that I adapted as a child is still an important part of my swordsmanship. It’s hard to explain. Doesn’t matter. I would not be half the fighter I am today, had it not been for Arthad and Heder. As I improved, transfer was imminent. Placed in a squad called the “Thoronumbas” and told to head north to Osgiliath. Our orders were to patrol the forest on the east side of the river. That was also the first time I saw my brother again, as he was already stationed there. And that night was the last one we ever shared, sitting by the fire and talking about all that had happened since we last saw each other. The next morning we were woken by a warhorn and told to get our gear on. Our sergeant returned and told us there were Southrons spotted south in the forest. The orders were to engage them and remove them. Four squads including ours were ordered south, he told us. That day will always be branded in my memory...”

Ungoránë goes quiet. “But why, what happened that day? It’s just a routine to fight of the Southrons? And what do you mean by the last night, surely you will see Abrazân again?” you ask thoughtlessly. Instantly Ungoránë barks at you; “What do you know about death? Is it not final? Have you ever stood helplessly watching one you love, slaughtered before you?” Startled, you fumble for your beer and rise it to your mouth. “You really stepped in it now”, you think to yourself. “E...eh, no… I have not had such misfortune. And I hope I never will….” you quickly add. Ungoránë continues his story. “As we engaged the enemy, we seemed to outnumber them. We charged at them; swords singing loudly in the clash. Baptized in blood, I kept swinging at the enemy. My squad was forcing forward, I was sure we had them retreating. Then, reinforcements came galloping; 10 horse riders joined the Southrons in the battle. Our four squads were split apart. Two of the other squads fought close to mine and we managed to keep the furious enemy at bay. A spine-chilling scream filled the battlefield and all the Southrons started yelling in their own language. One of the horse riders mounted a head to his spear. It was the sergeant of the fourth squad. They were being slaughtered and we had no way to cross to their side of the battlefield. It was horrible, one by one slain by those savages. I watched in despair as two of them held my brother down on his knees by his arms; a third lifting a heavy scimitar high into the air. I screamed out for Abrazân and started running. Flailing my sword, not really sure how but I managed to make a difference to our defense. I yelled out in ire as I slayed another brute of a Southron and kept on running. The heavy scimitar started to fall. With a sadistic look on his face the vicious man struck my brothers neck. His head rolled two feet before it stopped… ‘It’s too late!’, a hand pulled hard at me; I fell. Crying, despairing, I just wanted to die… Die here on this bloodied battlefield. Abrazân, it couldn’t be true. Someone had to wake me from this nightmare. ‘Get up now, we’re pulling back. I can’t leave you behind!’ It was my sergeant yelling at me, dragging me to my feet. I had no choice, I was forced to flee that day.”

Draining his mug, Ungoránë let out a loud whistle. The barkeep nodded and brought a new draft. Feeling speechless, you sip more of your own beer. What can you possibly say to this story? You don’t even dare to ask about his name again.

“Back at Osgiliath, I was scolded for my uncontrollable outburst on the battlefield. Lack of discipline could be the death of our whole squad. When they heard it was my brother in that other squad, there was some sympathy. They asked if we had any relatives and I mentioned our parents and their farm. A few days after, I was given leave to travel home with the bad news. I decided that when I returned, I wanted to explain myself and beg forgiveness for my stupidity. It was selfish of me to run off. I traveled south from Minas Tirith, to Bar Luindol and then Pellas; from there on a smaller road towards Malrach until I turned east. I felt a bit uneasy that day, but I thought it was my imagination. Figuring it was my anxiety about facing my parents, I let it pass. But as I got closer to home it bothered me again; this silence was exceptional, almost like there was no wildlife left. Then, I noticed the smell; something had been burning. It reeked like an old campfire. I continued and turned south towards our farm, but I did not get far before I found him. My father was lying there in the dirt, his frightened eyes staring empty at me. My first reaction was to reach for him, wanting to help him. I flinched and backed off as I touched him, he was cold. He was still holding his pitchfork and it looked like he had died defending the farm, from a deep wound in his belly. I couldn’t hold my tears back, it felt so unfair. ‘Mom!’ I thought and got to my feet; running towards the farm. Passing the big, old oak tree I stopped. Our old farm had been burned to the ground; some thin whispers of smoke still climbing towards the sun. I vomited, tears flowing; never had I felt so helpless. My stomach was empty but I kept gagging. Green bile was all I had left... “

Trying to read Ungoránë’s face, you find it has turned to stone; you decide that taking another sip of your beer is the best move. “All I could do was to dig them a proper grave. Well, the burnt remains I found of my mother and the corpse of the man who tried defending her from whatever evil came upon them. I returned to Malrach before sunset and stayed at their inn that night. Patrons talked about the recent attack. Some even told stories, of Rangers hunting Corsairs who might have crossed the river. Made sense. It seemed brutal and needless to burn down the farm. It wasn’t something done by looting brigands. Then, I realized what crossroad I had passed in life; soldier’s life all I had left now.”

Draining his tankard again, Ungoránë looks over at you and says, “So, have you decided? Are my services needed?” You nod quickly and place the parcel on the table, then push it toward Ungoránë. “My pigeon has returned with a message that if you can take this to Osgiliath, someone else will take it from there. I don’t know who yet, but I was to send a description of the courier and they will find you. And please, keep this between us.” You add the last sentence just as a precaution. Ungoránë stands up; “Well, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind paying my bill then as I’ll pass this on for you. It’s not like I’ve been staying here for a fortnight.” Not sure if you trust that statement, you reluctantly nod in agreement. Ungoránë waves and heads out the door. Walking over to the bar, you ask for Ungoránë’s bill. “Ain’t daht generous of ya, ‘e owes me 204 gold pieces daht mutt.” Regretting this already, you pay the barkeep and decides to call it a night yourself.

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Born about 3000 T.A.? when would he have enlisted? 3015? 2 years too early, the only true fact I’ve set. Dunedains, comes of age 20 years old? Reference Aragorn/Estel.

Meanings:
Abrazân (Steadfast, Faithful)
Azruthôr(sea-son)
 Zimirtarîk(stone/jewel-tower)
Zainakhôr(earth-lord)
Sakalbên(shore-servant)
Thoronumbas (Eagle’s Shield)
Orch (orc)
Yrch (orcs)
Southron (Haradrim)