There:
a Ranger leading four Hobbits across the plains
of Eriador.
And after a long day's march
he has found a resting place for the night,
Weathertop.
These ruins of an old
watchtower can offer some protection.
The ranger knows these parts well, knows they
are
being hunted and arms the Hobbits, before
he leaves on patrol.
The night has come and the Hobbits are still
on their own.
Sudden cries of Nazgul in the
distance, quickly coming closer, frighten
and alert them.
The little Hobbits quickly climb,
trying to find a place of safety.
Or at least better standing.
They are nearly helpless
against these dark creatures that come crawling
closer.
Nazgul, Ringwraiths.
Formerly mortal men, cursed by greed and doomed
to serve their
dark master.
Only nine of them exist but they are very
dangerous, especially to helpless
Shire Hobbits.
What they carry are large Morgul blades.
Dangerous magic weapons that leave festering
wounds.
But they seek only one of the Hobbits.
One, who has stolen from their master.
The other Shirelings do not matter to them.
Nazgul stalk their prey,
incite panic and horror
as they slowly unsheathe blades and step closer.
The poor Hobbit can only try and escape.
Suddenly, the Ranger returns wielding fire
and elven blade.
He knows these dark creatures.
He knows what danger they possess.
But he is successful in chasing them away
his arm strong, his blade sharp
and his aim true.
A company of mutated orcs, Uruk-Hai.
Bred for a single purpose: to fight for their
master.
Two of the little Hobbits have been taken
prisoner by them.
As a group of simple Orcs
cross their path a discussion arises:
they were ordered to bring their prisoners to their master:
Saruman, the White Wizard.
One of the Shirelings is injured
and the other pleads with his captors, to help his friend.
The Uruk-Hai, in a fit of dark humour, feed
him their marching grog, a liquid not meant
for Hobbits.
Quiet as Hobbits can be, they assure each
other of their well-being.
The Uruk-Hai’s suddenly sense a change in
the air.
“Manflesh“
Now they know they are being tracked,
that the Ranger is pursuing them, to reclaim his charges.
One Hobbit loosens the pin on his elven cloak,
dropping it to the ground,
displaying the sharp wit of his species.
The Ranger is good at tracking.
He knows the wilderness and he knows Orcs.
Part of his unlikely Orc-hunting group: an
Elf.
And a Dwarf.
They track the Orcs.
So that they may reclaim the Hobbits taken from them.
Across barren lands and hills with only
little hints to show them where who they seek
has gone, they run.
There: a metal leaf trampled in the grass.
Both Elf and Ranger are good at tracking and endurance runs.
Yet Dwarves are natural
sprinters.
Not built for cross-country.
Quickening steps bring them to an overview.
They ross into a new country, Rohan.
It is familiar and yet unfamiliar to them.
Something in the air has changed.
To see further ahead, the ranger relies on
the elf’s superior senses.
And the elf speaks a line that shall be remembered.
"They're taking the Hobbits to Isengard!"
