Excerpt from Ranger 'Stalker' Hinruin. Fourteenth of January, Third Age 2984.

It took us three days to meet up with Ranger Herthaf, who had gathered a surprisingly large host of men, all of whom had similar backgrounds as the men who had chosen to follow me. The veteran Ranger smiled at my perplexed face and took me aside, where the men could not hear it. They thought it to be a council of war, the Rangers discussing how to best deal with the troubles that awaited us. It was, but it was far more than that.

Since time immemorial it has been a common saying amongst the Rangers. The dangers are many and we are few. Often we are too few. Our sword arms are strong and our eye sight keen, but a small host of Men cannot hope to stand against an army. So we sought people sympathetic to our cause. It turns out that Rangers draw these men towards them. Men without hope. Men without homes. Men who have chosen Evil and were later persuaded to abandon their path. It is not taught, as one cannot teach a man strength of heart. Yet it is expected. It is seen as a sign of maturity in a Ranger when he ceases to simply hunt down Men who have chosen poorly, and instead redirects them onto a new path. We take one of Evil's blades and re-purpose it for our own ends.

So I joined Ranger Herthaf, and my host joined his. Together we had three dozen men at our disposal. Men once hopeless. Once outlaws. Forged anew under the banner of the Dúnedain and the leadership of the Rangers. They fight not for us, but for the men living in these lands. For those who still have a home. A hearth. One of the Rangers of old baptised these reformed men with a name they proudly carry on their lips. They are the ones who have lost all and now defend the hearths of others. They are the Hearth's Defenders. A thin line of men, young and old that are often all that stand between a village and an Orc raid. We are few and so are they, but they are with more than we. I look at them as they move through the forest, with more speed than one might expect, and watch them with pride in my chest. I cannot put it to words eloquently. I am not well versed in such things. But even so I understand that they fight for Good. That even in the darkest places the light still shines. So I march with them.

Ranger Herthaf and I scouted ahead of our small host and we tracked down a large raiding party. Going by the footprints it was a mixture of Snaga and Orcs, accompanied by two, perhaps three Wargs. They numbered around five to six dozen. They are many and we are few. The men are not disheartened by this news and we march on with greater speed, for Herthaf told us of a village ahead. The Orcs march slower than us, the forest slowing them down and whilst they are driven by the desire to slaughter, we are driven by the desire to safeguard. In the end, our desires proved superior and we managed to reach the village before the raiders and we took up position in between those we sought to protect and those we sought to waylay. If luck would have it, the villagers would never know of the danger they were in.

As it was, luck was on our side. We later discovered that a dozen enemies had split off from the main force, returning towards the mountain, no doubt laden with their ill-gotten gains. We would pursue them in due time, but first we had the battle to deal with.

Our men waited in the forest, hidden from sight, until the enemy drew near. Ranger Herthaf and I stood behind their lines and waited, our bows drawn and ready. A Warg Scout came out of the dense thicket, sniffing the air as it slowly advanced. A shiver ran through our lines and I understood their fear. Wargs are vicious, ferocious creatures. It sensed our men, smelled their fear, and our bows spoke in unison as we silenced both beast and rider before it could further discourage our host, or worse, give away our position. Our men advanced, creeping through the thickets and soon we found the main enemy line. They were five dozen strong. They are many and we are few. But they were not aware of our presence. Two more Wargs were with them, but they were too deep in the enemy ranks for us to have a clear shot at them. So we signalled the men and their charge began.

The Orcs and Snagas were taken off guard by the charge. Some javelins were hurriedly thrown but the men's shields deflected the weakly thrown missiles. Then the melee began. They fought with valour and with determination. Snagas fell under their advance as spears were thrust between shields. For one blissful moment it seemed as if our plan would go off without a hitch. Then one of the Orcs in the back began rallying his force and the Snagas were pushed aside by their taller brethren as they made a crude, but brutal counter attack. Our lines were pushed back, the Orcs' brute strength overwhelming the men, forcing them to give ground or die. Many fell to the ground, bleeding, only to be finished off by the cowardly Snagas who hid behind the tall Orcs. Ranger Herthaf and I circled around, firing our bows as quickly as we could, claiming many an Orc. One of the Wargs tried circling around the battle, but I intercepted it and I drove my sword into its gullet before it could do any harm. Its rider was thrown to the ground and was disposed of.

Still the battle went on and our line kept diminishing even as they retreated, struggling to maintain a cohesive formation. Exhaustion began kicking in, for these men were not accustomed to the brutal demands of war. Morale began sagging. Even as Ranger Herthaf and I kept running around to inspire and encourage them, there was only so much we could do. In the end we were pushed back all the way to the outskirts of the village, where a brief lull in the battle arose in which I quickly surveyed our forces.

We were down to half our strength and Ranger Herthaf and I had run out of arrows. The men struggled to stand, shields and spears shaking in their tired hands, sweat and blood running across what little armour they possessed. I could see the fear in their eyes as they looked towards each other and us for encouragement and finding little. On the other end of the field stood our foe, down to half a dozen Snagas and about as many Orcs as we had men. They too were tired, but less so than ours. Behind them was the final Warg Rider, bolstering the morale of his troops and further reducing ours. He made ready to charge.

That was when the elderly brigand who had joined me looked behind him and saw the houses in the distance. The smoke curling out of the chimneys. The fearful gazes coming through the windows. Something changed in him. I could see the resolve hardening in his eyes.

'Men!' he shouted, his voice full of vigour and righteous rage. 'We are all that stands between that village and the vile Orcs! We will not falter! We will not flee! Behind us are hearths! And we are the Hearth's Defenders! Raise your spears! Hold fast! And kill all those infernal Orcs!'

The shout was picked up by the other men, lighting a fire within their hearts. The Warg Rider noticed this too late and was not met by a group of nearly broken Men, but by a stalwart, determined force. The Warg crashed into their shields, snarling and biting to no avail as they stabbed it with their spears. Its rider lashed out from above, wounding one before suffering the same fate as its steed. The Orcs' charge faltered at the warcry raising up from our host and Ranger Herthaf and I joined them, taking the fore as we lead a charge of our own. The Orcs' resolve wavered, then broke and we cut them down to the last, feeling neither pity nor remorse.

In the end it was done. Our losses were severe and those who survived sank to the ground, crying for those who had fallen and weeping even more for those we had saved.

I am not a veteran Ranger. Not by far. But at that point I understood the importance of these men. They may carry fragile shields, simple spears and little to no armour and they are certainly no soldiers proper. Yet once reminded why they chose to fight, they are a sight to behold, for they will fight to the last when struck by this righteous rage. Truly, they carry their name with honour.