With the restoration of Cardolan and the open return of the Dúnedain of old, the city of Tyrn Gorthad has opened its gates once again and Duke Rossendir strides into the light of day once more after having fought the expeditions of Angmar for centuries. While their blades have lost their gleam and their thick plate armour have lost their glitter compared to the glory days of old, the men wearing them are of the same blood as their ancestors. Undiluted Numenorean blood flows through their veins, their heritage kept pure, their family tree clear. The Duke and his men are proud of this and this is reflected in how they carry themselves.

On the battlefield they arrive as a storm. Their honour and duty demand they meet their foes on the field of battle in open conflict, whenever and wherever they can be found. Yet they know that secrecy is their strongest weapon and that marching to war with their noble banners held high is inviting disaster on their much diminished forces, so Lord Rossendir developed a simple, brutal and highly efficient tactic.

Upon being informed that an enemy is near, for they never venture far from their homeland, the retinue of the Lord of Tyrn Gorthad marches to war. They do so swiftly and without sparing themselves or their horses, for their stamina is strong and they are well versed in the art of forced marching. Then, upon reaching their foes, Lord Rossendir's straight forward and direct character blossoms as he leads his men in a brutal, unstoppable charge. One can only imagine the fright instilled into the Dúnedain's foes when met with such force, banners held high, lances held low. While the sun no longer reflects of their battered shields, bruised plates and well used blades, the men wielding them are no less lethal for that, and the charge takes the small band deep into the enemy ranks. What few foes their lances leave alive, are quickly silenced by their blades. Once they are sure no enemy lives to tell the tale, they disappear once again, their honour satisfied and their lands safeguarded.

Lord Rossendir is not a simple brute, however, nor does he purely rely on his impressive strength. He is a smart man, handsome and charismatic, as befits a noble of his status. Even so, despite how beloved he is by the common people and how a word of his can quiet a crowd, he is ill suited for the daily running of a city. He is a warrior first and foremost, a commander who inspires loyalty and strength in his followers, who puts fear into the heart of his enemies and is forever on the offense. He refuses to huddle behind a wall in fear, but will search out the foes of the Dúnedain wherever they might hide.

As such, he is not only a general of great renown, but also an adept logistician. He knows how to press his army to get the most out of the men. Although he is not overly accurate where it concerns bookkeeping. As a noble, after all, must treat his men lavishly if they are to fight and die under his command.

And now he has come to fight for you, my Lord. Lord Rossendir of Tyrn Gorthad, last in a long, pure line of true blooded Numenoreans, pledges his sword to your cause, and with it those of his men. For Cardolan! For the Dúnedain! For Arnor!