Dorlas of Brethil
I am Dorlas, son of the forest of Brethil, where the trees stand tall and whisper of the old days when Lady Haleth led our people into these woods. The blood of those who defied the darkness runs in my veins. My hands are rough from hunting and my back is broad from bearing my spear and shield. I have hair as dark as the forest shadows, though my eyes can’t compare in sharpness like that of the elves who roamed this land before me. I am not a lord nor a healer, but a man of action. To me, courage means more than caution. Many among my kin say I speak too boldly. Brandir, our chieftain, tells us to go about our days quietly, to keep to our borders, and not to stir the wrath of our enemy. He limps through the glades, gentle in voice, wise in lore, yet I cannot allow myself to follow a man who is afraid to stand when darkness presses near. There are whispers of war beyond our woods… that Nargothrond has fallen, that a black dragon burned it to ruin, and that a warrior with a doom u...