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 upon him fled into the wild. Some tremble to hear it. I do not. I’m restless. I‘m ready.

We hide beneath our trees as the world changes. Orcs roam closer each season. Refugees bring tales of horror, fire, smoke and a golden-eyed beast that speaks with the voice of death. I have never seen a dragon, but I have sworn that if such a creature ever dares the forest of Brethil, I will not flee. I’m tired of waiting for others to fight the battles that decide all our fates.

The moment that troubled me most was when the news reached us of the ruin of Nargothrond. I remember the messenger’s face. He was so pale, and hollow. His clothes were torn and blackened. He said that Glaurung the Worm crawled up from Morgoth’s pits and destroyed all that stood before him. I saw fear take root even in the bravest hearts of our people. But fear only feeds the fire of the enemy. I swore then that Brethil would not bow to dread.

Perhaps this pride will be my undoing. Sometimes, when the forest grows still, I feel as though unseen eyes are watching me. The elves say there is doom in the world that no man can escape. However, I would rather die in defiance than live in hiding. I have heard that the black sword of Nargothrond, Túrin Turambar, wanders these lands. If fate allows it, our paths will cross, and together we may show that the courage of men is not yet finished.

Until that day, I keep my spear close and my resolve closer. The forest of Brethil will stand, as will I.

— Dorlas of Brethil