The ruins of the uncharted Arnor fortress rose before Mordred like the skeleton of a long-forgotten power. Once-mighty walls, capable of withstanding armies, now lay in disarray—cracked, overgrown with moss and wild vines, some sections collapsed into chaotic piles of stone. The wind howled through the remnants of towers, wailing mournfully as if the ghosts of the past still lingered among the ruins. A silence, too deep to be natural, cloaked the place, broken only by the distant snap of dry branches and the rustle of leaves carried by gusts. It was a silence that seemed to watch, to wait, almost to breathe.
Mordred moved slowly, his steps echoing faintly on the cracked cobblestones. His golden eyes scanned the terrain with precision—every nook, every crevice in the walls, every fragment that might conceal something of value. He sought resources: stone for his tower's construction, wood for fuel, or perhaps artifacts imbued with the magic of Arnor's ancient kings. His black armor, adorned with subtle engravings, seemed to absorb the scant light that pierced the heavy, gray clouds. Behind him followed twenty minions—small, wiry creatures with glinting eyes and sharp claws, armed with knives and clubs. Their movements were swift but silent, almost instinctive, as if they sensed this place did not belong to them.
Unbeknownst to him, the ruins were not deserted. The Dunedain, descendants of Arnor's kings, had chosen this place as their secret camp, guarding it against orcs and other threats ravaging these lands. Their presence was invisible to the untrained eye, but Mordred and his minions did not escape their notice. From the shadows, behind toppled walls and overgrown passages, watchful eyes tracked their every step.
As Mordred stepped onto the sprawling courtyard, surrounded by the remnants of once-towering walls, something shifted in the air. The wind stilled for a moment, and the silence grew even more oppressive. Suddenly, shadows moved—swift, coordinated motions, nearly invisible in the half-light. From behind the fallen walls emerged figures, armed with bows and swords. In an instant, they surrounded Mordred and his minions, bows drawn, arrows ready to fly. Their faces were stern, etched with the lines of a hard life, their eyes gleaming with suspicion.
"Stop!" a sharp, commanding voice cut through the tension like a blade. From the front, with a confident and resolute stride, stepped a woman. She was beautiful, though her beauty carried a wild edge—fiery red hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her green eyes, sharp as emeralds, pierced Mordred through. Dressed in green and brown ranger garb that blended seamlessly with the surroundings, she exuded confidence and unyielding resolve. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, her stance betraying readiness for battle.
"You tread on land that is not yours," she said, her voice strong but measured, laced with authority. "Who are you, and what do you seek here?"
The minions froze, their small bodies taut as bowstrings. One, more skittish than the rest, took a step back and hid behind Mordred's leg, trembling slightly. Mordred, however, remained unmoved. His golden eyes met the woman's gaze, calm but unwavering.
"We didn't come here to fight," he replied, his tone steady, though carrying a hint of resolve. "We're here for resources. Nothing more."
The woman narrowed her eyes, her hand never straying from her sword. "Resources? Here?" she repeated, disbelief coloring her words. Her gaze swept over the minions, who stood silently, gripping their weapons. "With a band of goblins? You're begging for death, stranger. You don't look like a mere scavenger."
Her eyes lingered on Mordred's armor—dark, almost light-absorbing, adorned with patterns that seemed to whisper of ancient battles. She raised a brow, her tone sharpening. "Speak! Who are you, and where do you come from?"
Mordred sensed the tension in her voice, but he also detected something else—a wariness that could be a key to negotiation. These people, the Dunedain, were warriors, guardians of these lands. They, too, despised the orcs that ravaged everything in their path. Perhaps, instead of bloodshed, he could offer something else—a common purpose.
"We're not your enemies," he said, choosing his words with care, his voice steady but gaining strength. "You have no need to fear us. We hate orcs as much as you do. They've taken your homes, just as they've taken ours. Perhaps we can help each other?"
The woman let out a quiet scoff, but for a fleeting moment, her gaze softened, as if his words had struck a chord. "Why should we trust you?" she shot back, her tone sharp, almost challenging. "You and these… creatures?"
Mordred held her gaze, unflinching. "Because I have no reason to lie," he replied, standing a little taller. "I want to purge these lands of orcs. We can do it together. So, what say you, lady?"
A murmur rippled through the Dunedain—quiet, uneasy whispers that spread among the surrounding warriors. The woman silenced them with a single glance, her green eyes flashing with authority. She studied Mordred for a long moment, as if trying to see through to his soul. Finally, she nodded, though her stance remained vigilant.
"Very well," she said, her voice carrying the weight of a decree, tempered with a trace of agreement. "We'll talk. But mark my words. One false move, and..."
Mordred raised a hand, cutting her off with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Yes, I know," he said curtly. "I know."
The woman turned and gestured for her people to lower their weapons, though their eyes remained wary, their hands close to their hilts. Mordred exhaled silently, feeling the weight of a battle avoided, but he knew this was only the beginning. If an alliance was to be forged, it would be fragile, built on caution and mistrust. Yet it was a step—small but significant—toward something greater.