Drawn together by a shared purpose, yet burdened by private doubts and diverging pasts, nine set forth from Rivendell. Each from a different race, with different beliefs, and different reasons for answering the call. Strangers still, their trust uncertain, their task immense. But through scattered conversations and shared glances on the road, something deeper began to take shape. In the wilds and the ruins, through peril and persistence, a seed of fellowship took root.
The Ring is destroyed; the Dark Tower has fallen; Sauron is gone…
The site of an ancient battle, the grey wetlands between Mordor and Emyn Muil are a labyrinthine bog of sodden ground and choked pools. No bird call cuts the windless air, nor the tail of any fish disturbs the weedy ponds. The Dead Marshes they are called, a stagnant morass, where only the foolish or desperate dare pick a wary way.
