No sooner had the chime of the system faded than Ryan Eowenríel felt a warmth rising from the depths of his bones, flowing through sinew and flesh, kindling in his very spirit. His body and soul were being strengthened, reforged by unseen hands.
Instinctively, he summoned the glowing panel before his eyes and read the new inscription:
[Host: Ryan Eowenríel
Level: 2
Experience: 0/200
Strength: Lesser Epic (Ranks: Warrior, Elite, Epic, Legendary, Mythic, Fabled)
Buffs:
1. Born King — Innate gift, bearing the aura of leadership.
2. Personal Growth Rate ×3 — All of the host's abilities grow threefold swifter.
3. Warrior Growth Rate×3 — All warriors sworn to the host gain thrice the rate of growth in skill, strength, and endurance.]
This new blessing, Warrior Growth Rate ×3, was a boon beyond measure. Though Ryan's following was small, their hearts were loyal and their skill keen. Now, by this gift, they would rise swiftly, their strength multiplied, their company transformed.
….
Dawn broke upon ruin. Where once Dessen had bustled with trade and laughter, now only ashes remained. Blackened walls stood jagged against the pale light; smoke drifted through the air, mingled with the stench of charred wood and death. Survivors clung together, some weeping, some digging amidst the rubble for the bodies of kin.
Upon the castle wall stood Grinwald Dulod, his broken arm bound, his eyes heavy with sorrow. He gazed out upon the wreckage of his town, and his lips whispered:
"This is the worst of times."
"And yet," came a young voice behind him, "this may also be the best."
He turned and saw Ryan approaching with measured stride. At the wall's edge, Ryan bowed lightly and spoke:
"The brightest flame casts the deepest shadow. Yet in the blackest night, it is hope that burns brightest."
He paused, then gave his name with solemn courtesy:
"I am Ryan Eowenríel. It is my honor to meet you, Lord Grinwald."
Grinwald, who owed to this youth the very survival of Dessen, bent in return with no trace of pride.
"I am Grinwald Dulod, lord of this town. Without your hand, Dessen would already be ash. For that, you have my undying gratitude."
"To resist the Shadow is the duty of every free folk," Ryan answered simply. "I did only what was required."
"Few indeed are those who do what must be done," Grinwald sighed, weariness etched deep upon him.
The two stood side by side, gazing across the wreckage of their world. One, aged and scarred, long resigned to sorrow. The other, young and unbowed, with a fire in his eyes like the rising sun. Different as dusk and dawn, yet strangely their spirits found harmony.
"You must be of the Dúnedain," Grinwald said at last. "Long ago I met Arathorn son of Arador. Alas, he fell ten years past in the Ettenmoors, and with him much hope was lost. Since then, I have heard of your people's plight. Bereft of a king, divided into scattered tribes… your strength wanes."
His eyes lingered upon Ryan, thoughtful.
"Yet from the first moment I beheld you, I knew you were no common Ranger. Look at how your companions gaze upon you—with awe, with loyalty. You carry the bearing of a king. But you hold no kingdom, no people… only a handful of loyal blades at your side."
Ryan's lips curved faintly in curiosity.
"You think me a king?"
"I have never looked upon a true king," Grinwald admitted. "But my heart tells me so."
Ryan let the matter rest, and silence passed between them for a time. Then he asked, "Dessen has suffered grievously. What do you mean to do now?"
"Rebuild." Grinwald's answer was simple, and it rang with steel. "This town has been broken many times, yet always it rises again. Fire can consume houses, but not the will of our folk. Like grass, we endure."
Then he turned his gaze back to Ryan.
"And you? You did not gather here by chance. What is it that you seek?"
"We go to the Troll-woods," Ryan said without veil, "to claim something of worth."
Grinwald's brows knit. "There is nothing in that accursed forest save death. Few who enter ever return. What could you hope to gain?"
Ryan's eyes lifted eastward, where the woods brooded in the morning mist.
"Nowhere in this world is safe. But some things must be taken, no matter the cost."
Then he inclined his head. "I would ask to purchase arms and gear from Dessen. I can pay in coin, though it must be upon credit for a time. Consider it,you need not answer now."
As Ryan departed, Grinwald stood long in silence. At last he murmured, half to himself:
"He is so like Arathorn… and yet, in him the flame of kingship burns even greater."
….
In the end, Grinwald agreed to Ryan's request.
Dessen was famed for its craft in weapons, and though it could not arm an army, outfitting twenty-five Rangers was well within its means.
Thus Ryan's company shed their travel-worn gear and took up arms of true craft: bright steel mail, Elven-forged swords keen as moonlight, yew bows of great strength, and iron arrows dipped in poison.
Clad thus, the Rangers seemed transformed: no longer wanderers of the wild, but the royal guard of some long-lost king of Arnor. Upon their faces shone hope, the dream of a reborn people, the glory of the Dúnedain restored.
Ryan did not linger to meddle in the rebuilding of Dessen—that was the charge of the House of Dulod and its people. He was no king yet, no lord of lands, only a Ranger with a vision. He had offered aid when it was most needed; the rest must be left to those who called this place home.
So, with new-forged arms, Ryan led his men forth upon the road east, toward the Troll-woods.
At the ruined gates, the people of Dessen gathered to see them off. Among them stood Grinwald, leaning upon a staff, his son Torvin at his side, and many townsfolk whose hearts swelled with gratitude.
Grinwald bowed low. "Whatever your quest in the Troll-woods, know that Dessen and her people wish you safe passage. And if one day you truly become a king, may your kingdom rise upon the soil of Eriador."
Ryan turned in the saddle, his voice firm as steel.
"That day will come."
He and his companions bowed deeply to Grinwald, to Miles, and to all the folk of Dessen. Then they spurred their horses, and in a thunder of hooves they vanished into the morning mists, riding eastward on the Great East Road.
…..
Two days they journeyed thus, through meadow and moor, until at last they reached the shadowed eaves of the Troll-woods.