you lean up against the wall, solemnly staring out over Minas Tirith. A tall, rather rugged looking man approaches you, leaning against the wall beside you.

“You must be the person Denethor was speaking of. Swore yourself to his service, did you?”

he scoffs, slightly mocking you but in a friendly manner.

“Tough luck. What’s your name, eh? You know what company you’re in yet? Well, I’m Beregond. I’m serving with the third company.”

he offers his bulky hand for a handshake.