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"And know O Prince that in the third age of Middle Earth there was a warrior that opposed the most powerful rulers of the lands, his name was Fronan, a barbarian from the Northern Shire…"
Fronan stood quietly in the shadows of the high rock wall. His barbarian senses told him something was out there, stalking him. His companions, three civilized hobbits, knew nothing of what his keen senses told him. Creeping in on them were five of the Nazgul, shadowy wraiths from Mordor. They were the remains of men, neither living, nor dead. Fronan had seen them before, but never fought them. This time would be different. The silent shadows were moving. Or was it the clouds and moon?
Suddenly, with blood curdling shrieks, they were on them! Five pale shadows flickering in the deeper darkness! Fronan, knowing they were outnumbered, reached in his pouch for the ring. It was supposed to be imbued with power, he would try to tap it. Slipping it on he suddenly could see with amazing clarity and he attacked the wraiths in a frenzied burst of swordplay, whirling though the melee, he reeled out of it with his armor in tatters and a wound in his shoulder. His companions were separated from him and he was on his own. Placing his back against a rock wall of granite, he asked through gritted teeth, "who dies first?"