They are not natives here; they are crebain out of Fangorn and Dunland... I think they are spying out the land.
Description
In times long past and ill-remembered, shrouded in legend and mystery, the black tower was ruled by the Númenóreans. Today, it is held by the Wise One. Saruman. He sends us greetings, and gifts of blade and shield to our Gurach’s hall.
He wishes to be our friend, so his emissaries claim, and sees the great injustices done to us by the Forgoil as debt in dire need of repayment.
The men that bring his word are of the Isendraich, a tribe of mix-bloods that dwell around and even inside his walls. They are keen-minded and knowledgeable, and make for good advisors to any Brehin, and the Gurach too. In exchange for sword and shield and wisdom, Saruman asks only that we send him our warriors to fight in Rohan, and for him to be allowed to build places where his followers can dwell, and our warriors can come to be equipped.
The Brehins rejoice at this. It is what our men would do anyway, so why not take the steel to simply do what we do, but with better tools? They may not be wrong. The Huntsmasters grumble, though. They say the Wise One uses his silver tongue to make us think he wishes only for our strength, when truly he hungers for our spirit. They say they won’t offer their guidance to Brehins that allow the White Hands banner to fly next to their Crebain.
Campaign Events
Subcultures (V3)
From the Isendraich whose loyalty lies to the White Hand, the Dunforgoil who share close ties with the Rohirrim or the Wulfingir of Dunlending nobility, command a variety of generals from different cultures within Dunland each with their own unique bodyguards and traits
The White Wizard (V3)
Saruman desperately needs you and your people to execute his plan. There are many in Dunland who wish to keep the old ways and many who want to see a new future for their people. Work with Saruman and your people to grow your nation in a dynamic script with multiple decisions, outcomes and rewards.
Raiders of Dunland (V3)
Utilizing the new Raiding mechanic and level up your Dunlending generals by carring out raids on your enemies
Reforms (V3)
Advance beyond your tribal ways and set a course for the Dunland of the future and beyond
Kin/Raiding Lands (V3)
Incorporate the lands of the Free People’s into your own or designate them as nothing more than a source of gold and loot for your armies
Testimonials
*After now playing 4 factions in Eriador and getting to see Dunland with their unique generals, descriptions, buildings and shitty-quality roster, I wanted to say how, although not my favorite, it might be the best (most fun) faction in the mod in my opinion.
It’s just so unique with the raiding/looting barracks-system and Isengard’s influence script. The latter adds what all factions - except the reworked Dorwinion and the Reunited Kingdom - need: longevity. I didn’t get to interact too much with it when I played them since my campaigns end soon, but seeing Dunland getting unique Isendraich generals and Uruks reminded me of how the Isengard’s influence lasts the whole campaign with It’s multiple choices and tiers, while the culture change through guilds is a very subtle and fun way of implementing it realistically, adding a very needed increment to the roster at the cost of public order, although that leaves the Dunhird side an inferior choice.
Like Dorwinion’s regentsmen reforms, Dunland’s unlocking of higher tier settlements (no idea if that’s been removed) and usage of Rohan’s (which also unlocks Dunforgoil) and other, nearby factions rosters gives a big purpose and sense of progression towards your immediate enemies.
Even the fucking trash, worse-than-goblins roster is fun to use, because, even while smeared in shit, it’s diverse, rewarding and varied, all the while feeling unique amongst other wildmen, with bad archers, bad AP, bad melee, bad cav and bad anti-cav, but the replenishment and manpower is just right and you have all the tools to go to war, face adversity, have fun (even while losing) and win.
Dunland is a near-perfect faction and I had fun playing it. I hope more factions get the love it got. I didn’t say this before, but great work to everyone involved!
There is little of wealth in Dunland, and ever are it’s people beset by scarcity and want. But as every hill has a top, so too does Dunland have an elite. In every clan's hill fort there is a chief, and with him his retinue. All wealth of the clan is concentrated in him, and he is the one to take the lions share of the loot and plunder the war bands gather. And where to spend such wealth? On warriors, of course. For to stay at the top, a chief needs strong men to keep him aloft. And so every one of them has a retinue of bonded veterans at their call. These men are the best Dunland's warrior class has to offer, often times free warriors that give their oath to the highest bidder, in exchange for the best arms and armour there are available. Finest mail, helmets forged in Rohirric and even Gondorian forges, face-masks bought from dwarven smiths, and swords of finest steel. When such groups of men take to the field, most of Dunland's wealth is found on their bodies. These men are the guardians of their charge, and they will reap a devastating toll in battle.
Brandishing bloodstained blades, the Brehin's Sword-wielders will launch themselves into battle with a relentless fury. These warriors are the true masters of the battlefield, earning the respect of all Dunnish folk and demanding respect from their straw-haired foe.
Many of the clan warriors that swell the numbers of Dunland's armies hail predominantly from the pasturelands and homesteads of the hills, joining war bands as motivated amateurs, to seek fortune in raids or following the call to arms of the Tarras-Brehin. This is not the story of the Sword-wielders, for their farms are the fields of battle, and their blades sow the stained soil with the blood of their enemies. Fighting is second nature to these hardened warriors, granting them an impressive and boastful set of skills in battle with unyielding stamina and energy; Sword-wielders will not rest till the blood of their foes coats their Kurbul armour.
Years of warfare and raiding have led these tested warriors to what passes as wealth in the hills, giving the men ample opportunity to outfit themselves in some of the finest, traditional, armour available to the folk of Dunland. Along with their Kurbul protection, each of these men carry swords of the traditional Dunnish make. Vicious and short, brutally practical, these blades are undecorated weapons, yet to all men of the hills they are more valuable than gold, for the swords of these men are symbols of prestige and status - a gift from the Brehin to signify their elevation to true warriors, which sets them apart from their Derfel and Speuta wielding inferiors.
The great Tribes are known. They carry the prestige that age and success brings to a people. Some control large swathes of land, and are distinct by their customs and traditions. They are the enduring marks of this land, visible and known far and wide, like great slabs of stone that mark the countryside. But in between these boulders, in the lands of rivers and hills, there are pebbles.
These are the minor clans, those whose names do not cause recognition amongst people, or fear in the hearts of foes. Founded by bandits, lesser chieftains or just made up of one single village, enduring only so long as the man who created it lives, or the people that where there when it began. And yet they are plentiful. Men of the minor tribes and clans may strive to prove themselves in battle and to thereby exalt themselves and their clan, some were pressed and bullied into service by the blades of more powerful peoples, others come merely for the loot to be won, and some may have an obscure, cult-ish reason for war-making. Either way, now these men stand here, ready to fight to varying degrees. Some wear capes or thick cloth - most wear barely anything at all. Old men are found among these ranks, wrinkled and snow-haired, as well as men barely old enough to be called as such.
A few may bring a prized long knife to battle, but most use clubs with bone or stone tips. These men are not warriors, for the most part - but pebbles may not crush a foe, as the boulder does, but they may unset his footing, impede his advance - and once slung, a pebble that hits its mark may well bring down a knight of Gondor.
The great Tribes are known. They carry the prestige that age and success brings to a people. Some control large swathes of land, and are distinct by their customs and traditions. They are the enduring marks of this land, visible and known far and wide, like great slabs of stone that mark the countryside. But in between these boulders, in the lands of rivers and hills, there are pebbles.
These are the minor clans, those whose names do not cause recognition amongst people, or fear in the hearts of foes. Founded by bandits, lesser chieftains or just made up of one single village, enduring only so long as the man who created it lives, or the people that where there when it began. And yet they are plentiful. Men of the minor tribes and clans may strive to prove themselves in battle and to thereby exalt themselves and their clan, some were pressed and bullied into service by the blades of more powerful peoples, others come merely for the loot to be won, and some may have an obscure, cult-ish reason for war-making. Either way, now these men stand here, ready to fight to varying degrees. Some wear capes or thick cloth - most wear barely anything at all. Old men are found among these ranks, wrinkled and snow-haired, as well as men barely old enough to be called as such.
A few may bring a prized long knife to battle, but most use clubs with bone or stone tips. These men are not warriors, for the most part - but pebbles may not crush a foe, as the boulder does, but they may unset his footing, impede his advance - and once slung, a pebble that hits its mark may well bring down a knight of Gondor.
A word which when translated roughly means "our straw heads" in the language of the Daen peoples. A strange name for a group of warriors given the Dunlendings innate hatred of everything even associated with the Rohirrim. Yet these people carry the blood of Dunland in them still, despite living in the lands of the Horse-Lords. Some of them originated from the Men of the Hills that were left behind in then-Calenardhon as the rest of the tribe was driven out, forced to mingle with the Rohirrim over time. Others are the descendants of Dunlending hostages, women sold to the Rohirric lords to keep the peace, or vice versa, a common thing in the borderlands.
They are not seen as true Dunlendings. They speak the tongue with an accent, many possess the eponymous straw-coloured hair and there are but few who have ever been to the hills. Even more defining, most of them are used to a life in the saddle as opposed to one on foot. Neither are they seen as true Rohirrim, even if the King of Rohan does not recognize them as a group. No extra taxes are levied against them, and when a census is raised they are counted amongst the Eorlingas. Yet in their hearts the blood of Dunland beats true. Sure, they might pay their taxes on time and be as at home in the saddle as any Rider, but at home they keep the Crebain's skull near their hearths, and a quiet dislike for the disdain the horse lords show towards noble Wulf in their hearts.
So when the might of Dunland falls across a piece of the Riddermark that they inhabit, they are quick to take up arms and support their rightful lords, offering him the might of a good cavalry force. Mounting Rohirric steeds, and armed with equipment as each can afford. Some from more prosperous backgrounds might have a Rohirric leather-armour, or even lamellar cuirass, whereas others will stand clad only in gambeson; or even simple cloth. Short javelins, stout shields and an intimate knowledge of the Mark, they are a welcome force to any Dunlending Brehin. Some might even be fit to rule their own kind.
A word which when translated roughly means "our straw heads" in the language of the Daen peoples. A strange name for a group of warriors given the Dunlendings innate hatred of everything even associated with the Rohirrim. Yet these people carry the blood of Dunland in them still, despite living in the lands of the Horse-Lords. Some of them originated from the Men of the Hills that were left behind in then-Calenardhon as the rest of the tribe was driven out, forced to mingle with the Rohirrim over time. Others are the descendants of Dunlending hostages, women sold to the Rohirric lords to keep the peace, or vice versa, a common thing in the borderlands.
They are not seen as true Dunlendings. They speak the tongue with an accent, many possess the eponymous straw-coloured hair and there are but few who have ever been to the hills. Even more defining, most of them are used to a life in the saddle as opposed to one on foot. Neither are they seen as true Rohirrim, even if the King of Rohan does not recognize them as a group. No extra taxes are levied against them, and when a census is raised they are counted amongst the Eorlingas. Yet in their hearts the blood of Dunland beats true. Sure, they might pay their taxes on time and be as at home in the saddle as any Rider, but at home they keep the Crebain's skull near their hearths, and a quiet dislike for the disdain the horse lords show towards noble Wulf in their hearts.
So when the might of Dunland falls across a piece of the Riddermark that they inhabit, they are quick to take up arms and support their rightful lords, offering him the might of a good cavalry force. Mounting Rohirric steeds, and armed with equipment as each can afford. Some from more prosperous backgrounds might have a Rohirric leather-armour, or even lamellar cuirass, whereas others will stand clad only in gambeson; or even simple cloth. Long spears, stout shields and an intimate knowledge of the Mark, they are a welcome force to any Dunlending Brehin. Some might even be fit to rule their own kind.
The Dunforgoil Warlords are a small and elite cavalry unit, drawn from the ranks of the Dunforgoil people. These fearsome warriors are renowned for their horsemanship and their skill with the sword and spear. Clad in the finest armor that the Dunlending tribes can muster, they ride into battle with reckless abandon, charging headlong into the enemy's ranks and cutting them down with deadly precision. As the personal bodyguards of the Dunforgoil generals, they are fiercely loyal to their masters and will fight to the death to protect them from harm.
Feudkeeping is an important part of Dunlending tribal culture, and every male is encouraged to do it. On the eve before a battle or raid commences, some warriors of the Warband will shave their bodies and paint themselves with soot and chalk. Their bodies become a tapestry for the wrongs that were done to their people, a canvas for their peoples history, and a reminder to all Dunlendings that behold them to never forget what was or to become lax in their hatred. Before they join battle they recite the oral history of their tribe, bringing themselves into a trance. Clad in their peoples bitterness, these men now care little for death, for any that fall whilst feud keeping, die as martyrs and their demise serves to strengthen the resolve of others that will come after them. For the duration of the battle, they exist as avatars of the resolve and tenacity of their tribe. These warriors eschew spear or derfels, instead taking up large axes and spiked clubs. They do not wear armour, and carry no shield, only their ferocity serving as their protection. Any Rohirrim that has fought them in battle, any Gwaithuirim that survived an encounter with them, knows that when the shaven and painted enter the fray, screeching and wide-eyed, there will be no quarter given and no mercy brooked.
Not all men of Dunland are full-time warriors, though none are weaklings either. For every man on the field a dozen, or more, stand behind him. No great warriors, or men of means and status, but those that ensure the tribe survives. They ensure that the warrior has a sharp sword to lift, a sturdy shield to wield, thick armour to wear and food to eat. Yet none of those things are easy to come by, for Dunland is not a kind land. Winters are bleak, summers are dry and hot, and the soil is far from fertile. No matter how they toil away on their squalid fields, no matter how carefully they guard their meagre herds, it is never enough to quiet the wails of the hungry children. And so the Dunlendings have learned that what raiders return from the fields of others is often the only harvest that will feed them reliably. For what the Hills make in abundance is hard men, willing to kill and reave, forged in fires of bitterness and revanchism.
As such, the common tribesmen of Dunland, leading their small flocks from pasture to pasture, have no qualms about taking what they need, when opportunity presents itself. When the horns are sounded and a Breelander merchant is seen passing through their lands, a Gwaithuirim campfire is spotted, or the route of their herds takes them past Rohirric farmsteads, these men grasp tools entirely unsuited for tending crop or animal, and turn from shepherds into wolves. The Derfel, the weapon which these men wield, is a simple but dreaded thing, a long, overhead shaft topped off with a heavy iron head, allowing them to pull down shields with ease, hack away at their foes with brutal swings or even pull down any Forgoil rider from their horse, should the fool think them easy prey.
In battle, be it in a raid or a skirmish, these men will stay longer and fight harder than other Wildmen of their class, as they know what is at stake should they return empty handed, and their usual livelihood ensures that they won’t tire easily.
Not all men of Dunland are full-time warriors, though none are weaklings either, for the meek do not thrive in the hills. For every man on the field a dozen, or more, stand behind him. No great warriors, or men of means and status, but those that ensure the tribe survives. They ensure that the warrior has a sharp sword to lift, a sturdy shield to wield, thick armour to wear and food to eat. Yet none of those things are easy to come by, for Dunland is not a kind land. Winters are bleak, summers are dry and hot, and the soil is far from fertile. No matter how they toil away on their squalid fields, no matter how carefully they guard their meagre herds, it is never enough to quiet the wails of the hungry children. And so the Dunlendings have learned that what raiders return from the fields of others is often the only harvest that will feed them reliably. For what the Hills make in abundance is hard men, willing to kill and reave, forged in fires of bitterness and revanchism.
As such, the common tribesmen of Dunland, leading their small flocks from pasture to pasture, have no qualms about taking what they need, when opportunity presents itself. When the horns are sounded and a Breelander merchant is seen passing through their lands, a Gwaithuirim campfire is spotted, or the route of their herds takes them past Rohirric farmsteads, these men grasp tools entirely unsuited for tending crop or animal, and turn from shepherds into wolves. The Speuta is a long, tough spear, with a durable, sharp blade on top. The tip is often pronged, allowing them to gut anything they come across with brutal efficiency, be it man or horse, and their long reach gives them a dangerous advantage.
In battle, be it in a raid or a skirmish, these men will stay longer and fight harder than other Wildmen of their class, as they know what is at stake should they return empty handed, and their usual livelihood ensures that they won’t tire easily.
Dunland is not a kind land and it has robbed the Dunlendings of much of their kindness in turn. Winters are bleak, summers are dry and hot, and the soil is far from fertile. And so the Dunlendings have learned that what raiders return from the fields of others is often the only harvest that will feed them reliably. For what the Hills make in abundance is hard men, willing to kill and reave, forged in fires of bitterness and revanchism.They wield long pikes, a large weapon that is especially deadly against cavalry. These warriors are not true men of war, clad in iron and wielding swords, they are brothers, fathers, friends. But they are also Dunlendings. Many a Gwaithuirim has thought a raid repelled, when in fact it was merely regrouping. For these men know that they must bring back that which their people need, and that desperation will keep them in battle far longer than a foe might think.
When Wulf first came to Dunland, he did not do so alone. By his side were loyal retainers, who had sworn oaths to his late father. These were not simple soldiers, but men of repute and station. Trained warriors, highly skilled in the way of horse and war. Though Rohirrim born, their hearts and swords belonged to he who would be Twofold King, and his noble line, not the pretenders who rule from the Golden Hall now. With them came the mighty war-horses of the plains of the east, and armour leagues beyond what even a Brehin might dream of. Now, though Wulf has long since been felled by Forgoil scum, and the clans no longer are united, the Frekkalingir still keep watch over their herds in the Plains of Dunland, an ill-named region, for it is hilly still. In their great hall in Byrig, they maintain their ancestral swords and oaths, serving only the throne of the High King, no matter who is seated upon it.
They know, and have long since accepted, that none of their kin will ever enjoy the crown upon their brow, for the Rohirric taint in their blood denies them this, yet they relish in the knowledge that their power, their status, belongs to them solely because of that very same blood, the blood of those most loyal to Freca's Line! And so they wade into battle, clad in heavy leather and iron unlike any other warrior in the Hills, upon horses of war, rumoured offspring of the fabled Mearas. When they charge, they do so with the ground trembling underfoot, with Wulf's name on their lips, and with seething hatred in their hearts
When Wulf first came to Dunland, he did not do so alone. By his side were loyal retainers, who had sworn oaths to his late father. These were not simple soldiers, but men of repute and station. Trained warriors, highly skilled in the way of horse and war. Though Rohirrim born, their hearts and swords belonged to he who would be Twofold King, and his noble line, not the pretenders who rule from the Golden Hall now. With them came the mighty war-horses of the plains of the east, and armour leagues beyond what even a Brehin might dream of. Now, though Wulf has long since been felled by Forgoil scum, and the clans no longer are united, the Frekkalingir still keep watch over their herds in the Plains of Dunland, an ill-named region, for it is hilly still. In their great hall in Byrig, they maintain their ancestral swords and oaths, serving only the throne of the High King, no matter who is seated upon it.
They know, and have long since accepted, that none of their kin will ever enjoy the crown upon their brow, for the Rohirric taint in their blood denies them this, yet they relish in the knowledge that their power, their status, belongs to them solely because of that very same blood, the blood of those most loyal to Freca's Line! And so they wade into battle, clad in heavy leather and iron unlike any other warrior in the Hills, upon horses of war, rumoured offspring of the fabled Mearas. When they charge, they do so with the ground trembling underfoot, with Wulf's name on their lips, and with seething hatred in their hearts
There are no Great markets in Dunland, but just because a place lacks such places, does not mean it lacks men that acquire their wealth through the selling of goods. A merchant is not respected in Dunlending society, and so their tradesmen are of a different cut than those of other peoples. The produce a Dunlending sells you, has been taken from another man’s field, and the fine cloth he offers taken off that same man's corpse. The men of this Warband are not traditional warriors, but they are wily raiders, and wealthy - for a Dunlendings idea of wealth. They ride Hillsteeds, a breed of ponies any Rohirrim would scoff at - but the beasts are hardy, sure-footed in the hills, and they do not tire. In battle, they Pepper the enemy with javelins, and close in on softer targets - for while their riches allow them to afford a warriors arms and armour, there is a reason they do not walk amongst the sword wielders.
If met with staunch resistance, or worse, spears, they will melt away like mists in the hills.
Horses are a rarity in Enedwaith, and even more so in the Dunlendish hills. The men who mastered the ability to ride them are scarcer still.
Yet their neighbours, the peoples of Eriador, Gondor-Through-The-Gap, and — as if it needs saying — Rohan, have no shortage of warriors who mount their steeds with confidence and skill. This creates a dangerous difference in war, where the footslogging Daen are ever at a disadvantage against the towering threat of man and horse. However, any threat garners a response, and as such the Dunlendings have learned and adapted to deal with this difference.
Men who fought in the throngs and were discovered to have a knack for handling their weapon, along with a taste of war, young men whose clans had fallen on harder times, and those who felt that a life earned by a blade in hand should be paid with greater compensation, banded together under lower-ranked Wulfingir and developed a new, specialised style of fighting.
When the horsemen march to war, their charge is met and broken with long spears. And once the riders are forced to a halt, the pikes are dropped and exchange for hooks and sickle-blades. With the former they unhorse the rider, with the latter they dive beneath the treasured mounts, before gutting them from below.
In these days the Horse-Fellers are a group of quasi-mercenaries, carrying cut horse-tails and bent horse-shoes as a sign of their profession and as a testament to their skills. They sell their services to whatever Dunlending Brehin or Hîrwaith chief who can afford them. Some of these bands are made up of seasoned veterans, well equipped and equal to any sword-bearer in skills. Others are made up of young glory-hounds, fresh from their mothers teat, yet even they are not to be underestimated by any mounted force.
These men live to kill riders, and whilst their weapons may cut down footmen just as easily, a wise leader will keep them from charging any foe but their favoured four-legged adversaries.
In rough-hewn wooden shrines and before effigies of old, in the deepest part of the forest where Men scarcely dare tread, on the bleakest of hills on the slopes of the Misty Mountains, grim men clad in the furs of wolf, bear and Warg, speak in hushed tones to long gone ancestors. These are the Huntsmasters, following a creed far older than the worship of Wulf's line, and here they practice rituals that already were ancient when Calenardhon still belonged to the tribe, long before the Forgoil came. They are elusive men, of great power amongst the Dunlending. There are no better marksmen in the hills, no greater trackers, no hunter more skilled, than they, yet this is not why they are respected, and feared. No, it is their connection to the beyond, their sacrifice to reach that point, their unmatched determination to uphold the ancient creeds, that grant them this. When they leave the woods, and they do so sparingly, to visit the lands of their kindred to give advice, then no Brehin may discount it, and warriors of all ages, great and young alike, cower before their harsh stares. It is rumoured that a Huntsmaster's journey starts with a young man’s stint in the Dunhird, where they keep the Feud clad in soot and chalk. There, they will fight consumed by the rage of battle and those that survive will eventually wash themselves off the black and white, resuming their lives of old. Yet for some the song of battle and wild does not truly leave their bones. It remains a part of them, a constant companion whether they wake or sleep, as if the holy painting had seeped through their skin and into their very soul. If this happens to a man, it means his fate is sealed to the path of Huntsmaster. The life of warrior, farmer, herder, craftsmen, are now denied to them, as they are set upon a long, arduous journey into the wildest of lands, where they will prove their ability purely by staying alive, before engaging in a long, secretive series of trials, before the man will finally emerge as man no more, but a fully fledged Huntsmaster.
When they join the Dunlendings on the field of war, they will instantly assume command of any Feudkeepers present, bringing the men covered in soot to near ecstasy simply by their presence. To the Feudkeepers, the Huntsmasters are the embodiment of all they stand for. Ancient feuds remembered, slights so old they would have faded in memory long since, kept afresh by their rituals. In doing so, they cleanly maintain the balance of power, keeping the rest of the Dunlendings from following them. This allows a Brehin to rest at ease, knowing his rule will not be usurped.
Ever since the days of the Fell Winter the Rohirrim intermingled with Dunlending settlers in the Westfold and Isenmach. Secretly harbouring hatred for Rohan and its kings, in times of peril and whenever the realm of the Sons of Eorl was in danger these men seek to take advantage of the situation by bolstering the invading Dunlending armies with their own warriors; strong men equipped with Rohirric chain mail and great two-handed Dunnish axes.
The Gurach has decreed that to join this hallowed band of his most trusted champions shall be dependent entirely on the strength and capability of a man’s war-arm. No matter if a man was sired by a Dunlending, a Hirwaith, even a Forgoil - if he has proven himself among his people, his loyalty is without flaw, and his might the equal of the men he seeks to join, he shall make his oath in both Halls of the King, and be given wealth and the means to defend it.
The Skreulingir feast with the Gurach, and serve only him. They stand guard at the gates of his halls, they watch over him when he sleeps, and in battle they form a band of warrior he can rely on to stay and fight.
The core of this brotherhood is made up of hardened veterans, men that have learned all the hard lessons a long war teaches those that wage it at the front. Their savagery is tempered, their hate is cold and directed - they know of the value of discipline, and of orders followed. These lessons they impart onto those deemed fit to join them, and And thus, in the annals of Middle-earth, amidst tales of elves, dwarves, and the free people, was etched the legend of the Skreulingir – the chosen champions.
To the men of the tribe, Wulf is the ultimate measure of greatness, and any Warrior in the hills dreams of coming close, or even equalling his glory - though all know, that to truly surpass him is impossible. Still, to try is what makes a noble in Dunland, in truth. It is said that when Wulf left the Hills for the last time, he left sons and daughters in every clans hold, and if to have a drop of his blood makes a man a chieftain, then these bleak lands are populated exclusively by those of high birth. But it is not so. To be a Wulfingir in the eyes of the tribes, purity of blood is a prerequisite, surely - but a retinue of loyal men, a great herd of well-fed cattle, and a strong sword-arm can turn any man's blood blue. And so the mightiest and strongest rise to the coveted position of Brehin, the Chieftains of the clans.
When the Gurach calls the Wulfingir to war, his summons are answered by bands of these war-nobles, standing tall in finest armour. Lamellar, reinforced leather, even coveted chain mail can be seen, glinting in the dim light of the hills. Tall helmets, decorated with Crebain feathers and the tails of horses these men killed dip as they march to battle. Hands calloused from ceaseless sword-work grasp hilts of finely made swords, some of which were once held by some arrogant Rohirric or Gondorian Nobleman. Eyes used to war and death look upon enemies with disdain and hatred.
To those of kinder and more prosperous lands, these men might not seem like the elite of the elite. Their armour is not as heavy as that of their more civilized foes, their native forged swords less well made.
But each of these men is an experienced warrior that knows that in his veins flows the blood of the greatest man to ever live, and that those so bound to Wulf's line are called to glory.
