[LOTR] Ch 1: Raine Owenria

— — — — — — 

Middle-earth

It was the spring of TA 2940 — exactly one year and ten months before the Battle of the Five Armies.

...

Clang—thud... Clang—thud

Today, the road through Eriador was thick with mud after the rain. Three cloaked figures on horseback rode east, water still dripping from their deep-green cloaks.

They halted atop a hill, pulled back their hoods, and revealed three young faces — two men and a woman, all dark-haired, grey-eyed, tall and lean. Classic Dúnedain features.

The young man riding on the left spoke first. "The Bruinen lies ahead. Once we cross the Last Bridge, it's half a day's ride along the road to Desson."

(A/N: Desson town is OG, along with other people I added.)

The girl among them added, "By the timing, Aelin, Eljer, Talos and Kalev should reach the town today as well."

The two were talking to the rider in front.

He had black hair, grey eyes, and a quiet nobility that seemed etched into his very bones — as if he were a king by birth. His gaze was calm, holding a depth of wisdom far beyond his years.

His name was Raine Owenria. Ten years ago, he crossed into this legendary land — Middle-earth.

A place of graceful Elves, fierce Dwarves, vile Orcs, peace-loving Hobbits… and five Maia wizards sent from Valinor.

When Raine first arrived, he woke in the wilds, trapped in the body of a ten-year-old boy.

Fortunately — or perhaps by fate — wandering Rangers found him. With his hair and eyes so like theirs, they assumed he was a lost Dúnedain child and took him in.

By then, the Dúnedain of the North had long since fallen from glory. A people who once numbered in the hundreds of thousands had dwindled to only a few tens of thousands, scattered across Eriador in tribal bands.

When Chieftain Arathorn II was struck down by an arrow in the Ettenmoors, his wife Gilraen vanished with their newborn son.

Leaderless, the northern Dúnedain splintered, breaking into countless scattered clans.

Over the next ten years, Raine watched with his own eyes as the North Dúnedain split further and further apart, struggling to survive in the wilds.

With no kin of his own, he joined the Rangers at sixteen, taking up the duty of protecting the people of the North.

And in four bloody years, through battle and hardship, Raine earned followers through sheer wit and courage.

And after all that, another change surfaced — his cheat, a status panel.

)—[Status Panel]—(

↳Name: Raine Owenria

↳Level: 1

↳EXP: 25/100

↳Combat Rating: Top Elite

(Rank tiers: Warrior, Elite, Legendary, Epic, Mythic, Exalted)

↳Buff:

◉ Born King

◉ Personal Growth Rate ×3

...

The panel started at Level 0. With each level gained, Raine would receive a full physical and spiritual boost… and a new buff.

"Born King" was his inherent talent.

Not long ago, after hunting down a band of orcs, he reached Level 1. His body went through its first boost, and he unlocked the buff Personal Growth ×3.

Having crossed into this world, Raine had no intention of remaining a mere Ranger.

Since fate had thrown him into a land of legends, he was determined to carve out greatness of his own. And now, with this golden finger in hand, that ambition only burned brighter.

So he began to plan.

In The Hobbit's original story, after leaving the Shire, Thorin Oakenshield and his company run into three trolls in the Trollshaws.

After defeating them, the dwarves discover three legendary swords in the trolls' hoard, along with piles of gold, silver, and ample supplies.

Knowing this, Raine made a decision — he would strike first. Before Thorin's company even arrived, he would take that treasure for himself.

Half a month ago, he sent out a gathering signal to his followers, ordering them to meet at Desson town.

On the road, he reunited with two of them — siblings Ishus and Alaina.

Despite their youthful appearance, both were top-tier elite warriors already past fifty years old.

As Dúnedain of pure Númenórean descent, the northern branch still retained a long lifespan. Two hundred years was common, making the siblings part of the younger generation within their people.

As for Raine — though his body had crossed over, he technically did not belong to any race of this world. He was only mistaken for a Dúnedain because of his appearance.

"..."

After hearing the siblings' report, Raine swung back into the saddle. "Let's move. We must reach Desson before dusk. This operation is crucial — there's a lot to prepare."

"Yes, my lord!"

They urged their horses on.

Afternoon sunlight bathed them, slowly drying their cloaks.

---

The Bruinen flowed down from the northern Misty Mountains, sweeping past the Ettenmoors before drifting south to merge with the river Hoarwell and form the river Gwathló.

There was only one crossing — the Last Bridge, built in the Second Age.

About two hundred kilometers east lay Rivendell, realm of the Noldor Elves. A two to three day ride along the Great Road — and through Trollshaws.

Trolls and orcs roamed the forest year-round. Travelers and caravans heading east would often rest overnight at Desson by the river rather than risk the forest after dark.

Desson was a northern settlement of two thousand souls, ruled by House Dulord.

Lying near Rivendell and sitting directly on the Great Road, many traveled here to seek Elven craftmasters and learn forging and smithwork.

By selling fine weapons and crafted goods, the townsfolk lived comfortably. Desson had become one of the north's rare trading hubs.

Raine, Ishus, and Alaina had planned to wait for their companions there — but before they even reached the town, black smoke was already rising heavily into the sky. And by their seasoned judgment, that was no evening cookfire.

A long, chilling howl ripped across the sky.

Alaina's expression turned grim. "Wargs."

Ishus drew his sword at once, scanning the surroundings with every muscle tensed.

"Go," Raine ordered, spurring his horse forward. The siblings followed without hesitation.

…

At that very moment, Desson was drowning in blood and fire.

Hundreds of orcs, driving several towering trolls before them, had rushed in under cover of dusk, unleashing slaughter and pillage upon the town.

Homes burned in the flames. Corpses littered streets and alleys. Women, children, and the elderly fled into the lord's keep, while the men picked up weapons and fought desperately.

Before the keep, a brutal battle raged.

Archers loosed arrows from the walls and tower windows. A dozen well-armed town guards in full plate held the gate, holding back an enemy ten times their number.

They were the Dulord House Guard, led personally by Lord Glinvard and his son Miles.

Both father and son were fierce warriors. With them at the front, the guards held firm, driving the orcs back again and again.

The orcs' crude weapons could barely scratch the humans' heavy armor.

The massive orc chieftain, wrapped in rusted black plate and wielding a warhammer, watched his forces pushed back yet again. His face twisted with rage.

He turned his head toward the two four-meter-tall trolls beside him, bared his needle-like teeth, and snarled, "Go! Crush their pride. Let fear devour them!"

The trolls roared, a deafening rumble, and lumbered forward with massive wooden clubs. Each stomping step made the ground quake.

The orcs scrambled aside to make way.

Seeing the trolls closing in, the human fighters couldn't help the fear creeping into their eyes. A few stepped back involuntarily.

Glinvard, well past fifty, saw it and spoke quietly to his son. "Miles. If one of us must fall today… let it be me. You will return to the keep now and protect those inside. If I die, you will be Lord of Desson."

"No, father! I won't abandon you!" Miles protested fiercely.

Glinvard cut him off in a hard voice. "Miles Dulord! Will you see the Dulord bloodline end here? As head of the family, I command you — fall back to the keep!"

Then, softer — "I love you. If I fall, apologize to Isabel for me. And take care of your sister."

Miles drew a slow, steady breath, jaw tight — then retreated with five guards, disappearing behind the closing gate.

As the heavy doors thudded shut, Glinvard let out a long breath, almost like a smile of relief. He turned to his remaining ten men and called out:

"Our chances may be slim. We may all fall today. But hope does not die — because our families still live. Our children will carry our will forward. Desson will not fall! Warriors, fight with me — to live through death!"

With that cry, the old lord raised his sword and charged straight toward the trolls.

The ten guards followed, voices rising in a thunderous war cry.

"To live through death!"

.

.

.