The dawn bled a weak, sickly orange across the barren plains, a Dúnedain Ranger with hair the color of twilight, surveyed the grey horizon, his eyes seeing farther and wider than any ordinary man could have. Beside him was Hallbera, her face looked a bit weathered since she had started training her daughter, but it had not lost any of its beauty... she looked quite good for someone more than six hundred years old.

A harsh beauty maybe,

"It's fuckin' cold."

She muttered as she knelt by the fast-flowing current that flowed down the misty mountains, dividing the wastelands of Eregion from the fertile plains of Enedwaith.

"Cold enough?"

Asked Thinto, the twilight-haired ranger.

"Aye, cold enough to freeze a troll's balls off."

Hallbera chuckled grimly, her voice was raspy from disuse over the day and night she had spent scouting out the wastelands. Thirty pairs of eyes... or maybe it was less than thirty... a mix of Dúnedain rangers and scared village Hunters, watching the two of them talk.

It had been some time now, roughly a few hours since the last scout returned from beyond the river. A Company of goblins had broken away from the hoard heading further north...

"They'll be here by dawn tomorrow,"

Rasped one of the hunters, not Calvin, but an equally large man, his face missing half of its skin. His hand gripped the hilt of an old dagger strapped to his waist. The story was, that he lost half his face to a warg, and got mauled right in the face.

"Thirty against three hundred,"

Rumbled Tirro, his voice was hollowed but he was also a ranger and experienced enough to have survived ranging across the foot of the misty mountain,

"Not the odds I'd pick for a picnic, would ya? Hag?"

Hallbera grumbled, glaring at the presumptuous man, he was old enough to have seen her while he was a wee lad. Her eyes were glacial blue, unlike the usual dull brown, she had picked many tricks throughout her life... it always surprised her how people recognized eyes more than faces,

"Aye, but goblins are predictable... most of the time. All brown and a little cunning. We'll hold them at the ford."

It was the best place for an ambush, a narrow ford of rock... better to call it a short waterfall really, twice the height of a man. One slip and the poor sod would plunge headfirst into the stone spikes below. No other crossing east of the Ford, the water was far too strong to wade across, it was the perfect bottleneck.

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"We fortify the ford,"

Hallbera declared,

"Stones for barricades, anything sharp for the shallows. Make those goblins think twice before charging in."

The hunters were a collection of rough men more accustomed to tracking down wild animals across the wilderness rather than facing orcs and goblins. Hesitant, far too cowardly. Fear was visible in their eyes, deep-rooted fear for their lives and fear for their families. Hallbera squinted at the many frayed faces, the weak sun shone on their faces like a dim lamp in the night.

"We fight for our homes, for our families!"

She boomed, her voice echoing across the stony banks.

"Those orcs want to pillage and plunder, take everything we hold dear from us! Should we let them!?"

Her voice was loud and laced with anger... it was a speech she had said so many times that it came far too naturally to her,

"We stand here, together, and make them pay for every inch of ground they take!"

Shame replaced fear and for a fleeting moment, a spark of defiance flickered in the hunters' eyes. Hallbera knew a rallying speed couldn't win the battle, she needed a plan, a strategy that would give them a flicker of hope at the very least.

"We have the advantage of terrain,"

She pointed at the wasteland across the stream,

"The Ford's a narrow chokepoint, no more than three can walk abreast and even then it would be treacherous to go too fast. We can turn it into a killing ground!"

She gestured towards the outcrop of stones that made up the ford,

"Those stones,"

She barked,

"We uproot the boulders and make some fortification on this side of the ford... chest-deep at least. Make it sturdy, lads. Use logs for support if you have to."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the group, Tirro stepped forward,

"We have till come dawn, it won't take that long to dislodge a couple of old stones! Let's get to it, lads!"

The group followed after him, springing into action and the next few hours were a blur of feverish activities. They worked swiftly, for a group their size, making use of their knowledge of the terrain and the limited resources they had at hand. Used poles to heave rocks down the river until they flowed down the waterfall... the land slopped for a mile or so before it was level for crossing and the water there was as treacherous as it was before the ford.

If it was high summer, the melted snow would have flooded the Ford, making a large pond and the short waterfall would have drowned. The crossing would be impossible except for at the Swanfeet marshes several dozen leagues west. But the goblins just had to choose early winter when the snow was heavy on the mountaintops.

Hallbera kept an eye on the workers... well most of them were hunters and militia men called over from the village. The Rangers were doing what they were good at, ranging further north to track the goblin company's movement.

'They'd all be tired come nightfall.'

She thought and decided to stop the barricading once the sun started to set. No point in tiring out the defender before the battle even begins,

"Do you think we can survive?"

Asked Thinto. His voice was ragged and he was tired, just returning from a scouting expedition.

"Possibly. You won't that's for certain."

Hallbera cracked a sad smile, she already had plans that were more than likely to get all the rangers killed.

"We don't have enough men!"

Grumbled Thinto, slapping his thigh as he sat on a boulder beside her,

"Give me fifty good rangers and I will butcher those Goblins before they can even cross the Ford."

Hallbera sighed,

"We don't have fifty good rangers, not even bad ones. Old maybe? A dozen old rangers, some village hunters, and a small militia more used to milking goats than handling a sword."

"Aye,"

He nodded,

"I won't argue with that."

"Any of them good with a bow?"

Asked Hallbera, she hadn't paid much attention to the militia lately.

"About half of them. So good they shoot sideways."

The Ranger joked to make light of the situation, but that only made it sound more desperate.

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