3. The Muster of Rohan
King and household-men ascend. Somber the greeting their fair regent giveth; wherefore hope hath gone ‘tis beyond her ken.
Dread summons delivers the blood-red barb; the weapontake, tardy, must see Gondor's fall...lest help un-looked for comes.
Dark, dawn’s tidings; war has begun. Marshal in haste, bray harsh-voiced horns.
Their paths are sundered: lord, liegeman, king and daughter. Fey hope is offered: When will wants not…
Now all roads run East.
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