(Here's my writing sample. Enjoy!)
“I just don’t trust ‘em,” Edgart said with a grunt.
Brenior looked up from the herbs she’d been sorting and glanced around. The grizzled, gray-bearded man squatting next to her nodded toward a group of men holding a hushed conversation a few meters away.
“That lot from Tyrant’s Hill,” he clarified. “Mogdred and his band of merry orc-killers.”
“What’s not to trust?” Brenior asked. Edgart shook his head and stood, the joints in his knees and back creaking as he did.
“There’s too much darkness in ‘em.”
The truth was, Brenior had sensed that too. An uneasy air followed Mogdred and his fellow survivors wherever they went, and they were rarely met with a warm welcome upon entering Rhosgobel. But there was also something deeply familiar in them.
“They do help to keep the orcs in their place,” she offered. Edgart grunted again.
“And that’s all well and good. but those men have a fire in their eyes that doesn’t go out, no matter how many orc heads they take. I wonder what makes them so different from the Enemy they claim to stand against.”
Brenior put aside the herbs and stood, placing a calloused hand on the old man’s shoulder.
“Those men have been through something you can’t even imagine, my friend. The kind of suffering they experienced in that dark fortress… well, there are no words for it.”
She turned her head and gave a sad smile to Edgart the gruesome scar on her cheek stretching wider as she did.
“Trust me on that.”
Edgart deflated slightly, and gave Brenior an apologetic nod.
“Aye, you’ve got a point there, I suppose. They haven’t done us any harm, in any case. No point in brewin’ trouble where there’s none to be found.”
Brenior patted his shoulder and went back to her herbs. Not all of the Woodsmen were as easily swayed as Edgart. It would take no small amount of work to keep the peace, she imagined. Only a few years ago, the idea of playing ambassador between two such groups might have seemed dull, perhaps even pointless. Now, it was a duty she could not turn away from—not least because of her connections to both groups.
It would have been simple enough to leave them all to their own devices. Nearly all her kinsmen had returned westward a long time ago. She had more memories than blood on this side of Misty Mountains. Yet, that in itself gave her pause when she dreamed of returning home. It was because there were so few Rangers in the East that she had to stay. If she truly wished to uphold the legacy of her people, then she could not simply abandon those in need—whether that need be great or small.
A boy, no more than 10, with a mop of shaggy brown hair raced up to Brenior and Edgart, skidding to a stop just before plowing into the old Woodsman.
“Steady on there, laddy,” Edgart said, mock displeasure in his voice. “Where’s the fire, eh?”
“It’s him!” the boy cried.
“And who is him?” Brenior asked, trying to mask her amusement at the boy's excitement.
“Gandalf! The Grey Pilgrim is come to take council with Radagast!”
Brenior felt a mixture of wonder and apprehension at the news. Would the wizard be bringing good tidings or ill? She gathered up the herbs into a satchel and dusted off her hands.
“Well then, let’s see what Gandalf the Grey has to say…”