Sauron

The march-cry of orcs echoed far behind her as Deorla slipped deeper into Udûn, moving not along the obvious roads, but through slag-filled ravines and forgotten service tunnels known only to those who had once ruled this land rather than merely survived it.

She did not approach Anglach by the main causeway.

The Herald Returns to the Ashlands

The Dead Marshes died behind her like a bad dream that had crawled into reality.
Ahead, heat rippled through the air, and the world turned iron-grey beneath a sun that seemed ashamed to shine.

The woods of Ithilien were alive with the hunt.

The first arrow whistled past Deorla’s face, snapping through a birch trunk. The second struck her horse’s flank — a warning shot, not yet meant to kill. The cries of men followed soon after, echoing between the trees:

“In the name of the Prince of Ithilien! Drop your weapon!”

The hills of the northdown stand empty. It was long ago when kings and queens were buried here among the Edain of old. Many however were raised, used as puppets by fell spirits on the orders of the Witch King of Angmar. But many of these have been laid to rest once more by the Dunedain. And now, beside the evil of Fornost, unclear and fell, looming over the hilly fields, the old burial road is peaceful. All except one, barrow.

The road stretched endlessly before her, beaten and dry beneath the early summer sun. Deorla walked—her boots scuffed, legs sore, cloak tight around her frame. She had no horse anymore.

But she was used to walking.

The land itself seemed at peace now. She saw no riders, no merchants, no enemy scouts. Even the wind was calm. Fields rolled on her left and right, broken only by distant fences or rotted wagon wheels half-swallowed by tall grass. For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency behind her steps.

Deorla sat alone in the quiet of the Bree homestead, the letter from Naridalis trembling in her hands. The familiar script, once a source of comfort, now bore words that cut deeper than any blade.

Trust, once solid among the Company of the East Road, now wavered like smoke. Naridalis’s words painted a picture of disillusionment, of friendships strained to the edge. Promises had been broken. The past Deorla had fought to bury clawed its way into the present, and now it stood like a specter between her and those she'd once called kin.

The Istari ("those who know"), who some call wizards, are emissaries from the Valar, sent to aid Men and Elves in their struggle against Sauron. They appear to be old Men, but that is deceiving. Initially some thought them to be Elves due to their longevity and wisdom. For that reason the one the Eldar call Mithrandir is known as Gandalf ("Wand-elf") by Men in the northwest of Middle-earth.

The ride had taken two more weeks. Fortunately a considerable amount of time had been through uninhabited lands, so she had not had to use any energy in maintaining an illusion. She had followed the south road, through Enedwaith, and across the Gwathlo at Tharbad and on to Herne. She knew from that time forward the roads would be busier, she would need the best illusions she could muster. 

‘Hello, Lord of the Black Land of Mordor, the Land of Shadow!’ I called in ringing tones.  ‘Let the wicked King Sauron come forth and do battle with us, the Host of the West, the Captains of the West, the Bearers of the Last Ring, the Lords of the West!’