Chapter 16: Journey to the Fort
John Stark's thighs burned, a deep, grinding ache that pulsed with each jolt of his horse's hooves against the cracked earth of Rohan's plains, the dust rising in faint clouds that coated his lips with a gritty, bitter taste, like chewing on old chalk. The horizon sprawled endless, a patchwork of faded green and scorched ochre, its low hills jagged against a sky bruised with the first hints of dawn, the light weak and cold, barely warming his wind-stung cheeks. His cloak snapped behind him, heavy with the musky reek of horse sweat and worn leather, the air sharp enough to claw at his throat, leaving it raw and dry. The Please Kill Me System buzzed in his skull, a relentless hum like a frayed wire sparking against his nerves, urging vigilance he couldn't share with Éowyn, who rode beside him, her silhouette steady, her golden hair catching the faint light like a flare in the gloom. His scarred fingers gripped the reins, his thumb rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous tic that betrayed the secret he buried deep, the system's pulse a constant, gnawing weight in his mind.
"Another ride, another grind. What's the odds I'm wolf food by sundown?" His breath hitched, the thought a private jab at the dread knotting his gut, his shoulders tensing as he fought the urge to slouch in the saddle. The horse's rhythm was a steady thump, each hoofbeat jarring his spine, grounding him in the moment as he scanned the plains, the grass whispering threats in the wind, a distant hawk's cry slicing through the silence like a warning. Éowyn's presence was a quiet anchor, her horse keeping pace, its breath steaming in the chill air, her eyes flicking to the horizon with a warrior's focus. He stole a glance, her face set with determination, and felt a pang of something—admiration, maybe, or something softer he didn't dare name.
He reined in his horse, the beast tossing its head, snorting as he swung down, his boots hitting the ground with a dull thud that sent a jolt through his aching knees. Crouching low, he ran his fingers over a patch of trampled grass, the blades sharp and brittle, slicing faintly into his calloused skin, the earth beneath scarred with ruts—hoofprints, too heavy for Dunlending ponies, too wild for Rohan's steeds. A faint musk lingered, rank and animalistic, twisting his stomach with unease, like the memory of a zoo gone wrong. The system flared, a green overlay flickering across his vision, mapping the terrain with surgical precision, highlighting paths and hazards in crystalline lines:
[Riding Mastery: Lv. 4. Steady, cowboy. Keep it tight, or you'll eat dirt.]
"Riding's like a bad VR game with a controller that hates you," he muttered, the anachronistic quip a flimsy shield against the tension coiling in his chest, his thumb rubbing his neck as he stood, brushing dirt from his hands. He remounted, adjusting his posture, focusing on the subtle shift of his hips, the pressure of his heels, each movement a calculated grind of his Riding Mastery, the system's guidance masked as raw effort. Éowyn pulled up beside him, her horse snorting, her eyes narrowing as she studied his form, a faint nod of approval softening her features, her voice cutting through the wind.
"You ride better than most born to the saddle, John," she said, her tone steady but warm, a crack in her warrior's mask. "But the fort's under threat. Wargs stir in the south, moving with purpose—unnatural purpose."
"Wargs. Perfect. Killer dogs with a vendetta. Just what I needed." His heart quickened, a cold spike of adrenaline, but he kept his face neutral, his thumb rubbing his neck as he nodded, the system's hum a steady anchor. Her praise hit like a shot of adrenaline, warmer than any stat gain, and he adjusted his grip on the reins, the leather biting into his palms, the subtle improvement in his balance a quiet triumph. A memory flickered—his old life, the hum of a car engine, the feel of a steering wheel under his hands, a late-night drive with music blaring, now a ghost of a world he'd never see again.
They paused by a shallow stream, the water gurgling over smooth stones, its surface glinting like polished silver under the rising sun, the air cool against his sweat-damp skin as he dismounted, his thighs screaming with the effort of the ride. He knelt to let his horse drink, the cold water splashing his fingers, sharp and bracing, the scent of wet earth mingling with the musk of the horses. The system flared again, the HUD glowing in his mind, a sharp pulse of data flooding his senses with perfect horsemanship—balance, rhythm, the instinct to move with the horse like a single entity.
[Riding Mastery: Lv. 5. Don't fall, hero. Warning: Beasts stir in the south. War looms.]
"Horseman? Don't crash, you digital asshole," he thought, grimacing at the system's snark, his thumb rubbing his neck as he pretended to adjust his saddle, the leather creaking under his hands, masking the system's glow. The warning about beasts stirred a memory—a flash of a late-night gaming session, the glow of a screen, the howl of virtual wolves in a pixelated forest, a life so distant it felt like a lie. He remounted, his body moving with a newfound ease, the horse an extension of himself, and Éowyn's gaze lingered, her expression unreadable but her eyes soft, a quiet challenge to prove himself beyond the system's gifts.
They rode into the evening, the plains giving way to rolling hills, the stars emerging like scattered jewels against a velvet sky, their light cold and distant. The air grew sharper, biting at his exposed skin, the scent of pine and earth mingling with the faint musk of the horses, a reminder of the wildness surrounding them. They spoke in low voices, her tales of Rohan's past—of Théoden's decline, of battles fought under open skies—woven with a quiet pride that made his chest ache, her words painting a world he was beginning to love despite himself. He offered clumsy stories of his own, dodging the truth of his origins, describing podcasts and sci-fi films in vague, halting terms, his words tripping over themselves as he hid HUD checks, pretending to listen with rapt attention.
[Charisma: +0.5. Don't swoon, Stark. You sound like a poet. Remember her warg concerns.]
"Your stories beat my old podcasts, Éowyn. By a mile," he said, his voice rough, the anachronistic humor a clumsy shield for the warmth flooding his chest, his thumb rubbing his neck as their hands brushed while dismounting at a small camp, the contact sending a spark through him. Her laughter was soft, a sound that cut through the night like a blade, warm and unguarded, and he felt a connection deeper than any system boost, a quiet moment that grounded him in the fire's glow. They sat by the crackling flames, the wood popping softly, the stars above a silent witness to their growing bond, the scent of smoke and pine wrapping around them like a promise. The fort loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the hill, its stone walls a fortress of hope and danger, the faint howl of a warg echoing in the distance, a chilling omen of the battles to come. "This is real. Her. This place. Not the system. Don't screw it up, Stark."
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
To supporting Me in Pateron .
Love [ Lord Of The Rings Pleasse Kill Me System ]? Unlock More Chapters and Support the Story!
Dive deeper into the world of [ Lord Of The Rings Pleasse Kill Me System ] with exclusive access to 35+ chapters on my Patreon, plus new fanfic every week! Your support starting at just $5/month helps me keep crafting the stories you love across epic universes like [ Game Of Throne ,MCU and Arrowverse, Breaking Bad , The Walking dead ,The Hobbit,Wednesday].
By joining, you're not just getting more chapters—you're helping me bring new worlds, twists, and adventures to life. Every pledge makes a huge difference!
👉 Join now at patreon.com/TheFinex5 and start reading today!