The Legion

Among the many cohorts and banners of the Imperial Legions, a few have risen to such prominence that their deeds are studied in war colleges, spoken of in hushed tones by foreign generals, and etched into the stone walls of Amon Lhaw itself. What follows are brief records of four such Legions—each emblematic of the Empire’s might, discipline, and sacrifice.

The 7th Legion – The Emperor’s Own
Perhaps the most storied of all the Empire’s forces, the 7th Legion is known simply as The Emperor’s Own. This elite host has never been defeated in battle, a distinction jealously guarded through centuries of precision, pride, and relentless standards. Unlike other legions, the 7th recruits not by region or conscription but by invitation only—drawing the finest warriors from across all Imperial forces.

Stationed permanently at Amon Lhaw, the heart of the Empire, the 7th is charged with protecting the Emperor and the inner sanctum of Imperial power. They are equipped with the finest arms the Empire can produce: oblium plate, impervious to ordinary steel, and Elvish-forged blades, some of which date back to the Sundering War. Even their war drills are a thing of legend—ritualized dances of death taught by swordmasters who do not speak, but strike.

To wear the crimson and gold of the 7th is to become more than a soldier. It is to become a symbol.

Motto: “Let none pass but ash and oath.” 

The 11th Legion – The Stonebreakers
Specialists in siege warfare, the 11th Legion is the hammer that shatters walls. Trained in engineering, tunneling, and the devastating use of fire and powder, they are responsible for some of the most complex assaults in the Empire’s history. Their greatest—and most infamous—achievement remains the Fall of Hurrak-Dûm, the only known instance in recorded history of a Dwarven stronghold falling to an army of Men.

The battle lasted nearly two years, with entire mountains reshaped by their relentless assault. The Dwarves remember it as a tragedy. The Empire remembers it as a masterstroke. Either way, the 11th is feared wherever walls rise.

Motto “Walls are a promise. We break both.” 

The 21st Legion – The Legion That Would Not Break
Forged in flame and remembered in song, the 21st Legion earned its immortality during the Sundering War. Tasked with holding Fort Kael’tir in the Ered Gorgoroth against Morgath’s advancing hosts, they stood alone for seventeen years. No resupply. No retreat. Only stone, steel, and sheer, relentless resolve.

They held until Morgath, in his fury, shattered the very mountain beneath them. The fortress fell. The legion did not. Their banner was found intact in the rubble, their bodies still standing at the walls, turned to ash with blades drawn. The 21st remains an active legion to this day, their modern warriors chosen from those who endure hardship without complaint.

Their motto: “Only the mountain broke.”

The 23rd Legion – The Vanished
A mystery wrapped in myth, the 23rd Legion was dispatched into the cursed wood of Sarch Nia Chin during the early Seventh Age. At the time, strange horrors stirred within the forest, and whole provinces were vanishing into shadow. The 23rd was sent to cleanse it. They never returned.

No survivors. No messengers. No bones. Only silence.

And yet… in the months following their disappearance, the corruption began to recede. The forest slowly returned to green. Travelers began to pass through again, wary but unmolested. The task, it seems, was completed. But no one knows how. The 23rd’s sigil was struck from record in mourning, their cohort halls left empty as a shrine.

Some say they sleep beneath the roots, watching still. Others whisper they were taken—not slain, but changed.

The truth is buried in leaf and shadow.

On the Éoherë, Riders of Imperial Judgement
While the Legions wage war beyond the Empire’s borders, it is the Éoherë who ride within—not as conquerors, but as keepers of order. Born of ancient cavalry traditions and refined through centuries of internal conflict, the Éoherë are the Empire’s swift hand of law, deployed when local constables prove insufficient or provincial unrest grows too wild to contain.

Each unit—never larger than one hundred and twenty—is a tightly bonded cohort of elite riders, trained not just in mounted warfare, but in judgment. A single Éoherë can quell riots, hunt fugitives through leagues of wild terrain, or root out rebellion from fractured townships. Their presence alone is often enough to silence a crowd or drive fear into the hearts of the disloyal.

They move swiftly, act decisively, and are trusted with broad authority. In the field, an Éoherë rider does not simply enforce Imperial law—they embody it. With few exceptions, they serve as judge, jury, and executioner, expected to render justice without delay, and answer only to the Imperial magistrates or the Emperor himself.

Though technically subordinate to the Legions, the Éoherë operate with a latitude few soldiers are afforded. Their units are scattered across the Empire, always in motion, and rarely quartered in the same place twice. Some call them wandering ghosts of the law, others the Emperor’s second shadow.

To the common folk, an Éoherë rider at the gate is both a relief and a warning. For their banner does not march. It rides ahead of consequence.

The motto of the Éoherë “Order rides on iron hooves.” 

On the Sindar, Hunters of the Shadowed Path

If the Éoherë are the Empire’s response to rebellion and lawlessness, then the Sindar are its answer to the unnatural. Operating in silence and shadow, the Sindar exist not to enforce law—but to preserve the boundary between the known world and the darkness that creeps beneath it.

Sometimes called the Twilight Wardens, the Sindar are drawn from the ranks of the Imperial Legions, selected for their unshakable resolve, clarity of thought under duress, and an almost instinctive awareness of things not seen. A candidate must not only survive the battlefield, but must show courage in the face of the unexplainable—and return unchanged.

Once chosen, they undergo an initiation cloaked in secrecy, their training equal parts martial and arcane. They are taught to track the unseen, to understand the nature of monsters and curses, and most importantly—to end them. A Sindar may face down boggarts, werewolves, spectres, blighted fey, necromancers, and worse, often with little more than a steel blade, a warded charm, and their unyielding will.

Sindar do not operate in companies or hosts. They move in cells—three to five hunters at most, often acting alone for weeks at a time. Their presence is rarely announced, their reports submitted in coded script to hidden magistrates, their successes uncelebrated. They leave behind no standards, no statues—only burned lairs, purged ruins, and the briefest sense that something very old and very wrong has been sent back into the dark.

They are respected by the Legions, feared by the common folk, and utterly unknown to those who live easy lives in the heartlands. To many, they are a myth. To the Empire, they are necessary.

The motto whispered among them is simple:

“We walk where light refuses.”

On the Treoraí, Keepers of the Roads and Flame

Among the many irregular forces of the Empire of Egladil, few are as uncelebrated—and yet as vital—as the Treoraí. Known colloquially as lamplighters or wayfinders, the Treoraí are tasked with a deceptively simple duty: to maintain the lamps and waystones along the Empire’s vast web of roads, and to safeguard travelers who walk between dusk and dawn.

At first glance, theirs appears a humble station—no gleaming armor, no trumpet's call. Yet the Treoraí form the quiet spine of Imperial stability. Each night, they venture forth with oil and flint, wick and staff, walking countless miles to ensure that the great roads remain lit, marked, and safe. Where they pass, lanterns glow steady through the dark, and weary pilgrims breathe easier.

But their charge is more than flame. The Treoraí are trained to assist travelers in need, offer guidance to the lost, and even deter bandits and lesser threats through presence and patience. In times of war, they are known to scout for armies and smuggle messages along hidden paths. In times of peace, they are the first to sense unrest—and the first to be silenced when danger rises.

They carry no banners. Most wear simple cloaks of oiled leather and carry staffs tipped with small bronze bells or lanterns etched with Imperial runes. Their tools are practical. Their strength lies in endurance, memory, and quiet courage. And while few sing songs of the Treoraí, even fewer forget their face when met on the road with tired feet and no flame of one’s own.

To light a lamp is no great feat.

To keep it lit through darkness—that is the mark of the Treoraí.

Motto:

“One flame, a thousand roads.”

On the Rimors, the Eyes Beneath the Cloak

Among the branches of Imperial service, none are more secretive—nor more silently feared—than the Rimors. Officially, they do not exist. Unofficially, they are everywhere: the whisper behind the curtain, the flicker in a watchtower, the stranger who listens but never speaks. Where the Legions enforce power through force, and the Éoherë by law, the Rimors operate through silence, doubt, and precision.

Trained in espionage, infiltration, misinformation, and assassination, the Rimors serve as the Empire’s unseen hand beyond its borders and, when necessary, within them. Their tasks are many: the sowing of fear in rival courts, the silencing of seditious voices, the uncovering of hidden threats before they ripen. They gather secrets like currency, and spend them with fatal care.

Their agents—if the stories are true—are recruited from orphanages, prison cells, and the ranks of those who have already proven themselves adept at vanishing when it matters most. Training is rumored to be as much psychological as physical, focused not just on the act of killing, but on erasure—the removal of one’s own scent, memory, even sense of self when needed.

They do not wear uniforms. They do not march. And their ranks are unknown even to most within the Empire’s highest councils. Orders are given in cipher or not at all. Missions vanish from record. Names are seldom used more than once.

The common folk do not speak of the Rimors, for most believe them to be ghost stories—used by soldiers to frighten green recruits or explain vanished enemies. But generals, magistrates, and kings know better.

The Rimors are real. And if they are spoken of in hushed tones, it is only because someone might be listening.

Motto:

“Seen by none. Known by fewer.”