It was a dark and mysterious night in the thick forests of Sarmatia. Amongst the silence that was in the blackness, a lone rider, clad in white robes, returned to the forgotten realm of Sarmatia. Seated upon a white horse, the rider rode through the forest, weaving in and out of the trees till he reached the other side. As if leaping from the ground to the sun, the rider saw in the distance the bright light of Arnor, the great capital of Sarmatia.
"Here dwells, Andúril, Lord of Arnor and the Chieftain of the Dúnedain Rangers," the rider said softly. Pressing his horse's side with his heels, the white rider continued on to the gate.
"Who goes there?" a guard asked when the rider reached the gate. "Show your face!" he called, raising a lantern.
The rider smiled and removed his hood. Hair as white as snow fell upon the rider's shoulders and his sky blue eyes glowed in the light. "I've come to these lands far too many times for a guard not to know me," the white rider said.
The guard stopped moving. "It can't be. They said that you were dead," the guard said frantically.
"Then shine your light upon my face and see for yourself," the white rider said.
Slowly lifting his arm, the guard's lantern illuminated the rider's face, revealing an old, but smooth face full of warmth and kindness. "It cannot be," he said slowly. "Mithrandir, the lords have said that you fell."
"I fell, yes, but now I am back."