Disclaimer: I do not own Middle-Earth, nor its people, sadly. I only own my OC's.

A/N: I'm not sure when I will update, or if I even will do so. This is more or less a preview of a story I might write. Tell me what you think anyways. Encouragements have always kept me writing. Hannon lee, dear readers!

Prologue

It was in the four hundredth and ninety-fifth year of the Sun that found a young she-elf riding hard and fast one night into a small village of Men, the hood of her cloak pulled low over her face, and her Elven bow tucked beneath her cloak. She wore a hidden coat of Mithril under her fine tunic, and the legs of her leggings were tucked into the knee high Elven made boots.

She pulled her horse to a stop outside of the only small tavern and slung her leg over the side of the saddle, landing gracefully on the hard packed earth. The sound of raucous laughter could be heard from outside, and a dim light shown through the grimy windows of the shabby wooden structure. The woman patted her horse's side and whispered something foreign in its ear. To anyone nearby it seemed that the horse nodded its head in understanding, and those that did see this shook their heads in wonder. The Men in this village had had little dealings with the Elves, or their horses for that matter.

The young woman made her way into the tavern swiftly, her strides long-legged and purposeful. Everyone was too deep in their drinks though to notice her entrance and she made her way to the front of the room where the barkeep stood behind the counter, his back turned, polishing filthy glasses.

"Excuse me, sir?" She asked in the Common Tongue. "Do you know where I could find a Gilglin?"

The barkeep spun to stare at her and a hush suddenly fell over the crowd of drunken men. After a moment of stunned silence he asked, "How do you know him?"

The woman flipped her hood off, revealing her Elven ears and figure. "I need to speak with him. Where is he?"

The barkeep squinted his eyes at her. "You're more of his trouble-making kind, aren't you?" He spat on the counter in disgust. He hated Elves. Then again, he hated pretty much anything that breathed or took up space. Except ale. The barkeep believed it was the only thing useful in life.

The woman stood stock-still, her face impassive. "I mean no trouble with your people unless you plan to give me trouble."

The barkeep studied her a moment longer. "You'll find him where all criminals of his kind are. In the prison."

"Take me to him."

A man stood suddenly on shaking legs from one of the tables. "I'm the here sheriff! Sheriff here." He corrected, his words slurring.

"Then I wish to see him. Now."

The sheriff shook his head. "Ain't he receiving no visitors. He ain't."

No one saw her move but all of sudden the sheriff had a blade to his neck. A few of the men jumped, but none of them went to his aid. They didn't much like the sheriff anyhow. He was always arresting people for no reason at all, and most of the crimes he himself had been guilty of at one time or another. "Take me to him." She repeated calmly.

The sheriff nodded as best he could with the blade digging into his neck. He gulped. "Yes, ma'am." He laughed nervously. "Right this way, my lady."

The prison turned out to merely be a cellar behind the sheriff's house. While the sheriff was busy prying up the door, the woman waited patiently, her hand never leaving the hilt of her now sheathed sword.

Finally the door was pried up with a grunt and the sheriff stepped back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The woman stepped forward slightly. She looked down into the dark space and smiled grimly at the squinting, filthy figure below.

"Hello brother."