Prologue:

Sauron had fallen. The Ring had been destroyed and with it, the dark lord's reign of terror. Aragorn became king go Gondor, and his reign became one of peace and prosperity. The Hobbits returned to the Shire, and pleasantly enjoyed fine foods and a heart welcome. The Fellowship's work had been done, the Ring had been taken to Mount Doom, and eviscerated in the very fires it was forged in however, and traces of these dark times still haunted the realm.
Despite the countless battles that Middle-Earth faced against the relentless Uruk-Hai, their numbers had always been overwhelming, and although the huge victories such as the battles for Helmsdeep, Minas Tirith and the storming of the black gate of Mordor had been won, the Uruk still held strong. The Uruk-Hai were a fierce-some foe for the strongest of warriors. A particularly strong breed of Orc, these creatures were black-skinned, with slanted eyes, and were bred repeatedly by the corrupt white wizard, Saruman. Tall, stocky and with a never-ending blood-lust, these monsters revel in blood, all to serve their master, Sauron. Their tactics often involve overwhelming and outnumbering their targets, and practically always travel in numbers.
All people of the realm soon learned that the Uruk-Hai were no legend. News often came of burned villages and campers slaughtered on the roads, white hand prints marking the dead. Horses were found stolen or eaten, and women travelling alone could never do so without a readied blade, for fear of being snatched and 'enslaved' in the night. Before the elves moved on from the realm, Rivendell became a sanctuary for wanderers and refugees seeking to protect themselves from the Orcs. One such wanderer, was Naruthirdir the Black.

Chapter 1: A Long Night

Naruthirdir was a wizard, and a weak one at that, but despite his lack of power, he was still very influential within the world of magic. Over the course of a few years, he became well known for a very strange ability; he does not require a staff, or any wizard's instrument, to channel his magic, he need not utter a word, but merely think of what he wishes to conjure or summon.
His name is Elvish for 'Red Face', a name Naruthirdir acquired whilst first riding for Rivendell. He had stopped to rest when an Orc pack descended upon him. Wargs circled the young wizard, snarling like their riders. The leader slowly strolled towards him, arms outstretched and shouting, as if putting on a show for his fellow Orcs. The huntsman's yellow eyes gleamed in the pale moonlight. His eyes were small, and the skin surrounding them was scarred. Luckily for the wizard, the captain was fat and slow. The wizard adjusted his hood, and pushed back one side of his cloak over his arm. The revealed arm trailed down towards a leather belt as the Orcs edged ever closer. The leader suddenly ceased his show, and inspected the wizard from afar.
Suddenly, the Orc drew his axe, and charged at the traveller. The wiry wizard swept aside, the dark cloak wispily trailing behind him. The hand that had rested at his belt, darted towards the covered hip, drawing a short, glinting sword. Illuminated by the moonlight, the two creatures of the night fought tirelessly, dodging, slashing and stabbing at each other. The Orc stood back to bring down his axe on the wizard's skull, but he was too slow. A sharp pain emanated from the hunter's knee. He looked down to find the wizard's sword buried deep in the joint, a black river of blood flowed down the fuller of the blade. Yellows eyes stared blankly at the traveller as he withdrew his sword. Seamlessly, the wizard span and cut the head from the leader.
Surprised, the pack stood slack-jawed for a moment, before pouncing upon the killer. The Warg-riders led the charge, but it was no trouble for the traveller to duck and weave beneath the pouncing beasts, flawlessly slaying Orcs at the same time. Soon, only the Warg-riders remained. The beasts' fur was matted with black blood, their fangs were chipped and bloody. The first leapt at the wizard, and in one smooth manoeuvre, he took the head of both the Warg and the rider. The second soon followed confidently, but stumbled over the corpse of its fellow beast. With a crack, the Warg fell, crushing its rider beneath it. Steadily, the Warg rose, growling and muddy. It reared itself, then pounced upon the wizard. Its paws crashed into the fighter's shoulders, pinning him to the ground. His sword clattered to the ground. Whilst the Warg bore its fangs, the wizard, focusing on his blade, pulled it towards him with a sheer force of will. The Warg's head plunged down as the bloodied blade returned to its master, slitting the throat of the beast as it flew past.
The Warg's lifeless body slumped on top of the traveller, its blood dribbling from the gash and dripping onto the victor's face.
Carefully shoving the Warg carcass off his body, the wizard got to his feet. As he packed up his camp, his adrenaline slowly faded and the stench of blood and Orcs flooded the forest. Trying as hard as he can not to gag, he put out his fire, pulled his cloak up over him and mounted his horse. Desperately wanting to get away from all the bodies, the brown blur of a horse galloped away from the scene, making a mad dash for Rivendell.

After hours of riding, the elven town of Rivendell finally fell into you view. Beautiful sand-coloured spires and watchtowers sprouted from the wall, piercing the sky. Both the horse and the rider let out a sigh of relief as the smell and gore of the forest was finally behind them. As he approached the gate, the smell of elven herbs and perfumes became almost overpowering.
Two elves stood in full battle dress at either side of the gate. Their faces were frozen, except for watchful eyes scanning the wizard as he rode into view. One of them shifted his pike into a more cautious position and moved towards the wizard. The guard readied his pike as he saw the bloodied face of the wizard. The Warg's blood had dried up, and the wizard did not manage to come by water. Calmly, the guard knocked away the rider's cloak with the blunt end of his pike, revealing the short-sword coated in Orc blood.
The guard scowled, "Come with me!"
The shadowy wizard dismounted his horse and followed the elf as his partner led it to the stables.
Rivendell was all too familiar to the wizard, he needn't be led through like this, he knows his way; after all, he was raised here. The smell of bread and flowers almost distracted the wizard from the pike-wielding elf and, more importantly, where he was going. After winding through the sweet smelling streets he final arrived at the government buildings; a riverside temple that overlooks the cliff sides.
"Wait here!" the pike-elf ordered as he stormed off. Soon, the dark hair and crown of Elrond faded into view, his elf eyes looking down the wizard. The pike-elf returned and removed the wizard's sword from its sheath, keeping hold of it for safety.
"Who are you?" Elrond enquired, glaring deeply at the traveller at all times.
The cloaked wizard stood silent for a moment, then finally removed his hood. Dark red locks fell down over his eyes, and piercing blue eyes shone from underneath.
"I might ask the same of you." The young red-head answered. "I do not just give away my name, it is unimportant. I do not want a reputation, for the sake of not disappointing those who would think I am more capable than I am!"
Elrond stared blankly at the strange character before him, like many other wizards, this one loved to act clever, "Fine then. Then allow me to ask whose blood that is?"
"Not one of yours, don't worry!" The wizard chuckled, "No, it was an Orc pack half a day's ride away, nothing to worry about."
"Orcs are always something to worry about, a wizard like you should know that," Elrond turned to look out over the river, "they're getting worse, they're reorganising."
"Of course they are, they thrive in warfare, they can't live without it!"
"Then we all must band together to meet them in battle. What should I call you then, dark wizard, if you won't give your true name?"
The wizard joined Elrond at the riverside and looked out at the horizon. Catching his reflection in the sparkling water, he saw the Warg blood spread like war paint across his face. Pondering his alias, Red-Face seemed not too bad.
"Naruthirdir, at your service"
Elrond took the sword from the guard and handed it back to its owner, "My service? Good, I think we shall need it."