A/N: Okay, so I've done rpgs for like 5 years now, the majority of them being equine themed on regular websites, though lately I've gotten into the "Games" board of a forum... And I was inspired for this by a LOTR rpg there that I was a part of. I changed a lot,
because I love being on the computer and had way too much time while waiting for replies to sit and think of different plot lines and stuff...

This takes place pre-war of the ring. Arwen is recently returned from Lothlorien, and knows Aragorn only by reference- there's never been any cries of "Tinuviel" in my version :)

I don't really know ultimately where I'll go with it. My inspiration piece is damn long, that's fo sho. I can tell you however, this isn't slash, and I'm going to try my hardest not to be mary-sue- I completely intend to totally butcher a well known relationship.
Somehow...

PLEASE REVIEW. Even if it is just to say what a wonderfully talented writer I am, and how much you love how I developed my extensive plot and went about having non MS characters... well, you get the point... I live for reviews. I'm a review whore. Fanfiction gets a heck of a lot more reviews than fictionpress. I got like 50 on my crappy not finished Artemis Fowl fic, and got like 7 on my 10 chapter elaborate tale of darkness on the "A" circuit... wow I love to ramble. Oh, go visit my fictionpress account. Same penname as here. More stories.

And I think it's blatantly obvious I'm not Tolkein since this isn't published and I'm not a millionaire. Let me know if it's not, while you're reviewing, of course!

The light, misty rain barely made a sound as it hit the roof of the Prancing Pony Inn. The moonlight had a strange effect on it, and the candlelight inside would make one as well- were there any.

No, the inn was rather dark. Surely there were still a good deal of drunk men at the barn, mumbling and shouting occasionally, and some pairs conversing at private tables. The atmosphere was dank,
foreboding, criminal.

The occupants of the inn varied from night to night, but more often than not, one table was specifically reserved for a tall, dark figure.
Tonight was no different.

'Strider' he was called among the townspeople, though the more educated peoples of Middle Earth would know him by another name. The lurkers at the bar avoided him, whispered about him when he entered,
and invented far fetched stories about his occupation. He was a farmer, a messenger, a hunter, a murderer.

No one knew the truth. No one wanted to know. Why would they, when everyone apparently knew everything about him and was so eager to share their half-baked tales? Ask anyone in the bar. They would tell you everything. No one realized the man was very aware of what was being said.

He didn't mind it. Strider preferred the dark alias. To him, it was more appealing than his true identity.

And so the night was 'normal.' All the regulars at the bar, drinking away the troubles they had, or just drinking. Strider was at his seat, and was quietly ignored. It wasn't hard. Nothing about him stood out, from his dark, muddied clothes to the cloaked, weathered face. Often he had a pipe, and rarely could any expression of emotion could be discerned on his visage. Tonight would not be normal in that particular department.

Every occupant of the bar on this dreary evening had been thoroughly looked over and considered. Some Strider knew by sight; others, he knew by the same type of malicious rumours that had been spread concerning them. No threats, though. Strider sat back.

The inn door opened slowly, and four figures stepped in, their garmets lightly wetted with rain. All were cloaked, but their pale skin was rather radiant beneath the covers. The first went to the inkeep's desk, who in turn showed the newcomers to the stairs.

Strider leaned foward slightly.

Each of the four had let their hoods down, though the last one, female, had done so reluctantly, and rightly so. Immediately some of the talk quieted as they passed on their way towards the steps. A few made bold remarks, ones that would have shamed them were they sober. Maybe.

For the first time in a while, surprise registered on Strider's facade. He knew them, to be certain. Curiosity surged throughout him, perhaps on a wave of testosterone that was in the bar. He didn't stand, but instead sat back, picking up his pipe and letting out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

After all, elves did not venture freely in a land like Bree. Especially not the master of Imladris and his children... why tonight?