On a little-traveled dirt road in the forests of Beriland, a lone rider, cloaked and hooded in a long, black garment, charged onward down the winding path. The man emanated a dark power that one could feel, practically taste, just from gazing upon him.
Despite this fact, a band of thieves, fifteen strong, lined the tree-covered sides of the road ahead of the rider. All the men bore long broadswords, and a few toted longbows as well. They had been hired by an unnamed warlord to bring down a 'scout of our enemies' that they had been told would be traveling by them sometime that day. In such chaotic times, however, one never knew who the 'enemies' were, nor did one know if they were attacking the correct target.
As the rider raced through the center of the well-spaced group, a shrill whistle sounded, prompting their attack. Even before the first blow had been struck, it was evident that this was not just any scout.
The man launched himself from his massive black steed, executing a back flip and landing solidly on the ground, his hands, hidden beneath forest-green dragonskin gloves, held slightly below his chest. The ambush halted for a moment, unsure of what to do next, looking to their commander for orders. The mercenary leader responded by uttering a guttural cry and surging forward, sword raised in an aggressive pose.
Beneath the black hood, the rider grinned maliciously, then thrust one of his gloved hands outward at his assailant, releasing a ball of black flame into the man's chest. Before the others could react, the mage threw both his hands toward the ground, unleashing a shockwave that obliterated the four bandits closest to him.
The panicked survivors began to scramble back into the trees, but with grim deliberation, they fell one by one to bolts of dark energy hurled by their intended victim.
In an instant, it was over. The ghostly silence that followed was broken by one sound; the low, mocking laughter of the rider.
Slowly the man drew back his hood, revealing a purple-tinted, youthful face void of any hair. His bald head was covered in tattoos of black flames that spiraled downward, presumably all the way down the rider's spine. The piercing red eyes shimmered with twisted glee as he haughtily cracked his knuckles.
The man was a Drow, a dark elf, one who had refused the Valar's invitation to Valinor a thousand years ago; an elf fallen into shadow. The Drow strode confidently to the side of the dead mercenary leader's body. His eyes scanned the charred chest with satisfaction, and then with a grunt, the dark elf spat onto the smoldering corpse, which he spoke to in a smooth baritone.
"That shall teach thee to challenge the might of Maneva Mornië, thou scum; none face the might of Udun and survive."
Maneva Mornië, personal apprentice to Sauron himself, slowly drew his black hood over his bald head, strode collectedly to the side of his enormous mount, and with a final, mocking nod, galloped cavalierly from the carnage.