Olórin

Prologue

He had been concerned about the state of the North for sometime. The North had grown weak. The dragon Smaug had desolated the Kingdoms of Erebor and Dale, in turn weakening Esgaroth, leaving it to fall into greedy hands. Arnor was without a King and the Dunedain rangers had been dwindling in numbers for hundreds of years. The Elves of Mirkwood hadn't been seen by outsiders since the Coming of Smaug and there were rumours of a darkness spreading through their forest. Only Rivendall, Lothlórien and maybe the dwarves of the Iron Hills had the power, the might, the resources to face the threat he had long see hanging over the horizon.

The Lonely Mountain, and the dragon that slept there, in particular had been on his mind of late.

So it seemed fortuitous when he looked across the smoke filled room of the Prancing Pony to see Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, exile King of the Lonely Mountain, walking towards him. The last time he had glanced upon him he had been little more than a boy, for all that he had had the shadow of grief and war hanging thick around him. Now there stood an adult beginning to grey at the temples, well beyond the mid-point of his life yet still as strong and hardy as he had been at his peak.

Just who he had been searching for.

"Master Gandalf, I know you only by sight, but now I should be glad to speak with you. For you have often come into my thoughts of late, as if I were bidden to seek you. Indeed I should have done so, if I had known where to find you." The dwarf rumbled at him, his voice barely audible over the hub-bub of the tavern.

Olórin could only look on with shock for the second it took to right himself. Life, he had found, was not nearly so fortunate without due and terrible cause.

"That is strange, Thorin Oakenshield," he replied. "For I have thought of you also; and though I am on my way to The Shire, it was in my mind that is the way also to your halls."

The Dwarf snorted derisively.

"Call them so, if you will," said Thorin. "They are only poor lodgings in exile. But you would be welcome there, if you would come. For they say that you are wise and know more than any other of what goes on in the world; and I have much on my mind and would be glad of your counsel."

Fortuitous indeed.

"I will come," said Gandalf; "for I guess that we share one trouble at least. The Dragon of Erebor is on my mind, and I do not think that he will be forgotten by the grandson of Thrór."

They talked little after that but while the Exile King had seemed set on summoning an army if he could, one that could only draw unfriendly eyes upon the mountain, the meeting had gone much better than he had thought it would. Dwarrow were a stubborn lot and their minds were rarely swayed from any set path. But it seemed, this one time, this one Dwarf's mind might be changed indeed.

So Olórin walked back out into the storm, wet once more but with a lighter heart than he had had in some time. Things were moving along and he thought that to be a good sign. Or maybe he hoped it was. Hope was important after all, no matter how great or small.

Soon he would make his way to Thorin's Halls as he had said he would, but first there were others he had to see and luckily they were on the way. Shortly he would find himself in the rolling green hills of the Shire, surrounded by warmth and good cheer. But before that he would be dropping in on another peoples.

One foreign to Arda. One whose origins were that of another world

Fore, almost twenty years previously, he had been wandering not far from Weathertop when he felt a disturbance in the air. The unfamiliar buzzing sensations only increased as he drew closer, going right down to his very bones as he climbed the hill to its peak.

It had been storming then as it was now, but worse, the winds ripping at his cloak and hat, the very air around him growing electrified, the rain coming so heavily he could barely see two steps in front of him. With great strength he had pulled himself over the last ridge of peer up at the ruins of the watchtower-come-fortress. Two bolts of lightening came down from the clouds, seemingly striking only each other in mid-air, momentarily blinding him.

A great crashing rumble rolled deafeningly loud from in front of him as the very air seemed to be rent apart before his very eyes, a rip appearing a foot off of the ground, the purest of white lights poring from it. He could only watch, one hand partially shielding his eyes, as it grew bigger and bigger, until it reached thirty foot wide and half of that again tall.

The wind was screeching around him and the deafen rumble had not decrease in the slightest, it had done just the opposite and Olórin thought that all of Arda must have been able to hear the dreadful chaos. He pondered if a retreat might be necessary when something changed.

A figure began to appear, only a thin silhouette at first, but it was as if the figure was walking towards him from a great distance. The shape got thicker and more defined. For a moment he feared it was Sauron or worse Morgoth breaking his way back through. But no, he felt no malevolence, no impinging darkness like he surely would.

Then another silhouette joined the first, then another and another. The people grew closer as others joined them, slowly blocking more of the divine light and making it easier for Olórin to pick out details as they came into view.

The first figure had a sword in hand and armour sharpening the edges of his shoulders and arms. He might have found that alarming if not for the way the figure's body language was so obviously shielding the figure behind him. Others were just as armed, moving behind them as though expecting an attack at any moment.

The silhouette met the edge that split that place from the rest of Arda and, as if he was moving through water, he stepped though, revealing first a booted foot and the point of his sword. Greaves were strapped to his legs, with matching vambraces on his arms and pauldron at his shoulders, decorated with sharp spikes that were sure to do much damage if slammed into an enemy. A hauberk that fell to the tops of his thighs protected his torso and was worn over only slightly road-worn clothes.

He was also quite blue, with dark red hair falling down his back in thick, intricate braids, decorated with gold and silver and the occasional precious stone. Six short horns sprang from his head and his eyes, lacking in pupil or iris glowed in the night, cutting through the storm that rained down between them. Eyes that did not leave him, once they had spotted him.

The man, fore Olórin did not know what else to call him even if he was clearly not a Man, stood froze, one foot in front of the other, knees bent, sword hand holding the blade across his body. A battle stance if ever he saw one. In response the Istar did nothing, only leant a bit more on his staff, letting the rain fall from the brim of his hat and waited. He did not want to fight this being if he did not have to, especially for no reason.

He continued to be watched warily, like a cat who wasn't sure if it was prey or hunter, until a second figure stepped out from the rip. This one was clearly female, with mottled green skin and ram-like horns curving, armoured in almost the same way as the male, only lacking a hauberk or other such coverings. As the rain poured down on to her, flattening and sticking her tunic to her torso, the reason became apparent as a small bump became visible and she rested a hand on it in a way he had seen many expecting mother's do.

The male edged closer to her after she was fully through, using one arm to bring her closer to his back, his eyes still not leaving. Seeing him, the woman dropped the large bag she had brought through with her and unsheathed a sword from her belt. She stayed behind the male, her husband possibly, and watched him just as warily.

The others began stepping through. All of them in similar shape, covered in road-dirt, their clothes thin and soon soaked though, their hair long and thick and braided, horns of all shapes a top their heads. Most wore jewellery, some more than others and if he wasn't mistaken they each wore all the pieces they owned, and carried heavy bags in their arms or strapped to their backs and waists. Only some were armoured but all were armed if only with small knives.

Then he noted the smaller shapes, clinging to the adults sides or tucked into their arms. Wherever they had come from they had brought their children. That, he thought, was not a good sign. A sign that these people might be fleeing something, fore why else would a people unroot themselves with their children, some likely still at the breast and all their worldly possessions?

Finally, the air behind them seemed to snap back into place, closing the disturbance as if it had never existed at all, something that reassured him a great deal. This world did not need whatever horrors these people were leaving behind. The storm itself seemed to lessen and with only the rain falling on the stone beneath his feet, the silence ringing in his ears.

Some of the beings had also dropped their bags and drawn their weapons, mostly the males but not exclusively, the others clutched the children tight to them, looking behind them for a likely exit. Still Olórin did nothing but watch as the beings began to decide amongst themselves what to do about him.

Their tongue was unfamiliar to him, him who had travelled all over the West of the World. It had similarities in sound to Khuzdul and maybe the few Haradi dialects he had heard.

Eventually four separated from the others, stepping towards him. One was the first male to step through, leaving his wife after a gesture similar to that of Dwarves but gentler, pressing his forehead against her own, while one hand rested on his unborn child.

Another male came with him, wider set than the first although of a similar height, the sword he carried wide and curved, very different from the First's long pointed sword. Nor did he have it unsheathed, instead he only rested his hand upon the hilt, ready if he had to be but unwilling to draw without cause. Golden bands were woven into his thick mass of braids, falling like most of them down his back and almost reaching his behind and studded leather armour in a deep red colour that matched his skin tone.

The other two were women, one a mauve colour with white hair, antlers like that of a deer and a heavily rounded stomach, the other looking much like the second male. As they drew closer he could make out through the rain that both women seemed quite young and all four of them had tattoos under each of their eyes.

The second male put a gentle hand on the female with the same colouring and it was her who took another step further than the rest.

"Alae." She greeted, crossing her arms over her chest, her fists resting just below her shoulders and gave a bow at the waist.

He made the gesture back, slowly to see if he caused any offence in doing so. It seemed to be a gesture of respect or at least welcome.

"Welcome to Weathertop." He answered in the Common.

It was clear none had any understanding of the tongue and after a few moment of both him and the female who had addressed him exchanging words in languages neither of them understood, trying and failing to find one in common.

Looking beyond them, to the others huddled together, the rain still coming down strong and soaking them all, he huffed. In the end he made a gesture for them to follow him, taking them down the hill a ways where there was shelter and a fire could be started. It took some convincing but slowly, they did follow him and were visibly pleased when they saw where he had led them.

The four adults who had approached him, stayed close, usually placing themselves between him and the rest of their kin. It took a minute to find something dry enough to burn and he was shocked to watch fire jump from one of their hands to the kindling as if by magic, true magic, not black powder or some other trick. He made no comment especially as all the others made no motion of surprise or even awe. This simply was for them.

Once the young, some of them babes, were settled around the fire and the adults began moving to their packs and bags to pull out things, Olórin decided to settle on something simple.

"Gandalf." He said, pointing to his chest.

He had thought the women from before would be the one to attempt to answer him but instead it was the other.

"Gaan-dalf." She repeated pointing at him, then she thumped a fist against her chest. "Danira, Oudiku Figlia Beless."

"Danira." He enunciated, waiting for her to repeat the rest again but instead she held both fists in front of her and bobbed them.

He tilted his head as he watched the motion trying to divine the meaning. His incomprehension must have been clear on his face as the red skinned female, who had pulled out a piece of charcoal and a journal and began writing when Danira took over speaking, said something to her in their language before making the gesture again, aimed at him, but while also nodding her head pointedly. He understood suddenly that the gesture was the equivalent to a nod something they were both familiar with it seemed.

"Gandalf." He said again, tapping his own chest before pointing at the woman with the book. "You?"

"Ghissa." She spoke softly.

"Ghissa, Oudiku Figlia Xoros." Danira cut in before he could repeat it, gesturing to the red skinned male.

Olórin watched the interaction, deciphering context.

"Xoros?" He asked pointing to the male he was beginning to suspect was Ghissa's father.

Xoros made the same hand gesture and hesitantly giving a sharp nod with it. He mimed back and forth with the three adults, interrupted on occasion by the others pulling away their attention, clearly asking their opinions and thoughts. He learnt quite a few of their names and some of their story.

They called themselves Tiefling and they were from a place far, far away possibly another world. They seemed peaceful enough and were definitely running away from bad people. There were thirteen adults, two of them with child and thirteen children ranging from twelve to a few months old. Danira, who was definitely a leader of some kind, already had two daughters and a young sister who was in her care, and Ghissa a son, whom her husband, a male who might have been Danira's brother, barely put down.

They needed a safe place to stay, to build their lives anew.

So Olórin had led them west to the edges of the Shire, the safest place in all of Arda and showed them the Old Forest. He stayed there for almost a year, helping them build a place to live and learn the language of the surrounding towns, something Ghissa excelled at.

He was heading there now, along a foot path that was rarely used and well disguised. Much had changed in the last twenty years. Thyza and Koresh, the two babies who had made the journey still within their mother's wombs were fully grown now and beginning families of their own. In fact, it was getting rather crowded in recent years and he knew they would have to come out of hiding soon.

Maybe this would be a perfect opportunity. The dwarves wanted their homeland back, the Tieflings needed more land. Surely bringing to two together would work out just fine.

Yes, yes. That sounded like a perfect plan.

888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

Warning and disclaimer

Obviously I don't own either of these franchises.

Also warning, this is a story for mature viewership. I'm not going to get gruesomely graphic but one of the main characters is an ex-sex slave. Make of that what you will.

My Tiefling are also not completely cannon. Be warned.