Chapter Text
It’s a devil of a thing to try and keep the dust out of one’s tobacco pouch.
Along the edge of a young wood, looking out over the rolling grassy hills, sat an elderly man sifting through his pouch of pipe weed.
Elderly man, at least, as that’s what he appeared to be.
Old Tobey was his leaf of choice, as it often settled his nerves and quieted the persistent drumming of thoughts about the ongoings of the world. His back leaned against an long-felled tree as he stretched his legs. His back ached, but it was a welcome reprieve from his horse.
He was a wanderer of sorts and had been traveling all around the region, chasing whispers of someone he sought to meet.
With his long silver beard and hair cascading a little past his shoulders, one would assume he was fairly harmless. He wore a loose knit robe, a dusty stone-grey color with a matching pointed hat, with little more effects to his person than a tall walking stick and simple sword strapped to his side.
Yes indeed, an old man surely. A vagabond to all who gazed upon him. Except for those who knew him personally or got close enough to see the youthful twinkle in his eye, none would suppose he was indeed old enough to recall when even the most aged of thickets in this part of the world were younger than the smallest saplings that swayed in the breeze by his side.
He pulled his robe closer to his frame as the wind kicked up. These early spring days still held a bite to the air.
Crisp mornings welcomed earlier sunrises, the soft light glittering over frosted dew riming the ground.
He snapped his fingers together over the bowl of his clay pipe, emitting a spark from his fingertips. His cheeks puffed in and out. He drew in a long breath, held it, and released the smoke into the air. A billowing ring floating along over the scenic evening.
He did not use magic too often, as he technically was only to do so if the need was dire. Such were the commands of the Valar, the gods who sent him to this land known as Middle Earth.
His mission was to sway the hearts of the mortals and the other majority races to turn from the seduction of power and the evils that stemmed from it.
An Ishtar he was, labeled a wizard by the common man.
His name was Gandalf, Gandalf the Grey. And Gandalf meant . . . him.
As the sun lowered on the horizon, he pulled his saddle from his horse, allowing it to graze while he unpacked something to eat. The wizard had already started a small fire and chewed some of the bread and berries he had been saving. It was getting late, the sun almost gone over the horizon. A flutter of wings could be heard above him in the trees as a buzzard settled in for the night.
When all was dark and quiet, with only the crackling of the fire to be heard, the wizard felt the presence of eyes upon him.
“You are more than welcome to join me, if you wish,” he declared as his eyes swept to the thick black tree line to his right. “I know you have been following me for some time. In truth, I was hoping to speak to you before now.”
Silently a figure stepped out from the trees towards the light of the fire, crouching on the other side of the flames. Their movements were so quiet, had Gandalf not seen them, he would not have known they moved closer.
They wore a mask, and at this distance he could not tell if it was carved from bleached wood or from bone. It resembled that of a bird. A slight tapering towards the bottom of the mask gave an appearance of a beak.
A band of black was painted across the eyes. Eyes that shone though the holes, two small glowing orbs peering at him over the flames, similar to the reflection of a cat’s eyes in the flickering light.
“I have heard much of you in the lands further south from here, in my travels between Dunland and Lond Daer. Only recently had I heard a rumor of your presence in the Lone Lands.”
The figure did not respond, but was looking at the wizard up and down, taking in every detail as he spoke.
Gandalf continued, “I was hoping to recruit someone of your skill and… discretion. It would be honest work, to a point. And should the venture be successful, the worldly benefits could be far reaching.”
The wizard paused, clearing his throat, “Not to mention it would pay handso--.”
“I care not for payment,” the figure interjected, barely more than a whisper, “I’m honored by yer proposal, whatever this venture may be.”
Relieved at the break of their silence, Gandalf smiled.
They spoke slowly, carrying an accent much like the peoples further to the east along the Iron Hills.
“I’ve heard of you as well. The Ishtar sent from the heavens… riding on a falling star… I’d not hoped for the chance to actually meet one,” they bowed their cloaked head low.
Gandalf squinted at his fireside guest. This comment of reverence intrigued him. It was rare that anyone truly knew of the origins of he and his order, aside from Elven nobility and a few learned dwarves and men.
Most who knew any mention of wizards held the belief that they were meddlers. Riffraff who would sell you minor potions and tell one of their fortunes for an exaggerated fee.
“Didn’t know what ye were ‘til the other day,” the figure went on, at a more comfortable volume for Gandalf’s ears, “T’was glad to see ye hold yer own, or I’d’ve interceded… come to yer aid.”
Gandalf smiled to himself at the thought of this person coming to the rescue of a wizard.
Several days ago, Gandalf had the misfortune to meet a pair of unsavory gentlemen who mistook him for a vagabond.
He had heard the approach of their horses long before he saw them along the path.
The two men had a very rough and dangerous look to them as they strode up to either side of him as leisurely trotted along. They threatened to take his horse, or his life. The choice would be his.
Gandalf, in all his charm, attempted to dissuade them from such pursuits, as they would find it regrettable.
Unfortunately for them, they were stubborn.
He quickly dispatched one with the use of his magic staff, knocking the man off his horse, head fatally cracking against the stony road. The other he swiftly took care of with his sword.
Upon their person he found a thin piece of vellum with writing upon it. He shuddered, daring not think as to what flesh this note had been derived from.
The writing itself was that of Black Speech, the language of evil, used by the likes of Sauron from long ago. Those who used it today were the orcs, who could be found roaming the eastern lands, and mortal men who served them.
It was a bounty note, for someone Gandalf knew. In truth, it was the person he was hurrying to find. He had to locate them before their pursuant did. The fate of the world may depend upon it.
In the quiet that followed the death of the men, he felt the presence of another. After waiting awhile, he did not feel as though they held any ill intent towards him.
He continued with his journey, observing the feeling of being perceived until the person wished to make themselves known.
Gandalf now pulled the same leathery note from his robes and held it up in the light of the fire. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
The other nodded, “I’ve seen ‘em on the mercs and raiders.” This concerned the wizard greatly. Another variable to mull over.
The wizard then inquired, “Do you know what this says? Who the target is?”
The figure nodded again and explained that they had heard the name before and wondered why he asked.
“Because of the job I have in mind for you,” Gandalf grinned, “I need you to find him for me.”