[Gwathagor]

The door to the Golden Perch swung open with a bang. A tall, dark elf staggered through the door, stooping low to avoid the low lintel.

"Ale! Quick!", he said, as he stumbled into a chair which was a bit too small for him.

He had regained consciousness only moments before, as the first rays of dawn had crept over the mountains. His battle with the wolf-fiend the night before had left him weak. Indeed, he could not even pull his sword from where he had found it, embedded hilt deep in the ground beside him. Exhausted, he had just enough strength to make his way as quickly as he could down the hill to the inn.

There was something very dark working in the East Farthing.

The warrior elf had followed the trail of the wolves from far in the northern wastelands, traveling with all speed he could muster. And all along the way, he had been hindered by nearly every monster native to those lands, and some that were not. He was returning from a fruitless journey to find the nomadic Lossoth people, whence had come rumors of extraordinary numbers of marauding wolves, when he had come upon the south-bound wolf-trail. These were not ordinary wolves. These were draugring, relatives of the fierce wargs. They dwelt in the north, seldom passing the southern borders of ancient Angmar, and of old their king had been Tugaurath, a maia spirit.

While tracking the wolves, he had guessed that the forces of darkness were being gathered by some evil spirit because of the resistance to his approach. Now his worst fears were confirmed. Surely Tugaurath, the last of the great werewolves had come forth once more at the behest of the Power of the East. All across Middle-earth, monsters and dark creatures were crawling forth from their exiles in deep caverns or distant lands, perceiving that Sauron's power waxed strong.

He leaned heavily upon the thick table-top as a hobbit brought him a beaker of ale. He drained it in a single, long gulp, set it down hard upon the table. Immediately, he felt his strength and clarity of mind returning. The tall elf with the bloodstained cloak looked upon the obliging hobbit who had supplied the ale.

"Blessed hobbit, I am in your debt", he sighed and paused a moment before continuing. "In all Middle-earth, there is nothing quite like the ale brewed by the Shire-folk. Would that I had come on any other errand than that which now drives me; perhaps when this terrible day is done, I will sit and enjoy your ale at my leisure and to my heart's content. But now there is need of haste: your land is in grave danger. Tell me, as quickly as you can, all that you know about the wolves..."