The Beginning of The Exiles

It is the Third Age of Middle-Earth, two thousand years after the defeat of Sauron in the Battle of the Last Alliance and the loss of the one ring. Dark forces work silently in the old and forgotten places of the world and a chill begins to creep into the night air. Gandalf the Grey holds company with Lord Elrond in the highest and most ornate tree home in the Elven outpost of Rivendell. They stand at the edge of an extravagantly carved balcony overlooking the great elven city. “I am sorry Mithrandir but I have lost faith in the race of men, Isildur betrayed us to our doom at the hands of the Dark Lord when he returns. The strength of men has failed when our people needed it most.” Gandalf takes a pull from a long white pipe, closing his eyes momentarily he slowly begins to exhale the smoke sending the thin tendrils dancing into the night. “These lands require more protection than any one race can provide or sustain my friend. Yet they still need protecting as surely as the dawn will break on this fine city.” Elrond nods his head and inhales deeply the fresh pine aroma of the elven city. “What do you wish of me Mithrandir? Our people covet peace and I would not order them to arms without just cause.” Gandalf walks slowly to the edge of the balcony and surveys the deep darkness of the valley of Rivendell below the city; wondering to himself what evil might lurk there. “Inform Lord Glorfindel that any elf among you that prefers the thrill of adventure and the cold of night under an open sky to the confines of peaceful city life should seek me out in the city of Bree. The lords of men and dwarves are doing the same Lord Elrond. With these men, these exiles, we will protect Middle-Earth."