Rangers of the North (Aragorn)

Chapter One: The Prancing Pony

Averael glanced around the dark tavern and pulled the hood of her ranger's cloak down further over her mahogany braids. She sat concealed in a corner, watching. She didn't like cities, towns, or big crowds of noisy people. Averael preferred the quiet, mysterious forests and wilds. It wasn't every day rangers were seen in the big cities, and when they were, lots of people stared or gave looks, so she did what she was best at and stayed hidden. 

She was here on ranger's business. Averael was a Ranger from the North. Her ancestors had lived in the ancient realm of Arnor in the west, which had long since been destroyed. The evil Witch-King of Angmar had destroyed the last Dunedain city, Arthedain, many years before. She was journeying to the Kingdom of Gondor, miles away, where other rangers had made their abode.

Once again, Averael scanned the lowly bar. Drunken men laughed and cheered, and the bartender, whom she knew very well, hustled around busily. He passed her, and quietly asked her a question. "Anythin' to drink, Averael?"

"Thank you, but not today, Barliman." She replied. He nodded, and swiftly made his way to the next waiting table. For the third time, she looked around. Something- or rather, someone- had caught her attention. Another figure, much like her, sitting in the opposite corner, smoking a long pipe. They made her uneasy. Whoever they were, they were watching her. 

The door to the tavern opened. She couldn't see who had walked in, except for the tops of their four wet hoods. She knew men were not this short. These had to be dwarves or hobbits. But what were they doing here, in Bree? They had also caught the eye of the cloaked stranger seated in the corner, who leaned forward a fraction of an inch. Barliman leaned over the counter, which was much too tall for the guests on the other side.

"Good evening, little masters!" Barliman greeted them. "If you're looking for accommodation we've got some nice, cozy, hobbit- sized rooms available Mr. uh-"

"Underhill, my name's Underhill." The hobbit on the other side informed him. "We're friends of Gandalf the Grey; can you tell him we've arrived?" Underhill asked. Averael listened more. She, too, was a friend of the wizard, though they hadn't spoken in a long time.

Butterbur pursed his lips. "Not seen him for six months."

The hobbits turned to each other. Averael heard one say, "What do we do now?" Barliman smiled and led them to a table. The air was smoky and a few men glanced suspiciously at the hobbits. Butterbur seated them quite close to where Averael was sitting, giving her a good view of the hobbits.

The one called Underhill had dark curly hair, a green button-up vest, and a wet cloak. Averael noted that he looked scared and uneasy. The one sitting next to him had lighter hair, also curly, and was fatter than the others. The remaining two almost looked like brothers, though one had slightly lighter hair than the other, and looked stouter. They all wore dark green, wet cloaks like Underhill's.

Suddenly she was aware of someone sitting down at her table. She pushed aside her cloak a few centimeters by instinct, making sure her sword would be easily accessible should she need it.

"Haven't seen you 'round these parts before." The cloaked stranger she had spotted before blew out a breath of smoke from his pipe, sitting down and looking at her.

"I tend to avoid cities." she said, eyeing him. He had on a dark cloak with the hood up, covering his facial features. Every now and then the embers from his pipe would illuminate his face momentarily, giving him a mysterious look. "Who are you?"

"Here in Bree I'm known as Strider." he answered simply. She frowned. It wasn't a common name. She wondered why he didn't give his real one. "Where are you from?" Strider asked.