Rain poured down on the cloaked stranger who strode down the main street of Archet. He pulled his grey hood further over his head, silently enduring the foul weather.

The man navigated the muddy street with caution, avoiding the large puddles of mud that had formed because of the rain. Several villagers watched him suspiciously as he passed... They weren't fond of foreigners in these parts. The intricately designed sword at his side and the longbow strapped to his back didn't lend themselves to a favorable opinion from the townspeople, but instead only drew more suspicion.

Archet was a small village to the north of Bree, and was usually overlooked by travelers. Most would rather just travel down the road to the Prancing Pony in Bree.

However, for reasons unknown this man had decided to come here, and he trudged along until he came upon a tall, dark building. A weathered sign hung from the door which read "The Halfling's Wayrest". The place appeared dilapidated, as though the owner didn't care what it looked like. In truth, he probably didn't: it was the only inn in the small town.

The stranger, soaking wet and cold, entered and took in his surroundings, sea grey eyes scanning the room from under his dark hood.

The place was mostly occupied by halflings, as the name suggested, although several Men also lounged around the bar. The men of Bree-land were short and stocky, and the tall, lanky stranger drew all eyes in the room to him in surprise.

They began to murmur among themselves, snatches of their conversations reaching the stranger's ears.

   "One of those vagabonds, Rangers they call em."

   "Short of word and quick of blade they are. Hooded and cloaked like ghosts, but with the eyes of an eagle and the senses of a wolf. They ain't natural."

A short, barrel chested man quickly waddled around from the other side of the bar and approached him with a warm smile, his cheeks as red as apples.

"How may I 'elp you tonight sur? I've got sev'rul cozy rooms jus' waitin' ta be claimed!" The portly man smiled wider.

"I'll take one," the stranger said quietly, his voice deep, yet weary sounding, as of one who had seen too much in his time.

"Yer name sur?" The portly man said enthusiastically.

The stranger seemed to think for a moment, as if he had forgotten his own name. "Raven," he finally said.

The other man's smile faltered slightly at the grim tone in the stranger's voice, but he still seemed amiable. "Aye then Raven, this way sur!" He gestured forward and waddled down a darkly lit hallway. Keys jangled noisily as he pulled a set of them from his belt. He fumbled around until he seemingly found the right one and put it into the keyhole, eliciting a quiet click as the door unlocked.

"If ye need anythin' jus' ring the bell, I'll be in quicker'n a hobbit ta dinner time! Name's Ed!" With that the stout man turned and disappeared down the hallway.

The stranger entered the room, looking behind the door in a paranoid fashion. He proceeded to search every crevice of the room until he was satisfied, then stopped and examined the room itself more carefully.

In one corner was a dilapidated chest of drawers, the dark wood that it was once made of had grown pale and scratched through wear and constant use. A mirror hung from the side wall that looked as if it had never been cleaned, smear marks and dust making it almost useless. A small bed occupied most of the room, and was the only thing in it that looked new.

The stranger nodded slightly: it would do.

He pulled back his hood, releasing unkempt shoulder length auburn hair. His rugged face was covered with dirt and a beard that the man was reluctant to let grow. But in the wilderness that he was used to, cleanliness was second to survival.

He walked over to the mirror and put his gloved hand to it, wiping it as clean as he could.

He looked at himself, something he did rarely. He ran a finger along the long scar that ran down his face, the souvenir of an Orc ambush. He still looked young, almost youthful... But at the same time, he looked old. His sea-grey eyes held a wise, yet weary glimmer that revealed a tired soul.

Those eyes had seen much... The plights of dying men, the suffering of those close to him, the defeat of many evil beings.

He went by many names across Middle Earth; Raven by the Bree-Men, Varonwe by the Elves, Eriac by the Tooks of the Shire. But his real name was Gerithor, and he was the Lastborn of the Dunedain.

Such was how the Lastborn's final quest began; in the sleepy town of Archet, an unlikely place for an adventure of any sort to begin. This is the last tale in Gerithor's story, for after this quest(and in part because of it) Middle Earth saw peace, and heroes were no longer needed. Many(at least of Elven stock) sailed into the West, but as for Gerithor... Well, you'll soon find out for yourself. For it is my task to tell you his tale, and I shall do my best to do it justice. Even though I was present for much of our hero's journeys, even one such as I cannot fully express the magnitude of these events.

May the Valar guide you all!

E.L.