My name is Nimruzir, I am a scribe, a chronicler, or as some would call me fondly, a meddling fool. Whether I truly am a fool, well, I admit to having called myself thusly on many occasions during my life. As to 'meddling', I have no doubt at all - I am most certainly that - for how else is a historian to come by his knowledge?

Now why they gave me a Numenorean name I frankly cannot say; perhaps it has something to do with my nose? Or perhaps it is because I was always drawn to dark clothing. Personally, I believe myself to be as Silvan as they come, for you see, I am from the deep forest, the ancestral home of the Silvans. Here, our accent is still thick, our customs unchanged and our smile still wide and genuine.

Llan Galadh, a place of light despite the towering trees we live amongst. 'Tis a place of great natural beauty, you know; a jewel upon the forest map, a shining beacon to all those whose fingers may pose upon our namesake, or who should wander into our domain. There are no orcs here, no monsters, no wargs or wraiths, yet how long it will remain thusly I cannot rightly say - who can? I ask you, for there is nothing written on our future, and the times are changing, they are sliding into darkness - Hwindo has said it is so, the Valar keep him safe.

Now then. Who would have said, mind, that in this very village, the greatest warrior our land has ever seen would be born? 'Tis an honour we all carry with us  wherever we go, and when polite conversation requires we state our origins, we smile, wide and joyous for we, are of Llan Galadh, we share the land of our Warlord. It is our claim to fame for we are his people, we are the elves who watched him grow, that shared the secrets that shrouded his begetting in a haze of Silvan conspiracy. But of that I will not speak, for who can say who may read these, my humble thoughts ...

And so we come to the purpose of these chronicles, finally! as some of you are no doubt thinking; I do tend to digress, my friends, as you will all soon see. Perhaps it is why I shall never be a great scribe and that is fine with me. Yet neither am I a bad one, or so I say, indeed I believe this, new project to be most commendable in that so far, to the best of my knowledge, no one as put to paper the life of the warriors of The Company...

The Company? you may ask? Is it possible that you have not yet heard of them? I doubt it - if you are Silvan that is - but I must think bigger, perhaps, for what if this chronicle should be requested by Lord Elrond himself? of the Master Scribes of Lothlorien? It may be my only chance for fame, not that that is my goal, my friends, for it is not.

And so I will begin my chronicles with the hope that the warriors of The Company will be remembered, that nobody forget these, extraordinary elves and should my humble person be remembered as the proud scribe that wished to proclaim their valour to the four corners of the world, then I am content with that.

And now, doubt assails me, for where to begin, I wonder? There is so much to record, so much I would have remembered and forgive me, but the baggage is heavy and my mind befuddled with the enormity of the task I have set myself. Saddle goose*, you may call me but when you have read, and understood, perhaps your expletives will wax kind and understanding.

Now... ah yes - the wine has sharpened by brain although no doubt not for long...

Seven hundred and forty-eight years ago, three children were born in Llan Galadh, land of light. One, was a strapping great lad, another was utterly beautiful and the third - the third child was wise...

*Saddle goose: imbecile