Location: The Shire, Year 2941 of the Third Age

The morning sun had barely risen over the rolling green hills of the Shire when a deafening, unnatural shriek split the peaceful air. Birds scattered from the trees, and a group of hobbits working in a nearby field dropped their tools in alarm.

"What in the name of Old Took’s beard was that?!" shouted Hamfast Gamgee, clutching his chest.

The noise came again—a shrill, repeating wail—from a small thicket near the Water. The hobbits exchanged nervous glances before cautiously approaching, brandishing rakes and hoes like weapons.

There, sprawled face-down in the grass, lay a strange figure—dressed in odd, tight-fitting clothes, with a white mask covered the face (too short for a hobbit, too long for a dwarf). Beside the unconscious figure, a small, black, glassy slab was emitting the terrible noise.

"Is it… an elf?" whispered one of the younger hobbits.

"Elves don’t wear such queer garb," muttered another.

Hamfast, braver than most, reached out and poked the object with a stick. The moment he touched it, the noise stopped abruptly. The sudden silence was almost as unsettling as the sound itself.

Then—the stranger groaned and stirred.