was a child. A girl, looking to be around six or seven years of age, peered at him warily from behind a bit of long, dark hair fallen loose.

"Are you hurt child?" There was no reaction other than a blank stare.

Again he tried to get the girl to respond, only this time when she gave him a confused look he realized she couldn't understand him. He had been speaking in the most common form of Westron for the area, but now he began to try all the other dialects and versions he knew, with absolutely no success. Slightly frustrated, he sighed. Inspecting the child before him he tried to find anything telling about her origin.

Her clothes were of good make, but worn. Other than that and the circumstances,there was something a little odd about the child. She obviously was not a villager of any sort, nor was it likely she was of farmer stock; not out here so far from any settlements. A theory began to form.

He tried speaking to her in the unique, and previously untried, dialect of the Dúnedain. When even this failed to be understood Gandalf swore softly.

Jerking out of a sound sleep I fell from the branch I had been resting on, landing with a sharp stab of pain. I quickly scanned around me fearful of whatever those things had been. There was an old man standing not all that far from me. Some of my hair had come loose and blocked part of my vision, but I could tell well