As dusk sets upon a quite, peaceful village, a stranger appears. Walking down the oldest, dustiest path in the village, he seems oblivious to all around him. The children playing and screaming, and the adults hustling about with various last minute chores before dark. The stranger was tall, yet walked with the air of a dejected man, and carried no weapon but a small dirk attached to his belt.
He finally stops, and steps into a nearby tavern, completely ignoring the music drifting into his pointed ears. Yes, he was an elven one, yet not so fair as is the distinguishing trait of his people. He was a ragged traveler, seeming extremely down on his luck. He sits at the bar, tosses several small, gold coins on the counter, and orders his drink.
"As many pints as that'll get me," he spoke with a soft, yet commanding tone, and the bartender complied instantly. After grabbing the firt mug and taking a few slow sips, the elf sits down, seeming at ease, yet his eyes were watching, roaming around the room, and taking in every picture, every detail the small tavern contained.
Just as he finished his first beer, another stranger walked in, this one no elf. "Help!" he gasped, and flung himself into he tavern. "Dragon," and with a final shudder he lay dead upon the cold, stone floor.