You meet a surprising number of wanderers, these days, out here in the wild.  All of them running or searching, running or searching.  Running from a spurned love or searching for a lost one; fleeing from trouble at home - and the more honest of them will sometimes even admit they brought it upon themselves - or seeking a new place to call home.  Running from their past, for the most part, trying to muddle through the present while clinging to some hope for the future.  Their stories make for interesting tales around a shared campfire on a cold night, but after a while they all start to sound alike.

None of that running and searching business for me.  I live out here for the simple reason that I like it.  Why so many others choose to sleep under a wooden roof rather than a starlit sky is a mystery to me, and no meal of spiced and salted foods at the fanciest of inns rivals the simple, pure flavor of fresh meat roasted on a spit over the crackle of a tiny fire.  My place is here among the living, growing things of the world.  My home is the path beneath my worn boots.  The wind winding through the trees, the trickle of a forest stream, the rumble of thunder - these are all the music I have ever craved.

I did not choose this life because I don't like people.  Well, alright, in point of fact I really don't like people, for the most part.  Present company excluded, of course.  But as I said, that's not why I'm out here.  I think perhaps it might be people gathered in large numbers that bother me; the more folks gathered in one place, the more trouble and strife seem to follow them.  I'll spend time in a small, outlying village now and then, or take shelter on a stormy night with fellow travelers.  It's the cities I truly dislike, though.  Too much of stone and fire there, in the cities, and too little of earth and sun.

With orcs and fouler things roaming the lands so freely these days, I often find myself banding together with other companions to combat such creatures.  Rumors of war have reached even my ears, news of a dark power rising in the east.  I foresee a time in the not too distant future when I may be forced to end my solitude and take a more active role in the defense of these lands I treasure, and yes, of those people I tolerate when I have to.  Because for better or worse, we, all of us, are the guardians of the wild as well as a part of it.  We are the light holding the darkness at bay, and for all our failings, we shine brightest when we unite in hope and common cause.

But enough of my rambling; the fire grows dim and I need to rest a bit before continuing on my journey.

Oh, a word of advice for you before we part ways:  In your travels, should you meet a man called "Strider", be wary.  There are strange folk abroad on the roads, but this one, I think, is dangerously deluded:  after a drink or two, he'll start on a crazy tale about his being heir to the thrones of Arnor and Gondor, descended from the great kings of the lost island.  Why would a man of such noble birth be wandering the woodlands alone, bearing naught but a blade, a cloak, and a bow?

Unless, of course, he's out here simply because he likes it.