The rumbling of an empty stomach and the pain. The noise and the pain. That is all Gothidoc Farfoot could bring his mind to concentrate on, even the simplest task of buttoning up his jerkin was too hard a task so he left it open. It had only been a day and a half since he last ate anything, but to him it felt like weeks. The poor Hobbit lay on his back, pulling his cloak ever more tighter around his shoulders as the last of the embers of his camp fire died out. He looked around for something to focus his mind so that he might get at least a few hours sleep. Above between the thick, lush boughs of the trees about him shone silver pin-pricks of stars against a velvet night. The sun was already beginning to wake from it's slumber and Gothidoc had barely closed his eyes. The noise and the pain. The noise and the pain. Gothidoc got a few hours of restless sleep. The pain was the same, but the noise was different. It was a jovial noise of song and laughter. He sat up in a fluster looking about for the source of the noise; down the brae he concluded. The brave Hobbit had reached Bree-town a week ago, he had admired it's huge Hedge Walls, enjoyed it's mirth, it's people and the ale at the Prancing Pony. He had come from the Shire to explore more of the world and Bree seemed the best place to stop for a while. A while turned out to be only a week and feeling momentum, or wonder-lust, build he moved on. This lack of experienced led to the fateful decision that he had enough food and rations for a while more; a while more turned out to be mere days. But, in those mere days Gothidox Farfoot had traveled far, reaching the edges of the Chetwood Forest. "When you smell a bog and your furry-feet get wetter you've gone far enough, little master." a Bree-lander had said to Gothidoc when the Hobbit had asked a vague question of "How far is too far?". Too far, as it turns out, is when you've got yourself lost and you are out of food.
It was a steep brae and as Gothidoc clambered down it, leaving his travel pack, pots, pans, bedroll and cloak behind, the trees began to thin and a thick pungent smell assaulted his nose. There it was, his furry feet had gotten wetter. In his blind panic to see a welcoming face with food in hand Gothidoc had stumbled into the Midgewater Marshes. Gothidoc recoiled at the stench that clung to the air like rotten eggs, his feet and breeches were soaked and as he looked upon the vast wetland his hand was in a rabbid fit of motion as it swatted flies left and right. The Midgewater Marsh lived up to it's name, the air was thick with flies and other insects Gothidoc had never seen before; some large, some small, all finding the Hobbit a good breakfast. The morning sun shone brightly and gleamed off the the surface of the water, the marshes was a patchwork of deep, stagnant pools intertwined with hillocks of dank grass, sparsed with stumpy ugly trees that never grew straight, they clambered to their sides like bent limbs clawing at each other. Deep within the marsh sat the silhouette of some stone-walled building, ruins they seemed to his eye, but at it's base trudged a small party of figures towards it, the source of the mirth, Gothidoc assumed. Finding a stick by his feet he picked it up and tentatively experimented with the ground infront of him, judging it to be good ground he continued; in this manner the Hobbit ventured onward into the marsh towards help.
The high summer sun was approaching it's zenith and it had baked the thick, putrid air in an almost unbreathable stench that made Gothidoc wrench with it's intensity and his exhaustion. With every few meters his target seemed further away, perhaps a delusion of the marsh, lack of food or exhaustion, but he almost collapsed by the time he was within shouting distance of the ruins. A challenge was made from the direction of the ruins and Gothidox barely had enough energy to raise his head, he aimed to reply but a meek cat call barely erupted from his mouth. He trudged on. Men approached from the ruins, Three men, two carried spears while the third carried a sword at his hip. Gothidoc trembled with fear and weariness as these details came into focus. He trudged on. Garbed in blacks and dark hues, their cloaks where unkempt and torn.
"Stay where you are, Halfling! What is your name?" the sword-man shouted, cupping a hand to his mouth. Though there was little need, the distance between the two parties had shortened considerabley.
"M-my name is Farfoot. Gothidoc Farfoot..." Gothidoc managed to relay back, leaning on his erstwhile crutch.
The three men seemed to converse briefly before the leader replied "From where have you come? Bree?"
"Yes! I am h-hungry. I-I am without food!" Gothidoc called, partly slipping down the stick with the energy used to reply. The three men approached. Gothidoc trudged on. The men wore thick leather jerkins, and now closer Gothidoc could see that the leader wore a leather cap. The spear-men seemed friendly and normal enough, but the sword-carrier had a darker look. Uglier too and his accent was unfamiliar to the Hobbit's ears. The three Men and Hobbit rounded a corner of stone and entered what seemed like the ruins courtyard; perhaps once used as a greeting area for who ever lived here, but now it stank like the rest of the marsh, but was drier, to the corner loomed a dark sad looking tree whose boughs bared more cob-webs than leaves. The courtyard was filled with bedrolls and camping equipment, built up against the side of the ancient rooms was constructed a tent infront of which sat an unlit campfire. The three men and their charge forcibly placed the Hobbit infront of the tent. Gothidoc felt sick, dizzy and he wrenched as his stomach and legs protested about their hungry and pain. A moment later dry bread and even drier mutton was placed at his lap.
"Why are you out here, Gothidoc?" The leader of the grim looking group asked as the light of the sun died behind the tall ruined walls. The fire had been lit and Gothidoc's belly had had it's fill.
Gothidoc smiled nervously, not due to his answer being dishonest, but that he might seem a little foolish, "I am lost. I merely wanted to see the Chetwood Forest, and-"
"Why?" Sword, as Gothidoc had internally named him, interjected. Gothidoc recoiled at the reproached but answered.
"I am from the Shire, Northfarthing, southern end though. Not far from Hobbiton, across the water between Bywater and Frogmarton, actually. I've decided-"
"Cut to the chase, Halfling!" Sword snarled and Beardspear and Shavenspear laughed.
The poor Hobbit stared aghast at the men then replied slowly, "Well, I, uh, wanted to see more of the world. Starting with Bree-Land."
"And you chose Chetwood Forest I assume? You certainly did not come this way for the marsh, did you?" Sword did not wait for an answer. "Do you know of a Graeme Tenderlarch? Dawn Appledore? These names sound familiar?". When Gothidoc shook his head vigerously, Sword continued. "Brockenbrook? Heathstraw?"
Gothidoc's mind raced, trying to put names and faces together. Names and faces he had learnt in Bree in a flurry as he came and went. "N-no, should I know of these people?"
Sword shook his head with a faint smile. "They are cruel people, master Farfoot. Cruel people indeed. They would slander us, drag us down, name us vile and criminal."
"Us?"
This Sword laughed. "Us. Men of Chetwood. The people of Bree call us brigands and vagabonds. We are merely men finding home in the trees of Chetwood, finding food and coin when we can... Where ever we can." His voice was lanced with that unfamiliar accent again, laced too was his voice with a cunning melody. "We are friendly folk, master Farfoot. Hard working people." To his right and left, Beardspear and Shavenspear sniggered, their only reply was a glare from their boss who rounded on the frightened Hobbit who stared in silence. All the while Gothidoc cast an eye over the three. Their hair was lank, their faces marred with dirt and grime. Their boots were more mud than leather, their clothes carried rips and tears, mostly threadbare. Earlier, however, Gothidoc cought a glimps of an iron bound chest within the tent behind him. To their belts too hung bags of coins. At the far end were kennels too, empty but all the whole marks of them once being used sat at their floors.
Gothidoc's lips quivered, his hands shook and from his mouth peeped. "Well, I-I'm not all too tired. I think I best be on my w-way! You have been most kind..." With this Gothidoc sprang to his feet
As quick as anything Sword was bent over, his face inches from Gothidoc. A malice in his eye. Closer up Sword seemed even more unnatural. His eyes were a king of putrid yellow, much like his jagged teeth. His breath warm and smelling of rotting vegetable assailed Gothidoc. Suddenly the two Spears where behind him and all was black.
