As the early Spring breeze flew in the air, mixing with the smell of pies and treats made by Hobbits on the hill, and the smell of good beer and drinks, a man clad in fur, white and black, left the South Bree gate. No one dared to approach him, nor ask him what he is doing, for his grim and large axe was visible to all, not hiding its sharpness. The man walked on the path leading towards the Lone-lands, he didn't stop to look nor speak with any traveler, if anyone had attempted to engage in conversation with him, they would simply be ignored. It was hard to ignore the smell of ale that has gone bad, more-so with the smell of rancid foods, for the man had entered the Lone-lands, and was near the Forsaken inn. A establishment which patrons is of the unruly, ugly, and odd sort. One would avoid this place if he had common sense.
So the man continued on the road, never drifting off, or taking his black and white, horned, cloak off. You could easily tell that this man was not of Bree, but from a place where men are regarded as somewhat bestial in nature. His size, height, and attire would confirm that. As the sun fell into slumber, the moon awoke to take its vigil. It was then decided to make a campfire upon the backside of a hill. He gathered sticks, branches and logs, then started the fire. He quickly went into a dreamless sleep. The heat from the sun and the birds chirping woke him. The fire was already out, as it should be. He then continued on his way, sticking to the path. He did indeed meet someone, a Dwarf, he didn't get the name of this Dwarf, but met and spoke with him nonetheless; however the man did give the Dwarf his name, Folthorn. Seldom did he ever speak with anyone, even his own kin, much less a Dwarf. It was not long before that he continued again. He stopped at a body of water, and caught his dinner, cooked it, and rested.
