A path had been cut through the wheat field, not wide, just enough to show a person had entered. Rosie followed the path of broken stems to what at first glance was a bundle of clothes. She took her walking cane and gave it a gentle poke. In a flash...
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The lights of Bree, a small village of stone and half-timbered houses nestled against a low wooded hill, shone brightly in the darkness. A thick hedge surrounded the village, a great gate barred the Western entrance. Velasa, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin approach the gatehouse, eyes wide and wild, clothes ragged and out of breath. A surly Gatekeeper glanced down at them "What'd ya want?"
"We're heading for the Prancing Pony," Frodo called out into the darkness. The Gatekeeper shined his lantern onto the group, bathing them in an uncomfortable yellow spotlight. "Hobbits! Hobbits, and what's more, out of the Shire by your talk. What business brings you to Bree?" He askes.
"We wish to stay at the Inn." Frodo began. "Our business is our own." To Frodo's relief, the Gatekeeper unlocked the gate. "All right, young sir, I meant no offence." He said. "It's my job to ask questions after nightfall. There's talk of strange figures abroad, can't be too careful." The Hobbits gratefully entered Bree, the Gatekeeper eyeing them curiously in the lantern light. The tall Bree citizens loom over the nervous little Hobbits as Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin and Velasa make their way through the narrow streets; tall buildings tower above them; lights glow dimly from behind thick curtains. The sign of the "Prancing Pony Inn" swinging in the wind and the group hurried towards it.
The group rushed into the Inn and Frodo attempted to attract the Inn Keeper's attention. "Excuse me." He called. " Excuse me." He tries again, the Inn Keeper turns and then lowered his head to meet the Hobbit's eye. "Good evening, little masters. If you're seeking accommodation, we've got some nice, Hobbit sized rooms available, Mr..."
"Underhill," Frodo answered. "My names Underhill." He repeats. The Innkeeper hums, repeating the name. Frodo fidgets nervously. "We're friends of Gandalf the Grey." He says. "Can you tell him we've arrived?" He asked.
The Innkeeper frowns looking puzzled. "Gandalf... Gandalf..." He repeats the name over and over. "Oh." He says in recognition. "I remember, elderly chap, big grey beard, pointyhat?2 Frodo nos with relief; the Innkeeper shakes his head. "Not seen him for six months." He continues. Frodo's face falls with shook and confusion. "What do we do now?" Sam whispered worriedly.
Velasa groans as she sits at the table in the noisy, smokey Inn; it was dimly lit, chiefly from a blazing log fire, and crowded with a mixture of Humans, Local Hobbits, and a couple of Dwarfs. Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin joined Velasa at the table against the wall, clearly trying to remain quiet and inconspicuous; Sam couldn't help but cast nervous glances around the Inn. "Sam, he'll be here. He will." Frodo tied to reassure him as Velasa plonked herself back down at the table with a pint of beer. "What's that?" Pippin asked. Velasa looks at the Hobbit strangely for a moment. "This is a pint." She explained.
Pippin looked amazed. "It comes in pints?" He asked; Velasa hummed into her mug as she took a sip, the alcohol burning the back of her throat."I'm getting one!" Sam watched Pippin rise unsteadily to his feet and head towards the bar. " You've had a whole half already!" He called. A couple of swarthy men leaning against the bar glance at Frodo, then quickly look away. "That fellow's done nothing but stare at you since we've arrived," Sam whispered to Frodo, his shoulders tense. Velasa turned her head to look at the brooding stranger Sam indicated to; he sat alone at a table in the far corner; smoking a curiously carved long-stemmed pipe, peering from beneath a travel-stained cowl with gleaming eyes. Frodo gestured to the Innkeeper, who had to bend down a considerate amount to hear him over the other patrons. "Excuse me, that man in the corner, who is he?" The Innkeeper turned to face the brooding stranger before turning back to Frodo, his lips in a tight line. "He's one of them Rangers." He explained. "They're dangerous folk they are, wandering the wilds. What his right name is, I never heard, but 'round here he's known as Strider." Frodo repeated the name to himself, beneath the table, his finger nervously toy with the ring; sweat runs down his brow.
"Baggins? Sure, I know a Baggins...he's over there..." Pippin's loud voice cuts through the crowded room from where he sat at the bar, chatting with Locals. Frodo leapt to his feet and pushed his way to the bar. "Frodo Baggins. He's my second cousin once removed, on his mother's side and my third cousin twice removed on his father's side...if you follow me." Pippin continued loudly. Frodo grabbed Pippin's sleeve, spilling his beer. "Pippin!"
"Steady on, Frodo!" Pippin pushed Frodo away; he stumbled backwards, and fall to the floor. At that instant, the Inn goes silent and all the attention turns to Frodo. The ring seems to hang in the air for a split second then crashing down onto his outstretched finger; Frodo vanishes. There is a sharp intake of breath followed by total silence.
