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Willy nearly screamed as a small, squawking monster descended upon him. Its claws scratched him and its wings beat at him in a wild fury. Brown feathers and mud were everywhere. The thing - Willy realized it had a chicken's body, whatever it was - scratched him painfully under one eye. Willy frantically pushed it off him, scrambled to his feet, and ran as fast as his short hobbit legs would carry him. The chicken, equally frightened, half-ran, half-flew in the opposite direction while making an awful racket. Willy did not make his earlier mistake and instead kept his eyes focused on his goal up the road, but because of this he thought that the chicken monster must be chasing after him.
The cut on his cheek stung as a single tear dripped down. Why had he ever gotten out of bed in the first place? His clothes were muddied, torn, and blood-stained and he was tired and sore. Oh, what would he tell his ma? He could never tell her that he had visited the Inn, at three in the morning, no less. His aching head could not even fathom a realistic tale to spin. His lungs were burning by the time he reached his home. He slipped back in through his window, getting mud all over the place, and fell into bed to dreams of Elves and rolling logs and chicken monsters.
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