A Land to Call Their Own RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time the Chubbs were clearing the supper dishes, a heavy fog had blanketed the entire camp, veiling the families and their belongings in an eerie haze. Harold had gone off to fill his family's leather water pouches. Everyone was camped beside a gentle tributary that branched off the Baranduin and then ran westward, one that the Hobbits had taken to calling "The Water"

Refilling the bottles and turning back to camp, Harold inched forward with some difficulty since he could see no further than a few inches in front of his nose. The Hobbit shuddered as he heard the screech of a hoot owl, but continued to tramp through the thick underbrush, although he was barely able to make out the path leading towards the camp. By this point, darkness had totally swallowed up the few brave stars that had earlier attempted to shine out from behind a heavy curtain of clouds.

Harold heaved an audible sigh of relief when he finally managed to find his way back to the clearing and saw Sarah seated on the ground waiting for him next to the campfire.. Marcho had already warned the others that he expected them to set out on the road very early in the morning. Most had gone to bed shortly after dinner.

Harold and Sarah were the only two still awake in camp. They sat hand in hand, quietly whispering to each other about the events of the day. Finally, Sarah stretched, yawned and stood up, indicating that she was going off to prepare for bed. Harold puttered around the campfire a few more minutes, extinguishing the last of the glowing cinders and throwing a bit of water and dirt onto the pit to make sure it was entirely cold.

Hastily retreating to the wagon, Sarah yanked a nightgown over her head. She stopped for a moment to unlatch her precious topaz necklace and carefully hung it on the nail that Harold had pounded into the sideboard expressly for this purpose. Soon both Hobbits were asleep in their bedrolls, the same as the other travellers. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Grandpa Fordo who had earlier that evening drawn the short stick and was now supposed to be on sentry duty. Grandpa was patrolling the perimeter of the campsite, armed only with his sharp wits and a cane. His sole companion was his horse Stout who trotted along comfortably beside him.

The day had been long, and Granda's eyes were growing heavy. He sat down for a moment in a comfortable patch of leafy ferns and tall grass, positioning his back against a massive oak. He intended to rise in just a moment to continue his inspection of the camp. But the grass was like velvet, soft and inviting; the crickets sounded their sweet serenade. In the distance, a great owl hooted again, this time in a much gentler tone. Soon, Grandpa's head nodded once and then twice as it fell to the side and grazed against his shoulder. The old Hobbit was sound asleep......


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The Hobbit camp was arranged in three distinct sections. The Fallohide wagons were drawn together in a circle near the front of the line, on the side of the compound closest to the river. Landowners and forest dwellers, the Fallohides tended to own the larger and faster ponies, and thus had less difficulty keeping up with the line of march. Morever, their proximity to the river gave them the advantage of not having to go so far in order to fill their water skins and lug them back again. The few Stoors among the travellers were positioned in the middle, while the Harfoot families who made up the single largest group of Hobbits, remained at the rear of the procession, set back the farthest from The Water.

A dark shadow slunk in from the east and then squatted in the thick grasses and bracken that lined the base of the hill. Garlin Woolthistle, former citizen of Bree, a rascal and scoundrel to boot, was descended from a long line of burghurs that had once served as proprietors of the Prancing Pony. But that was in another lifetime. Garlin's overfondness for good ale and his well known dislike of the Little Folk had doomed him to failure as a barkeeper at the Inn. He had lost his reputation and most of his possessions, and was finally reduced to earning a living by thievery and other questionable means.

Dressed entirely in black and wearing a hooded cloak pulled low over his face, Garlin hid behind a boulder. He cautiously stood up and peered into the night, trying to get a better look at the long procession of travellers who were camped near The Water. He had actually been following the Hobbits ever since they had crossed the Baranduin River, but always being careful to stay out of sight.

Tonight, he decided, would be a good time to strike. He was very adept at what he did. Garlin reasoned that the stupid Little Folk would never know what hit them. They were all sound asleep and the only sentry on duty, an old man who apparently didn't carry a weapon, was also snoring as well. Garlin reached down and fingered the belt at his side, feeling the outline of his sword hilt and his two throwing daggers. He would rather depend on speed and stealth than brute force but he would use the weapons if it became necessary.

As the shadowy figure slunk into camp, he came to the rear of the procession where the Harfoot families were camped. Quietly he went from wagon to wagon, ransacking the chests and bags that the families had brought with them. He took a trinket or two out of each family's luggage: a brass candlestick, a shiny copper dish, a sharp dagger, a sturdy axe and a host of other small items, none of them terribly valuable. He dropped each one in a cloth sack that he carried on his back. Only when he'd come to the last wagon did he see something that attracted his attention. On a nail at the side of the wagon hung a lovely necklace with a gleeming topaz stone. He grinned at the sight of it. This would make his entire night worthwhile! He hurriedly stuffed it inside his pocket before retreating back to the river. He had confined his activities to the Harfoot families and had never gotten to the other parts of camp where the Stoors and the Fallohides were sleeping.....

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A little boy in the Whitfoot family stirred nervously in his sleep. He had been having a very bad dream. He bolted upright in bed and shook the sleep out of his eyes. He knew he shouldn't go very far, but he felt he would bust if he didn't get out for a minute. Quietly slinking out of his bedroll, he sprinted down towards the river, taking a quick drink of water and then immediately coming back to his family and slipping under the bedclothes.

The one thing he did not know was that Adelard, the biggest gossip in the entire camp, had spied him running back and forth and begun to wonder what sort of mischief he had gotten into....