[Elora]

Barrold stiffled a curse as the gelding yanked his arm back and nearly our its socket. He was still too close to earshot just yet. Still he favoured the wretched, stubborn gelding with a fierce snarl. The gelding's temper did not improve nor did his disobedience diminish.

"May that dammed woman rot in hell," Barrold muttered as he yanked Naiore's stolen gelding on. It was late, the moon sailing high now and almost at it's zenith. He was tracing a quiet path towards the Barrow Downs at Naiore's urging and had decided to lead the gelding rather than ride it. It would be quieter, or that was what Naiore had told him.

The gelding, however, was not cooperating. Barrold was used to horses behaving badly around him. He rarely got along with the stupid animals. Plain and simple, horses hated Barrold and he returned the favour fivefold. As a result, he had been sawing and tugging at the reins for nearly over an hour now as he attemped to sneak around Bree to the fringes of the Barrow Downs.

More than once, Barrold had thought to simply tuck the horse into someone else's stables. What would Naiore know of it if he did? If the gelding bit him one more time, he'd gut it. That much Barrold knew. The only thing that kept him to his word was greed.

Naiore had laid out a princely reward for his assistance. Gold, of course, but even more. A fiefdom over the Shire. He'd drain that coddled, soft land dry. Wine and pipeweed, fresh food, hobbits to see to his every whim. And then there was her daughter. Only the highest of mortal men were permitted an Elf of his own and Naiore would give him her daughter. She was no queen, but the connection would increase his stature immensely nonetheless. It wasn't as if he'd have to marry her either. As a Fief, he could do whatever he pleased and Barrold knew quite well what pleased him.

So, he'd tug at reins and dodge the hellion's teeth and send it off to be eaten in the evil lands of the Barrow Downs. He'd run about the following morning, seeking the supplies Naiore had listed. He'd accompany them too, when they left. It would be too hot in Bree to remain. Perhaps he'd have a chance to roll the Prancing Pony before he left.

Barrold's face split into a greasy grin as he thought of Barliman's takings added to his own coffers. During this time, Barrold had crossed the final distance from Bree to the Downs. Beneath the moonlight, the treeless expanse rolled away, eerie and still. A queasy ball of fear knotted in his stomach. With a sense of malevolent justice, Barrold tugged the gelding's bridle free.

"Now who will 'ave the last laugh then, eh?" With a mighty slap on the gelding's rear, he sent the horse skipping away. It did not miss the chance to attempt to catch his shins with it's back hooves. Barrold aimed a kick at the gelding and the horse wasted no more time on the pathetic man. With an angry whinny, it was off. The Barrowdowns was better than Barrold Ferney, night or day.

Barrold watched the horse flee, bridle slung over his shoulder. He'd ditch that in a midden heap somewhere. Let the Rangers dig around in that filth if they want to find it, or venture into the Downs themselves. Barrold fancied the sight of Rangers up to their elbows in muck or nervously walking between the haunted Barrows. He chuckled roundly to himself and tucked his thumbs into the waist of his trews.

The gelding now seen to, Barrold was not keen to head straight back to Naiore. For all that she promised, he little liked her company. There was something distinctly unsettling about a woman who was as much death as Elf in close quarters. Barrold didn't much care to admit it, but she scared him, she knew it and she enjoyed it immensely. He spat, expelling the sour taste in his mouth and sighed.

"Who does she think she is now anyway? Sauron ain't here to protect her. Noone has to bow to Naiore Dannan nomore. She lost with the rest of 'em." He rubbed a hand over his bristly chin and glared resentfully at the Downs as he muttered to himself.

"Could go find me some more ale and celebrate my good fortune, and there'd be nothing she could do to stop it. Roll a few shops too. They've gotten fat since she tucked me away." The thing was, Barrold knew there was plenty Naiore could do to stop him. He'd like none of it, that was sure. He kicked at the ground and spat again.

So he wouldn't go to the inn nor rob the shops that had been accruing their income without his pilfering for a month or so now. But he would linger out here instead of obediently running home like a whipped cur. Barrold decided it was time he gave thought to his first edict as a Fief and now was as good a time as any to do that.