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Old 09-15-2005, 12:37 PM   #313
Fordim Hedgethistle
Gibbering Gibbet
 
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Join Date: Feb 2004
Location: Beyond cloud nine
Posts: 1,851
Fordim Hedgethistle has been trapped in the Barrow!
The odd, ragtag crew of folk that approached the Gate of Minas Tirith that morning drew the stares of all who beheld it. At the front of the column there marched a furious looking Dwarf with a mighty axe flung across his shoulder, upon which was carved in the strange runes of the Dwarves the name of Haenir. Behind him there came as odd a pair of Men as any in that city – which was used to wonders – had seen. The dark man was tall and sharp, with deep grey eyes and a stern aspect. Some about the walls recognised him and called out “Run and tell the King that his kinsman Tar-Corondir has returned!” Others looked not at the Black Numenorean King, but at his companion the handsome and still boyish Hearpwine: “The Bard of Rohan has come! The Bard of Rohan!” arose from all quarters, as they anticipated with glee the songs that he would sing for them. There was a tall Elf as well, and those who were visiting the City from the Golden Woods recognised the renowned warrior Ambarturion One-Hand, and they wondered to see him so far removed from the land of Lorien.

But the surprise of the people at these appearances was as nothing when the party entered the gates. For accompanying the noble party of Dwarf, Elf and Men were other, more curious figures. There was an aged Hobbit mounted upon a donkey. The Halfling gazed sourly at the buildings about him as though wishing he were anywhere else. To repeated inquiries he replied that his name was Fordogrim Chubb, and no, he was no relation to Frodo, Meriadoc, Peregrine or Samwise, whoever they might be, and he had no wish to be known to them as from the sound of things they were crack-brained folk who left their own land for Adventures of which he wanted no part.

Sulking along behind Mister Chubb was a ragged figure of a Man in tattered clothes. He had a glum aspect but there hung about his eyes a hard-forged determination, and those who looked into those eyes knew that he was capable of great strength beyond his narrow frame. He spoke with the accents of Mordor, to their great consternation, and had the uncouth name of Grash.

Most harrowing of all to those who beheld the party was the dark figure of nightmare who followed at the end of the column upon a great black horse. A rumour of terror came before him and many fled before the form of Khamul, but he looked neither left nor right and seemed unaware of the consternation he caused.

The company wound its way through the streets, drawing ever greater crowds, until they arrived at the door of the Seventh Star. There they paused, and a strange quiet seemed to descend upon them all. They looked at one another for a second and then, strangely, they all moved toward the door at once. And whether it was that they somehow grew smaller, or that the door loomed up larger than before, they seemed to pass through it at once, and as they passed through it they seemed to disappear, or – rather – to become one. In the space between the batting of an eyelash the large party which had entered the doorway was replaced by the single, unassuming form of a simple man exiting that same doorway.

After the marvels they had beheld, he was a disappointing sight to those who had gathered to welcome him, and some sighed and turned away, while others clucked their tongues and returned to their beverages. Fordim Hedgethistle nervously ran his hand through his hair to push it out of his eyes before sneaking a peak at the sign which had been altered to include his name. He allowed himself a quick flush of success and pride before moving to the bar and ordering a pint of their best ale. Taking a deep quaff he turned and said to the eminences who were gathered in this place:

“Cheers!”
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