[Ransom]

As the crowd streamed toward the Glade, a stooped figure on a small, ragged pony slowly trotted with them, trying to avioud drawing any attention to himself and failing miserably. He gazed with some ammusement at the antics of the little creatures that ran underfoot. They gazed back at him. None of the hobbits had ever seen anyone like him, and he had never seen a hobbit. Ransom belonged to a tribe of nomadic people that lived in the far east, beyond the weak tribes that had allied with Saurun. His face was wrinkled and leathery, sporting a short beard and dark eyes. He had lived most of his life outdoors and the sun had left a brownish mark on his normally yellow. For his people spent most of his time outdoors.

He wore a suit of leather and iron armor over chain mail, suggesting an elevated social status. Indeed, his father ruled over one of the larger tribes that annually tormented the tribes that dwelt near the Rhun. On one of these raids, he had discovered a strange basked in his personal belongings. He had pondered the message on the bottum of the basket, going so far as to consult one of the tribal shamans. The elder had mumbled something about the gods before directing him to the land of the Stunted People (dwarves). There, a friendly dwarf directed him to a caravan of dwarfs seeking the source of these strange baskets.

He ran a hand through his pony’s main, and unconciously checked for the three quivers that his people always traveled with and the straight sword that his father had taken from the bodies of a group of fair-haired riders. He held a strung composite bow in his left hand to allay his fears, and the reigns in his right hand. The sacred basked hung from the sadle, bumping gently against his supplies.

Most of the crowd avoided him, and he had taken care to give any possible enemies a wide berth. Ahead, he saw penants and banners floating in the wind, reminding him of the tents that his people lived in. He rode on, seeking the great being that had sent the basket to his people.