In the village, near the fountain, there was a hobbit. He was not there a moment ago. He was also not wearing the simple white clothing a moment ago. Snow hadn't crunched beneath his furred feet until just now. It was also worth noting that hobbits, most particularly respectable hobbits like this one, did not have wings.
Bilbo, it must be confessed, was at a loss. There were buildings nearby. There was a fountain. There was nothing like a hobbit hole, nothing like the Last Homely House, nothing like the distant peaks of the Lonely Mountain. Actually, he couldn’t think of anywhere in all his maps that this looked like.
He wished he hadn’t gotten lost again. That was the main thing. Then he found himself wondering where he was. He put a hand in his pocket, but he failed to find the reassuring touch of cool metal. Then he missed his sword. All he noticed with a quick search of his surroundings was a book, like an empty journal. He picked it up and glanced through the first few pages with some curiosity.
He then slipped around the corner of a nearby shop until he could find out exactly what was going on - and where the company might have gotten to without him. He crept quietly along the street until he could take stock of the situation. Looking ahead, as Gandalf might say. Like a burglar should be doing, as the others might suggest.
Men, he noticed. How had he ended up in a city of Men? The nearest one he knew of should have been quite a far journey away still. They seemed intent on their own business, though he felt very small next to so many of them at once. The dwarves, at least, had been approximately his size.
It took a little while longer to screw up his courage to ask one for directions. He brushed away some imaginary dust from his shirt front. “Excuse me. That is, good morning and if I could ask a question…?”
[3/3] Bilbo Baggins | The Hobbit
First Person: [trainingwings thread]
Third Person: 300 words
In the village, near the fountain, there was a hobbit. He was not there a moment ago. He was also not wearing the simple white clothing a moment ago. Snow hadn't crunched beneath his furred feet until just now. It was also worth noting that hobbits, most particularly respectable hobbits like this one, did not have wings.
Bilbo, it must be confessed, was at a loss. There were buildings nearby. There was a fountain. There was nothing like a hobbit hole, nothing like the Last Homely House, nothing like the distant peaks of the Lonely Mountain. Actually, he couldn’t think of anywhere in all his maps that this looked like.
He wished he hadn’t gotten lost again. That was the main thing. Then he found himself wondering where he was. He put a hand in his pocket, but he failed to find the reassuring touch of cool metal. Then he missed his sword. All he noticed with a quick search of his surroundings was a book, like an empty journal. He picked it up and glanced through the first few pages with some curiosity.
He then slipped around the corner of a nearby shop until he could find out exactly what was going on - and where the company might have gotten to without him. He crept quietly along the street until he could take stock of the situation. Looking ahead, as Gandalf might say. Like a burglar should be doing, as the others might suggest.
Men, he noticed. How had he ended up in a city of Men? The nearest one he knew of should have been quite a far journey away still. They seemed intent on their own business, though he felt very small next to so many of them at once. The dwarves, at least, had been approximately his size.
It took a little while longer to screw up his courage to ask one for directions. He brushed away some imaginary dust from his shirt front. “Excuse me. That is, good morning and if I could ask a question…?”