[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Snaveling had watched the blaze consume the lower portions of the Inn with interest, but as the inhabitants flooded out an idea began to formulate itself in the recesses of his mind. He settled his weary back against a convenient tree and drew his tattered cloak about him. As the sun rose bringing the new day, he shrunk from her rays and kept to the shadows where he sat like an ancient statue of hewn grey stone, his scruffy beard a black and twisted lichen clinging to his hard and emotionless face.

It had been days since he had eaten a decent meal and the Road from the South, when he had used it, had been long and lonely. He had hoped that the folk of this land would be more trusting -- or at least more easily fooled -- than those he had been through on his journey. Stories of a fat rich land called Shire, where the denizens were small, simple and stupid, had been coming to his ears for years. Snaveling had heard the tales of the Mighty Ones who had gone away South and overthrown the Dark Lord; he had heard how they had returned and led the silly folk of this land against the Men like him -- Men with ambition, and who hungered for new opportunities -- but he did not altogether believe these tales. Looking at these halflings now, as they ran about in disarray and panic at the sight of some flames, he believed them even less.

Amongst the general panic there was some sign of order and discipline, but these were largely by the visitors: a Dwarf rescued some halflings with a ladder, while an Elf tried to organise the healing of the wounded. There were other Men there, but they looked all too much like the Men Snaveling had fled all those years ago: the dreaded Horsemen of Rohan, and the tall warriors of Gondor.

Eventually, the flames began to subside as the rescuers' efforts became a bit more co-ordinated. Snaveling rose up and slipped out of the copse of trees like a shadow. He passed into the smoke and reek of the flames without flinching -- he was used to such things and hardly felt them now -- and stepped through the first open window he could find. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dark, and he had to hold a corner of his cloak over his mouth. The smell of burning grease came to his nose and made his mouth water. He followed the smell into the remains of the kitchen, where he scavenged what food he could from the pantry: two badly burnt loaves of old bread and a joint of meat that had been raw when the fire started, but which now dripped and sizzled as though straight from the oven.

Tucking his breakfast beneathe his tunic, Snaveling turned and left the kitchen to see what else he could turn up that might be to his advantage. He moved into the Common Room, all the while keeping out a watchful eye for the people moving about outside. The smoke was, if anything, much worse in here but he kept low and felt about with his hands. There were cries for help from somewhere nearby, and he froze in fear that he had been discovered, but within seconds the cries faded and then stopped. Just as he was about to give up on the search he felt something small and metallic beneath his grasping fingers. Without waiting to identify it, he put it into his pocket.

A sudden noise alerted him to the entrance of several people through the front door. Afraid of being caught in the Inn without any reason for being there, Snaveling slunk back through the kitchen and found his way out through the back hall. He stepped into the sun and squinted with dismay at its brightness. With one last quick look around, he ran for the trees, clutching the greasy food to his body. As he reached the safety of the shadows he remembered the prize that he had put into his pocket. He was just beginning to wonder what it was when he heard a yell that was clearly directed at him. He froze and spun about to face whoever was calling to him.