Chapter One
It is in the village of Bree where the tale begins, in an age long passed. A humble settlement set upon a crossroad, Bree was considered a trading post for merchants all across the land. This was an age of kings and princes. The village was ruled by Sheriff Goodtwig, a lord of the realm. Sheriff Goodtwig had begun his career with great promise, but the many years that he held his office had corrupted him, such is the fate of many who come to wield great power. The kingdoms of Arnor: Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur had long warred with the evil realm of Angmar. Cardolan and Rhudaur fell to the onslaught of the Witch-king, leaving Arthedain to claim sovereignty over the few remaining peoples. Bree-land was ruled, in name, by the King of Arthedain from Fornost, known also as the Norbury of the Kings.
Near to Bree was the village of Staddle. Whilst Bree was home to many folk, Big and Small, Staddle was the home of hobbits alone for over three centuries. Even in these troubled times, the Hobbits of Bree maintained their traditions. Whilst under the jurisdiction of Sheriff Goodtwig, the hobbits answered to the Thain of the Staddle-folk, a hereditary and revered position within the community. At this time, the Thain of the Staddle-folk was an ancient hobbit known simply as Grandfather. He was considered the last of his long line, with no heir to succeed him. In better days, the Thain was largely independent from the Sheriff of Bree-land, but Goodtwig cared little for the hobbits, for it was only their wealth that interested in.
Even with the shadow of Angmar looming over the land, Marcho and Blanco were always in high spirits. The two were similar in appearance, both being taller than most hobbits, with their fair complexion and curly hair. Fully-grown and mature, they still found themselves caught up in mischief. They were lovers of adventure and exploration, often finding themselves in the most peculiar of places. Whilst they were indeed enthusiastic about endeavours that took them many leagues from their home in Bree, they still enjoyed what all hobbits enjoy. On this night, the two returned from another expedition into the Wild, finding themselves deep in their cups at the inn.
“Come brother,’ Marcho, the eldest, said. ‘We ought to return to Grandfather now.”
“Be wary.’ Blanco agreed. ‘I hear that the Sheriff’s Men have ordered a strict curfew at night.”
The two brothers made their way through the wood and stone homes, which towered over them, with considerable speed. They were no strangers to fleeing from danger, for the wild was teeming with beasts that would do them harm. Soon enough, they had reached the southern gate of the village. But to their horror, they found it to be closed.
The gatekeeper emerged from the shadows, an ugly Man with a stooped back. In his hand was a tall rotten staff that he relied upon for balance. This was one of the Sheriff’s Men, for certain.
“You there!” a hoarse voice called out at the gate as the hobbits halted. “Halflings! Out after curfew, eh? That’ll be a fine of ten silver pieces, each.”
“Ten silver pieces!” Blanco protested. “We’re on our way out of the village!”
“Insolence!” the gatekeeper cried. “Halflings don’t question the King’s taxes! None do, infact.” But all knew that they were not the King's taxes, but the Sheriff's.
“I am sorry, sir…” Marcho began timidly. “but we do not have such coin on our person.”
The gatekeeper struck his staff on the ground and cackled a terrible laugh. “Then you do not leave.”
“The Thain will-“
"The Thain!” the gatekeeper cackled. “You mean that poxy old halfling? What's he gonna do, hm? Send a nice little letter to the Sheriff again? Oldtwig uses them in his privy, ha-hah!"
Before Marcho could reason with him, his brother had already pushed the gatekeeper over and was trying desperately to unlock the gate. But it was useless. Shrieks were coming from the gatekeeper now, calling out to the guards. In no time at all, heavy footsteps could be heard from the village, coming towards them.
"You're carrion for beasts now, Halflings!" the gatekeeper spat.
"Marcho! What do we do?" Blanco cried, still vainly trying to unlock the gate.
The last thing the two brothers could remember was seeing a number of Big Folk – the guards – charging at them. Their heads were struck with clubs, or some other instrument, and it all went dark.
