At dawn-break, Tatiania set off, riding steadily during the day with only brief pauses to allow the old nag – who'd she'd decided to name Bobbie, for her strange gait – the chance to rest and drink from the stream.
As the sun reached the top of the sky, she stopped to eat in Hobbiton, asking her server the quickest route to Thorin's Hall from there. He gladly paused to mark on her map a route leading through a swamp and up through a small town called Needlehole. Carefully, she studied the map while she ate, and memorized the route before tucking it into her saddlebag. If she pushed hard, she could make Thorin's Hall late the next night.
A short while later, Tatiania and Bobbie had reached the edges of boggy area – the Rushocks she assumed, recalling the hastily scribbled name on the map – and began to wade their way along the soggy grounds and rickety bridges. The stench of stagnant water and rotting vegetation filled her nostrils and she felt her stomach clench. “Damn, this place reeks,” she muttered aloud, and Bobbie snorted loudly as though in agreement. Absentmindedly giving the horse a pat on the neck, she urged it forward.
Soon the pair reached Needlehole and, after asking around, Tatiania determined there were no inns. She paid a dwarf to tend Bobbie, while she sought out some dry ground to set up camp for the night. Scrambling up a cliff, she soon found a clear patch, overlooking the small town and, rolling out her bedroll, she started a fire and sat back to look around at her surroundings. From up high, she found everything looked almost peaceful and calm and, with her lip quirked up in something that may have resembled a smile, she pulled out the map to trace the route while it was still light enough to see. If she got up early and pushed, she thought, she'd make Thorin's Hall late the next day. Good enough for her.
With that thought in mind, Tatiania ate from her rations, before laying down to sleep. As usual, she didn't dream.
She never did.
