I.
The burning flames of the street lamps flickered and glowed brightly once the last of the sun passed over the horizon, creating a trail of lights to follow into the village square. A lone man, wielding a small torch and a small, handheld container, stood upon a ladder feeding in oil to the street lamps from the container through a thin metal tube protruding from it's body. The Autumn chill had already given cause for most of the townspeople to begin wearing scarves, cloaks, hoods and gloves, so when Gafford Hornbranch arrived at the wooden gates of Combe at last, he was glad - it meant he could wear his hood and scarf without drawing too much attention to himself.
Two sullen-looking guards with spears flanked the gates, the faces of which he could not recognize. One had honey-coloured hair and a red scarf around their neck, the other visibly starting to shiver a bit in the cold, clearly unhappy to be stuck with the night shift.
"Ho there!" The honey-haired one called, "Wha' business d'you go' here in Combe, stranger?"
Ford smiled his most polite smile, brought his most pronounced Bree-drawl, and spread his arms to show his lack of weapons, "Evenin. Jus' visitin' family, sir."
The guards stared him down and he shrank a little bit. He hoped to the stars that they wouldn't ask any more questions, as he wanted to avoid being recognized and having the news of his visit spread around town, which would certainly cause rumours to spring up. The shivering guard frowned a bit, "Aye? Which family would that be, lad?"
So much for wanting to be discreet. At least these were guards who did not seem to know him, "Hornbranch, sir."
"The lot livin' near the crafting hall?" The honey-haired one asked. Ford nodded and the guard looked at his companion, who simply shrugged and waved a dismissive hand, "Let 'im through Crowley, doesn't look like the stabbin' type to me."
"Cheers, mate." Ford replied, pulling up his scarf a bit as he walked past them. He could hear one of them complaining about being cold as he walked down the red cobblestone path and hoped that none of them would recall the gossip surrounding his family.
Combe didn't seem to have changed much in his absence. All of the trees were still standing, their golden leaves gently wafting to the ground with every bit of breeze, and the only thing that he could think of that might be different would be the colour of the cloth canvas the merchants used to protect their stalls from the elements; In Summer, they tended to be a pleasant array of pastel colours, but now with the cold settling in most merchants settled for a dull off-white or brown cotton canvas. A few people were scattered about the square, chatting to one another or on their way back home, he presumed, but none of them paid him any mind - he blended in perfectly with his autumn garment, and looked no different than the butcher's son standing by the staircase to the Comb and Wattle Inn, whom he could see wrapped in a dark-green cloak and hood, carrying a basket of groceries.
Blimey, did he get taller all of a sudden? Ford idly wondered, but he spared no time for a closer examination, as he was sure that the man would eventually notice if he stopped to stare. He hurried past the tavern, where he could already see the light from the fire illuminating the windows, as well as the unmistakeable silhouettes of men and women indulging in revelry and drink, and made his way up the hillside where a dozen or so homes flanked either side of the road leading up to the old Lumberyard. Their dull, moss-coloured stone gave the impression that he was walking into a forest of thatched canopies and thick, green brickwork.
His family's house was nestled in-between the crafting hall and the local seamstress', the Rosebranches, residence. He remembered the fight near the lake where Ellie Cutleaf kept her dogs and instinctively checked the messenger bag at his side for Hilda's beloved bear, squeezing the warm fabric in his hands and letting the worn head of the plush toy peek out of the bag. He had done something of a poor job mending the old toy's frayed edges and missing eye, but he smiled a little for his handiwork nonetheless; The newly-sown pink button stuck onto the bear's face stood out in contrast to the faded green one, but at least the toy could see with two eyes again.
At last, he climbed the stairs of the front porch and found himself at the front door of the house he grew up in. His throat tightened and he found himself shivering again. The last time he spoke to his parents, they looked worried but didn't protest his choice to leave the town, and made him promise to write letters back regularly. Hilda gave him her warmest hug and her bear for good luck, cheekily asking him to bring back a beautiful woman whenever he came to visit (he only gave Hilda a vague chuckle and a playful scolding at the time...). And Finn... well, he was less than impressed by the suddenness of his decision and his flimsy excuses, but opted to wish him well nonetheless and bade him to come talk to him if he ever felt like wanting to talk. Ford had yet to take him up on that offer, but he had the feeling that it wouldn't be long until they would end up in their shared room to discuss what had happened the past year.
With a sigh, he raised his right hand and knocked on the door three times with his knuckles.
Ford lowered his scarf. He could see the lights were still well and shining from the windows, but he did not dare to peek in for fear of accidentally scaring anyone who happened to be inside. He could feel his heart racing and nearly leaping up his throat with anticipation and fright and wondered who would answer the door and how they would react.
If it was Hilda, she would probably let out a shrill scream of disbelief and wake up half the village.
If it was either of his parents, he guessed that they would either scold him on the spot or usher him inside very quickly for a tongue-lashing.
If it was Finn, he would probably wonder whether Ford was just a hallucination and then drag him in to prove it and chew him out for being gone a year.
He ran his mind through all the utterly horrible ways this reunion would go (Screamed at, yelled at, scolded, having things thrown at him, being punched by Finn...) and surpressed his rampant thoughts, which were now wreaking havoc on the confidence he had built up since leaving the smithy earlier this morning. He began to feel small and cowardly again, and half-considered simply running from the door and taking a hike through the Chetwood, but he forced himself to remain planted to the spot, waiting for the moment of truth.
And come that moment did, Ford thought, as the door opened to reveal a dark silhouette against the light, dressed in what he thought to be a nightgown of sorts - but before he could smile, answer, or even say anything, the figure uttered a loud gasp and an astonished whisper of "Ford?!", and leapt at him with such force that he was brought down to the floor and knocked unconscious.
(OOC: Any feedback for the writing and narrative would be appreciated. 
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