Change

Khaki was the colour of Bree-land. Green, the colour for sleep or delusion, and beige yellows, dulled, sedately corrupted passions.

It was the type of place to lull those who stayed too long into a sense of trouble despite their luxury and wellbeing. People invented trouble here, and sometimes willed it into harmful reality. A side-effect of so much peace and, Ryheric figured, boredom.

Well it looks like I'd better get to work.  Master Balrinar is my self-proclaimed caretaker now I don't think I'll be able to get rid of that dwarf after tonight.  I made one friend I think? His name is Kabe lad about my age. He wanted to walk me home, alas that was a mistake. Master Balrinar didn't like the looks of the lad and one thing led to another. Eventually he scared Kabe off then he made me march back to the village! Like a soldier! It was mortifying.

Stitches wipes his forehead with the back of one of his hands. Who knew working in the blistering cold could be just as sweat intensive as anywhere else? He lifts the half shovel from its rest in an upright position in the other hand and hoists it with both hands, bringing it down to pat down the dirt which he had dug up.  It was a small grave, but it was big enough for the fox's mother, and deep enough in the frozen ground to deter anything from feasting on it. It took him the lions share half of the day, but it was done.

And so began a long list of declines from the locals of Forochel on his friend’s whereabouts. Kauppa-Kohta was a dead end, Pynti-Peldot was a dead end, and Stitches was certain that the next stop would be the same. The dark accompaniment over his shoulder warned him time and time again that Forochel would yield no answers, but Stitches persisted, whether it is to be thorough or just to spite his new dislike for the cloaked figure, it is unclear. As the night drew upon Stitches and Bread, the deathly chill was a certainty.

A few days had passed. It was time to move on. Evendim was taxing on Stitches and he was determined to make it to Forochel. After all, it doesn't matter what happens so long as he can find his friend, he can be worthy of something. He traveled the road, ceaseless on the path alongside Bread, dragging his companion at his side by the reins instead of riding atop him.

Bread, Stitches's horse, grunts softly and shakes out his long mane again, freeing it of the pesky drops of water that drizzle from the sky, only to have it dampen and soak once again mere moments later. He trots a hoof on the ground, as though trying to shake the attention of his companion. Stitches had been this way for some time, though it was different at first.

The roads are lain upon a grassy hill just outside of Oatbarton, and the breeze plays with the trees to the left and right, causing all traces of whats passed to fall from their slender, jagged branches, and preserves the deep forest color of the canopy roofs and walls. It isn't too long up the road, the so far had-been peaceful road, that the next trial awaits Stitches. As the hill dipped down and the little hamlet of Oatbarton was left far behind and out of sight, the road straightened and leveled out, and three broad fellows would wait at the very bottom dip.

There was no stopping through the day, and throughout the night as well. Stitches kept Bread at a simple pace through The Shire, working his way West from Stock all the way to Hobbiton. Then after a quick ten minute stop, a check of his map and an elongated squinting session with the parchment, he traveled North to Brockenborings. Stitches didn't stop here either, heading North even further to pass straight through the small hobbit stead on beyond The Greenfields and up to Oatbarton.

The green leafed trees loomed overhead and hung down. Even they had betrayed Stitches, even they reached their malicious and grim fingers down towards him to poke and pry. Each twig and branch picking at his brain, or at the very least, trying to. As these traitorous wood towers get closer, the road itself seems to shrink narrower.

With a sharp sniff and a twitch of both thumbs, Stitches pale green eyes flutter to a groggy opening. The morning blue gray sky greets him, and he unties his legs from themselves and sits up to free his back from tree bark yet again. His fingers meet the cold ground and clutch at the wet grass, and his knees bend to, in a moment, assist him in standing. Amidst the soft humming of the breeze, his steed offers him a cordial huff and snort, shaking its head at his arising.