In one of the rooms of the Guild of the Academics, a hobbit sat at his desk. To his left were dozens of pamphlets and scripts that were yellow and crinkled with age; to his left, a white piece of paper dotted with his own handwriting, and a feather pen that he held in his hand. The blinds were up enough to let in an appropriate amount of light, and the window was up enough to let in a little bit of a breeze. The door behind him was locked to ensure his privacy.
The only thing that could be heard was the light scratching of pen on paper. The sunlight shone through the window, turning the light-brown room golden. It was neat and tidy; not much could be seen hanging on the walls, other than the few things that had been there when Frodo arrived. The only thing that was a little cluttered was his desk. Books and papers were starting to stack, but the little figure hardly paid it any mind. His attention stayed concrete on the work in front of him.
Everything that had happened to him within the past few weeks was still rather difficult for him to wrap his head around. It wasn't every other day where you woke up in a strange land with different people and characters alike. Why, it had been difficult in Middle-earth not knowing the road that lay ahead of you, let alone what was to happen here! Frodo's agenda was much, much different from that of a normal hobbit's anymore.
But, according to some of his neighbors in Hobbiton, Frodo Baggins wasn't exactly a normal hobbit.
The name of Baggins had once been very respectable in the Shire. A Baggins was proper and on time. A Baggins was polite and orderly. A Baggins never went on any adventures or did anything unexpected. But by the time Frodo moved in with his uncle all those many years ago, the once-respected name had changed quite a bit. Many hobbits thought of his Uncle Bilbo as odd, questionable, and some even thought he was a ghost. Once Frodo started to follow in Bilbo's footsteps, some of these rumors and such were passed onto him.
That wasn't exactly how he wasn't 'normal', though. Not anymore.
Frodo got to his feet and stretched. He looked to his window....and shut the blinds. He then covered his notes and the pamphlets, and checked to make sure the door was closed. And when all was safe, he pulled out from underneath his shirt a tiny golden ring.
Though it may seem ordinary to some, it was nothing but an ordinary ring. It was the Ring of Power, the very ring designed by the Dark Lord Sauron himself. It was evil upon all evils. It was the one thing that would either bring peace to Middle-earth, or lead it to ruin. And it was Frodo's responsibilty to carry it to the very place where it was forged, so it could be destroyed forever.
It spoke to Frodo. It whispered evil things to his ears, spoke in a language that no Hobbit or Man should ever hear. For every time he resisted its lure, it harmed him, like putting a burning brand against his skin...against his very soul........
His hand closed against the little ring that hung on its chain, and his thoughts began to wander. It was seeking for a way back home, where it could be reunited with its Master. In this odd world, its Master was nowhere close, and there was nothing to aid it. Frodo could feel the anger seeping from the Ring into his own skin, and his hand clenched around it tighter. It was a low, seething kind of anger that set his teeth on edge. How dare he be pulled from his quest? Did they not know the importance of what he was dealing with? If someone were to claim the Ring, would they know what danger they would put themselves into?
.......No. Frodo pushed back against the odd feelings, and started to open his hand. His fingers stayed tight in their position, like they were fighting against him, but his grip on the Ring slowly started to loosen. Whether or not he was in Hobbiton, Middle-earth, or even Goldvale, he must stay strong. For everybody's safety.
His hand let go of the Ring then, and settled back down to his side. The hobbit took a small breath of air, before looking listlessly up to the wall ahead of him, lost in his own thoughts. A few moments later, he opened the blinds and unlocked the door, and returned to his seat at his desk. Frodo uncovered the paper, and continued again.
The language was much harder for him to learn than Elvish. He had no previous history with whatever was being deciphered before him, and hardly any mentor like Uncle Bilbo. But after a minute or two, Frodo shut his eyes, and thought of the days when he was a young lad, spending evening upon evening studying with Bilbo in his study. He could imagine the older hobbit sitting beside him, having him write the letters, saying the words, bit by bit. Ga-lad. Gilth-on-ie-l.
Frodo found himself doing the same; running one hand over the words in front of him, the other scribbling down the notes as the puzzle began to fit into place. He imagined Bilbo standing beside him, muttering 'Good, lad! Good!
A smile slowly found itself onto Frodo's face, and a tear slipped down his cheek.
Frodo Baggins | 3
THIRD PERSON SAMPLE:
In one of the rooms of the Guild of the Academics, a hobbit sat at his desk. To his left were dozens of pamphlets and scripts that were yellow and crinkled with age; to his left, a white piece of paper dotted with his own handwriting, and a feather pen that he held in his hand. The blinds were up enough to let in an appropriate amount of light, and the window was up enough to let in a little bit of a breeze. The door behind him was locked to ensure his privacy.
The only thing that could be heard was the light scratching of pen on paper. The sunlight shone through the window, turning the light-brown room golden. It was neat and tidy; not much could be seen hanging on the walls, other than the few things that had been there when Frodo arrived. The only thing that was a little cluttered was his desk. Books and papers were starting to stack, but the little figure hardly paid it any mind. His attention stayed concrete on the work in front of him.
Everything that had happened to him within the past few weeks was still rather difficult for him to wrap his head around. It wasn't every other day where you woke up in a strange land with different people and characters alike. Why, it had been difficult in Middle-earth not knowing the road that lay ahead of you, let alone what was to happen here! Frodo's agenda was much, much different from that of a normal hobbit's anymore.
But, according to some of his neighbors in Hobbiton, Frodo Baggins wasn't exactly a normal hobbit.
The name of Baggins had once been very respectable in the Shire. A Baggins was proper and on time. A Baggins was polite and orderly. A Baggins never went on any adventures or did anything unexpected. But by the time Frodo moved in with his uncle all those many years ago, the once-respected name had changed quite a bit. Many hobbits thought of his Uncle Bilbo as odd, questionable, and some even thought he was a ghost. Once Frodo started to follow in Bilbo's footsteps, some of these rumors and such were passed onto him.
That wasn't exactly how he wasn't 'normal', though. Not anymore.
Frodo got to his feet and stretched. He looked to his window....and shut the blinds. He then covered his notes and the pamphlets, and checked to make sure the door was closed. And when all was safe, he pulled out from underneath his shirt a tiny golden ring.
Though it may seem ordinary to some, it was nothing but an ordinary ring. It was the Ring of Power, the very ring designed by the Dark Lord Sauron himself. It was evil upon all evils. It was the one thing that would either bring peace to Middle-earth, or lead it to ruin. And it was Frodo's responsibilty to carry it to the very place where it was forged, so it could be destroyed forever.
It spoke to Frodo. It whispered evil things to his ears, spoke in a language that no Hobbit or Man should ever hear. For every time he resisted its lure, it harmed him, like putting a burning brand against his skin...against his very soul........
His hand closed against the little ring that hung on its chain, and his thoughts began to wander. It was seeking for a way back home, where it could be reunited with its Master. In this odd world, its Master was nowhere close, and there was nothing to aid it. Frodo could feel the anger seeping from the Ring into his own skin, and his hand clenched around it tighter. It was a low, seething kind of anger that set his teeth on edge. How dare he be pulled from his quest? Did they not know the importance of what he was dealing with? If someone were to claim the Ring, would they know what danger they would put themselves into?
.......No. Frodo pushed back against the odd feelings, and started to open his hand. His fingers stayed tight in their position, like they were fighting against him, but his grip on the Ring slowly started to loosen. Whether or not he was in Hobbiton, Middle-earth, or even Goldvale, he must stay strong. For everybody's safety.
His hand let go of the Ring then, and settled back down to his side. The hobbit took a small breath of air, before looking listlessly up to the wall ahead of him, lost in his own thoughts. A few moments later, he opened the blinds and unlocked the door, and returned to his seat at his desk. Frodo uncovered the paper, and continued again.
The language was much harder for him to learn than Elvish. He had no previous history with whatever was being deciphered before him, and hardly any mentor like Uncle Bilbo. But after a minute or two, Frodo shut his eyes, and thought of the days when he was a young lad, spending evening upon evening studying with Bilbo in his study. He could imagine the older hobbit sitting beside him, having him write the letters, saying the words, bit by bit. Ga-lad. Gilth-on-ie-l.
Frodo found himself doing the same; running one hand over the words in front of him, the other scribbling down the notes as the puzzle began to fit into place. He imagined Bilbo standing beside him, muttering 'Good, lad! Good!
A smile slowly found itself onto Frodo's face, and a tear slipped down his cheek.