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This evening was like any other. A faint candlelight flicker pierced through the dusty windows onto the street. A cool mist whispered out front of the Floating Log Inn.
Jamwine peered through rings of longbottom leafsmoke that bellowed in the pub’s dirty air. Peering across the misty room and through the small distant window, the reflective moonlit frog pond beckoned from a horizon hobbits dare not explore.
The olde ale was mighty stronger than most nights. A silly buzz in the air and Jamwine found himself waltzing about the room. An attempt surely to reach the bar for another pint.
Due to the unsteady nature of the pub floor that particular evening, Jamwine rather stumbled out the door, and into the brisk night air. An amble bump, and a graceful topple later, Jamwine found himself tumbling down the townsend mound, and into a thicket field… unknown to Jamwine.