AUTHOR'S NOTE: Somewhere between yet another reread of the Tolkien collection in my room and the inspiration that are butch bisexual women, I somehow ended up creating this story. Please do review, I like opinions and constructive criticism.

"Italics" when used in dialogue indicates foreign language(s) to Middle Earth. Normal text is Westron. Italics when not used in a dialogue context is for emphasis. "Bold" is any Elvish dialect, because I'm lazy about writing out Sindarin/Quenya conversations.

I own nothing of Tolkien, though I may have his books. My creative additives, however, are mine.

A very tired lumberer stumbles her way into Bree, and unfortunately gets entangled in a plot involving a hobbit, his three buddies, and a very tall man. Another man, after she has found safety in Imladris, can't seem to decide whether he hates her very existence or wants under her clothes. By sheer accident, the lumberer garners the attention of an elf. Desperately, the undercover Earther wishes they weren't all on the same quest.

Chapter One: Some Walk in the Rain, Others Get Wet

It had been exactly seven hundred and seventy-five days since the woman found herself stuck here. And, to be painfully honest, she felt her new lifestyle wasn't as terrible as it could have turned out.

For the record, the woman hadn't been a completely useless individual prior to her… state of being stuck. She had three years of community college under her belt and one year at a top four-year university. She'd worked her ass off to get the education she wanted with very little money, and it was a testament to her work ethic that she managed to transfer with a high GPA as well as good standing. She was borderline middle-class, but that never stopped her. There had been a few father-daughter hunting trips, camping vacations, days when her father took her to the riverside and named off every plant and animal he could spot. Her parents had been born in the early fifties, giving her a somewhat more old-fashioned upbringing compared to her peers. Both her grandfathers and great-grandfathers had been brilliant men in their own ways; the woman's mother had three degrees and one minor. Her elder sibling, Maria, was an overachiever with a ruthless streak who eventually became a professor in Germany teaching undergraduates while simultaneously being worshipped by her German graduate TA's.

All of it helped in one way or another. Her father's happy babble about flora and fauna from all corners of the world helped with digging up edible roots, tubers, starch. She knew that peppermint was more than just a really great flavor to combine with chocolate. The woman was aware of what animal would try to steal her fire-cooked dinner and what animal would stay well away. She understood that dried herbs and spices, alongside animal hides, went a long way in making a considerable amount of coin. That one friend with a serious obsession with knives back in college who gifted to her a very small folded steel karambit one christmas party technically saved her life from four different encounters with highwaymen. And bless her very paranoid cousin Bartie, who had given her the combat knife he used throughout his tour in the Marines and taught her self-defense on weekends when she wasn't bogged down by schoolwork. You fight to win, not to quit, he used to say. She networked with as many interested parties in this place as possible, as her mother always had, but she never gave away more than the most basic of personal information. Her keen memory helped her learn the languages of… here, and remember the best places for lumber.

But not everything was pretty little flowers and cute puppies.

Let it be known that the young woman's father, though smart and quick-witted, had two learning disabilities and extreme ADHD. She had inherited all of the scholarly intelligence and common sense she possessed from both parents, but also inherited a processing disorder from her father and an overly aggressive personality from her mother. There wasn't some kind of big local library with air conditioning barely a block away to study in. Her memory was impeccable, but attempting to learn a language she didn't speak from people who didn't know English was not an easy process. All of it was done verbally and by trial-error imitation. The words would jumble in her disorderly mind at times, the grammatical rules switched around at random.

It didn't help that there were Elves and Dwarves and Halflings, as if she had been somehow teleported into a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. The tall pointy-eared people had three different branches of an expansive language family, and half the time her processing disorder confused the Sindarin vocabulary with the Quenya vocabulary. There were even elves who spoke obscure, older dialects of the three interrelated languages. Because of this, she only spoke when spoken to, and understood conversations as long as none of the otherworldly folk used Avarin or Telerin words. The Hobbits—what the Halflings preferred to be called—were perhaps the best of the strange peoples that existed. They spoke no unique language, but spoke the common tongue of humans. The small folk loved a good party and good food. Understandably, they were a little shifty around "tall folk," but it didn't take long for her to warm up to them with good humor and her grandmother's recipes. In contrast, the stout, bearded folk did not share their exceedingly complex language or their culture idly; it took her an entire year to gain the trust of the Ered Luin dwarves before they even attempted to teach her some extremely basic phrases.

There weren't hotels or motels with working showers, let alone an existence of any sort of modern utility. She had sponge baths from wooden buckets of water, hot-drawn baths in copper tubs at inns, or simply risked infection by taking a dive in a river. Her clothes were made from handwoven linen, wool, animal furs for warm coats, and leather. Her aggressive nature started more fights than resolved them, and her unfinished majors in Anthropology and Linguistics didn't come in handy very often beyond language-learning and puzzling out cultural distinctions between races. Her art hobby did her more good, aiding in crafting things for personal use or money. Her disinterest at the idea of working as a barmaid, seamstress, or anything generally involved in being metaphorically chained to the beast called Homemaking consequently lead her to pursuing the profession of woodworking. Lumbering.

Which, unfortunately but not unsurprisingly, resulted in more than a few strange looks and muttered words she had yet to translate. Not that she cared all too much. She wore men's clothes because pants and the masculinity that it implied. She valued the freedom of the occupation despite how back-breaking the work proved to be. Her wild black hair was worn unlike the fashion of the woodsmen, not hanging down her spine as uncombed greasy horsehair, but tightly wrapped in a bun. At times she wished she could just wear her hair like she normally would have and walk around as who she was… except she would be even more estranged from society for her eccentrics. Or, under possible threat of mutilation.

And, to top it all off, she was a chicana with a name like Cameron Stevens.

She blamed her very, very white father for that.

Nonetheless, the woman couldn't deny that her job as a lumberwoman could be quite profitable if she didn't waste resources. Within the first four weeks, following the initial emotional rollercoaster involving the Kübler-Ross model of the Five Stages of Grief, she took advantage of the curious looks and the mercy of her questionably crazy boarding house landlady. Cameron managed to make twenty-five silver pennies from ten chopped pines, twelve bundles of dried herbs, three pouches of spices, and one hand-sized carving of a mountain lion. Trees in certain parts of the forests, she noted, would grow with abandon in the night and be ready for felling by the morning. She took advantage of it with an inhuman fervor, and even started spreading seeds to help the mysterious process. Other such fantastical curiosities could be found in the forest, secrets only she seemed able to decipher, and young woman used such curiosities to her advantage. The local lumberers claimed she had the favor of the Valar, the gods of the general religion these people believed in, because they too noticed these strange occurrences and blamed it on her.

But honestly, the woman didn't believe that. Their world had elves and dwarves and hobbits; rapidly regrowing forests and the existence of magical forces didn't seem outside the realm of possibility!

Beyond that, after three months of being seen around the northern reaches of Arnor by Ered Luin dwarves, the Mithlond elves, and the men of Bree and Fornost, Cameron had the respect she deserved for working equally as hard as the other woodsmen. The title "swarthy-woman" because of her appearance (the humans were all ignorant racists) fell out of favor for Satta-banâth, whatever that meant. She had a body thick with muscle in ways she never dreamed of having. By the time a year passed, she had a better control of Westron and the elves called her Raegbund. Which, unfortunately, only came about because one of them asked what Cameron meant in English. Uh, it means "bent nose," she had said. The response to that was a loud round of laughter and a permanent joke of an elvish nickname.

Now here Cameron was two years and about two months since ending up in Arda: trudging her way along as rain come down by the bucket full. The dirt road leading to Bree was flooded, turning into a nigh untraversable landmark of glompy mud and filthy water. Any stranger trying to reach Bree would be hard-pressed to see the way there. If anything, they would have better luck drowning in the large puddles by the wayside than tromping into town. Her boots were disgusting in their state, as if to prove her point, and her poor wool socks were soggy beyond hope. The oiled and fur-lined coat protecting her from the elements was no longer suitably resistant, the long fur chunky and beginning to knot together. The hood of the leather jerkin underneath weighed heavy upon her head from the amount of water it held.

Hell, everything was simply sopping wet. Perhaps the only thing not affected was the long combat knife strapped to the woman's leg, the folded karambit in her pocket, and the dwarvish axe resting on her shoulder. Bless the unbelievable craftsmanship of the dwarves, Cameron thought fondly. Their crafts, if properly forged by one of their master weaponsmiths, could withstand mind-boggling amounts of abuse. The distinct dwarven design of the axe allowed it to double as a bludgeon and an axe, something that came in handy in a multitude of ways. Though, the crafter of the weapon was initially miffed that she'd used his beautiful gift of a weapon as a tree-felling item. Eventually, the stubborn old dwarf realized that it was more of a compliment than anything to hear his creation could both smash skulls and cut down trees.

Either way, the intact status of the woman's weapon-tool could not be said for the chopped wood packed and tied against her rucksack. By the time it dried out, there'd be mold cultures and, with her horrible luck, powderpost beetles. The rations inside the rucksack were most likely unsalvageable too. There goes the bread I was saving…

What little hope Cameron did have was saved for the well-bundled herbs she collected, the animal furs she had stored away, the cured meats that were a profitable result of collecting hides, and the large deer antlers she had surprisingly found by tripping over. Her hides always sold well with the leather workers and the seamsters. The herbs were generally bought by any reasonably seasoned traveler with medical talent. Or, perhaps, a West Farthing hobbit with a penchant for interesting flavors in their tea. The meat was only sold to Butterbur, who never failed to pay quite handsomely for good cuts of flesh. At Wilhelmina's, a boarding house built at the edge of town by the guard wall and owned by an ornery—and arguably mad—widow with a soft spot for Cameron, there was plenty of wood kept in the shed. The unfortunate fate of the wood she carried thankfully wouldn't ruin business. The antlers she'd carve and sell to either the elves or the hobbits, as there were few in Bree who would be able to pay the full price for a luxury item made from pristine deer antler.

She really just needed to make it through the horrible weather.

"Ho' there!"

Cameron splashed to a stop, halting at the call of someone's voice behind her. It wasn't loud, as the heavy rainfall almost drowned out the disembodied yell. Awkwardly, she turned in place, mud and water churning around her boots. It was a struggle to see anything, with how weighted her hood was from rainwater.

"Who calls?!" She yelled, before saying to herself, "This isn't a great time to stop for talking."

Splashing and roiling, wet cloaks slopping around, four petite individuals came into the lumberer's view. Hobbits! The water was well up to their waists, their cloaks either half-floating on the muddy water or horribly sunk and stained. Their cloak hoods were glued to their curly-haired heads, of which three were vaguely lighter than one hobbit's dark mop. Clearly, if it were not raining, three of them were bright curly heads and the outlier to be a brunette. One of them had a lovely but soaking wet scarf about his neck. They looked scared, which made sense. A human trudging through the muddy water with a heavy pack and a bizarre dwarven axe? But clearly their needs outweighed how intimidating she appeared.

"I am quite sorry to bother you, sir, but we must get to Bree! Where is the road? The flooding has washed it away!" a hobbit spoke.

"If you could point us in the right direction, we would be ever so grateful!" said another, who stood next to his fellow. He was the hobbit wearing the scarf.

"I'm not a sir, but that is a... nice? For you to say," Cameron struggled to convey. She nearly forgot the word for nice in Westron. "You are on the road, so that is very lucky for you. Go that way and you will reach the gate. Be… Beware? Beware the watcher of the gate. He is a right ass."

The scarf-wearing hobbit actually managed to snicker out a giggle at her last statement. Or maybe at her mildly choppy words. It made her sound simple, the lumberer had to admit. Maybe a little too cold, like her choppy words were thanks to the horrible weather. Either way the hobbit's friend nodded vigorously, and threw himself into a bow that nearly ended with his face down in the muddy water. The dark-haired hobbit and the last, more portly hobbit nodded their heads.

"Thank you then, Miss?" spoke the friend of the scarf-hobbit. His tone was sincere but also confused. Cameron nodded in confirmation, before turning back to the road.

"How can you be sure she ain't lyin' to us?" one of the hobbits failed to properly mutter when her back was facing them. She barely took a step before she stopped. Rude.

"Sam!" a voice berated, before speaking up, "Forgive him! He is simply distrustful of those on the road."

Cameron turned her head to look back. "He is not wrong to be so. Unsavory folk hide among the trees. Sometimes. Highwaymen, you know?"

Their eyes darted around, and the woman chuckled at their expense. "None would be out tonight. Too much rain for any highwayman. You are safe, hobbits. Go on your urgent errand. Good night."

They took her words to heart. The four hobbits sloshed their way past her, tipping their heads as they went. She continued her trek, though with a little more speed. They were quick on their feet despite having the water up past their waists, and swiftly became nothing but shadows in the distance.

It was an hour later that Cameron came to stop before the western gate of Bree, completely soaked through and almost shivering with how numb she was from the cold rain. She paused to stretch out her fingers before unshouldering her axe. Tapping the blunt side against the gate thrice, Cameron didn't have to wait long. The racket it created was sharp, and it rattled the wood.

A moment later, old Harry slid back the peephole cover. He was holding a lamp in one hand, his face lit starkly in the dark. His visage was weathered and creased like crumpled parchment paper.

"What do you want, and where do you come from?" he questioned gruffly.

"Open the damned door, Harry. It is Cameron."

"Is that you, Satta-banâth? Ferny's not too keen on you coming into town. I'm not either, this night! Can't let you in."

"Harry! Why do you dare?!" She yelled quickly, muddling up her exclamation. Sometimes her temper made her mental translations worse. "Is Bill Ferny the mayor, or have you been bought by a fuckin' backstabber? What the hell?!" The weather was horrid, and she wasn't interested in his stupid games.

"Don't go throwin' those fowl nonsense words at me, lumberer!" he spat back. "Now you're not gonna' get in at all! Good night!"

"Wait, no—!"

The peephole slammed closed, and the vague light of Harry's lamp from under the gate door faded away. She stood alone in the rain, grasping her axe.

"I've got half a mind to hack this gate to splinters," Cameron muttered to herself in English. "Damn Harry…"

It wasn't often that it happened, but Harry the watchman would at times barr her from entering Bree. She knew it had something to do with the title Satta-banâth, which was either spoken with hate or as a plain fact. Her mother's Mexicana features weren't appreciated in the least either. That, and Harry was plainly a bigot from all sides. Suffering his intolerance for two years made her quite short-tempered with the old man.

The lumberer shouldered her axe again, tugging the leather thong holding it there tight, before walking alongside the guard wall. It was a mixture of wood and stone, not a wide enough wall for anyone to stand atop of. As a consequence, there were no sharp obstacles to skewer anything the would decide to perch there.

It also helped that there was a tree near enough to the wall she could climb.

With some fumbling, cursing in both English, Spanish, Westron, and near-falling, Cameron got herself up the tree. And across a thick limb. And plopped unceremoniously in the mud on the other side of the guard wall.

Now her pants needed washing, and the lower parts of her fur-lined coat did as well. Her axe served as a useful prop to stand, and with a few hurried steps, she was safely back in Bree. Cameron made her way down the main road, nodding to a few people but otherwise ignoring the rest. The muddy path curved and snaked erratically, similar to how old-style European towns often did. When she could see the eastern Gate of Bree, she took a turn to the left. A smaller cobbled street meandered off a few yards, houses and businesses passing by, before an isolated home stood in the shade of the guard wall.

It wasn't a large, inn-like boarding house like the Prancing Pony, where nearly all of the West seemed to rest for the night before venturing out into the wild that stretched eastwards. It was modestly sized, built with stone and very little wood. The open-air windows were shuttered closed, though light could be seen escaping between the gaps in the wood, and a large night lamp was lit over the doorway. There was a shed in the back, five bedrooms, a good kitchen, and a large common room. One of the immense stones that supported its foundation, near the door, was carved. On it, in the Westron alphabet, was WILHELMINA'S SANCTUARY.

This was where Cameron lived, and it was also the most unsought-after establishment in the entire town. As stated previously, the owner of the place was a widow who was… well, three marbles short of a full bag. To live at the Sanctuary was to live in seclusion, which could be a bad thing if you were a normal person. But seeing as the lumberwoman was not an average Breelander―and none of the establishments in town besides the Pony allowed anybody with her looks to live on the premises―the house was perfect.

Walking up the steps, the young woman knocked on the old, termite-eaten door. It'd seen better days, but Wilhelmina wouldn't let her craft a new one. Something about taking away the powerful, aged energies that protected her hearth? It wasn't a declaration that was indicative of logical sense, but anybody who spent even five seconds with the widow knew better than to think she had even the slightest smidgeon of sense.

"Is that you, wreathed child of the far shores?" A voice warbled aloud from inside the boarding house, "If so, you may pass into my home! If not, then I wish thee a pleasant journey to the void where Morgoth eternally languishes!"

Cameron sighed heavily. "Thank you, Wilhelmina," she said in a droning and weary tone. Turning the knob, she shuffled inside as rainwater poured off her clothes in lake-sized puddles.

"Ah!" the widow trilled, "I see you saw the rain! Yes, fresh rain is very fortuitous. Yes indeed!" Then she spun around from her perch at the far side of the common room, hopping up and waddling over to Cameron.

Wilhelmina was, if one were to summarize her appearance in a short sentence, looked like a whimsical yet unconventional depiction of a hag. She was plump like any older woman past her sixties with lengthy dove grey hair that dragged against the creaking floorboards in a horribly knotted mess. The widow did not stand straight, but almost completely hunched over. Her face was a caricature. Beady dishwater-blue eyes, crooked yellowing teeth, hawkish nose, a pointy but boxy chin with an unflatteringly deep cleft, scraggly eyebrows, thin cracked lips, wrinkles befitting a month-old pile of dirty laundry. All she lacked was a wort. The clothes she wore appeared as though a series of haphazardly-sewn patchwork quilts had been appropriated from an amateur seamstress and transformed into dresses. Along with such an ensemble usually was a black threadbare bodice, necklaces strung with nonsensical trinkets, and ripped wool gloves to partially cover Wilhelmina's arthritic fingers.

"Now have you brought anything for me, hmm? A fine silver fox fur? The antlers of a forgotten forest lord? The seeds from the palest trees with blooms as pure as starlight?"

The lumberwoman mentally considered her haul of goods, debating what part of it would suffice in bribing her landlady into leaving her alone for the next week or so. The options were limited.

"Fresh rainwater trapped in pine wood?"

"No!" The hag screeched, "A horrible gift! Am I so disliked that I must accept such a dishonorable offering? I think not!"

"Then…" Cameron trailed off, reaching back an arm. "What about an antler of a forest lord? An honorable gift?"

The widow's thoughtful hum was as shrill as a lark screaming at dawn before her gnarled hands shot out and snatched the sizable deer antler away. "Though it may not come from a forgotten lord of the wood, it is still an antler of a grand beast! I thank thee, ye child wreathed in power from the farthest coasts, for such fine a boon!" She took a jittery, wobbly bow, which caused a cloud of short black hairs to fly off her person and float on the damp air. It constantly littered Wilhelmina's person, no matter what time of day it was.

Why?

Because the crone raised a burgeoning clutter of cats inside her establishment like the poster child of crazy old medieval ladies she was. How many cats? Twenty-five, not counting the new litter of kittens that were snoozing in a wicker basket by the fireplace in the common room. If counted, the total would be thirty-two. How many of them were black cats? About eighty-nine percent. Six black toms were already attempting to swarm Cameron's legs, but the lake-sized puddles at her feet warded the felines off. Two cats, one black and the other vibrantly ginger, popped their heads up from under the widow's skirts like nosy little weasels.

The lumberwoman was in desperate need of a drink. And dry clothes. And some fraction of sanity in an insane environment, where old women gave her nonsensical titles and demanded gifts.

Before Wilhelmina could struggle her way back to a more natural hunchbacked position, Cameron absconded upstairs to her room. The widow's quarters were downstairs, while the four tenant rooms were on the second floor. Hers was closest to the staircase, with a window that faced the street. It was perhaps the smallest of the four rooms, with only enough space to fit a bed, two small wooden chairs, and a petite cast-iron stove. On the walls the lumberer hung various carved works of her own making, though not enough to cover up all the wood and stone. Just a few things here and there, nothing extremely fancy.

Quickly, Cameron went about shedding her rucksack and unpacking her goods. The furs were laid out on the bed, the herbs hung from the ceiling over the slow-burning stove, and she leaned the last remaining antler in a corner. The young woman eyed her disgusting wet clothes forlornly, before deciding she'd scrape off the mud and grime downstairs. She didn't like collecting dirt in her tiny room if she could help it. The meat was repacked, and the lumberer prayed she could get a free meal and a pint out of selling it to Butterbur at the Pony. The useless wet wood she would discard someplace. She didn't need powderpost beetles and termites eating at the Sanctuary.

With that she gathered her things for the Pony, tightened the axe's leather thong, and locked the door. Her neighbors weren't exactly bad people, but she didn't trust them not to steal something for their personal gain; she generally got bad, sketchy vibes from them. Tromping down the stairs, Cameron made sure not to stop walking toward the front door; otherwise Wilhelmina and her battalion of cats wouldn't let her leave without a madcap discussion on water spirits or long-dead royalty.

Upon exiting, the lumberwoman scrambled to escape the unrelenting storm. Seeing as the Sanctuary was on the edge of town and the Pony was basically the centerpiece for the entire town's sprawl, it was not a very successful scramble at all. She nearly slipped twice, and almost found herself run over by an ox cart about two yards away from the inn. I hate the rain. I hate people.

The Prancing Pony—ever the dependable establishment for Eriador's weary travelers—had a roaring fire burning in its impressive fireplace, thankfully. From the moment she stepped in, Cameron immediately felt the water begin to evaporate off her clothes. She gave a happy sigh before strolling up to the main counter.

"Hello. Butterbur here?"

The fellow behind the counter, a stern-looking man with an ungroomed beard, shook his head. "With this storm raging outside, half of Bree's decided to have a hot meal at the Pony! Butterbur's fluttering about like an overworked kitchen wife."

There went her free meal. "When you see him next, say Cam is here with meat to sell. And," she said, rifling through her pockets for the correct number of coins, "For a meal."

The man nodded, taking the money. "Good luck trying to find a seat."

Turning away from the counter, Cameron could see that packed would be an understatement. Full to bursting was much more befitting, as all but one table was completely crowded with bodies. And, admittedly, she wasn't keen to sit at the lone table herself. She had nothing against the darkly-dressed wanderers the locals called rangers. They passed quietly through Bree, buying herbs when the young woman had a decent supply and never judged her by face like the locals. But from what the Breelanders gossiped, they also were the ones who dispatched highwayman and brigands with severe prejudice. This one didn't appear to want any company but his own, playing into the suspicions of the townsfolk with the way he stretched himself out across an entire bench like one of Wilhelmina's gangly felines. He smoked from a carved wood pipe with his hood hiding his face, silent and foreboding; anyone who actually thought he wanted to socialize might just be skewered by the daunting longsword displayed blatantly at his hip! No thanks.

Eventually she settled on a table occupied by four hobbits, hoping the group would be welcoming of her company. Other than their table, there was only one other possibility. But a table of Ered Luin dwarrow miners, bitching about taxes? Yeah, nobody in their right mind wants to be stuck at a table of angry, incensed dwarves.

Walking over to the halfling table, the young woman quickly offered a short bow. "Hello. May I sit? Not much room at the Pony tonight," she said.

The four little faces looked up at her in surprise. "Why, it's the miss from the road!"

"Hello again, Miss!"

Cameron blinked owlishly. Three curly golden heads of hair, one dark brunette head. One was a little rotund, another had a lovely green scarf. It's those hobbits again!

"Oh, hello!" she spoke awkwardly. "I did not think I would see you all again."

"And walk through this terrible rain? Not on my life!" responded one of them.

"You're welcome to sit down, Miss," said the dark-haired hobbit. "A familiar face is comforting in an inn full of big folk."

She smiled, taking a spot on a bench between the the scarf-wearing halfling and his equally jovial friend. "Not all big folk. Dwarrow too."

"True," said that jovial hobbit. "But my cousin Frodo here isn't his uncle, who has a reasonable affinity for conversing with dwarves. No, we're perfectly fine with the company of a miss such as yourself."

Cameron couldn't help but laugh. "Oh really? The company of a Satta-banâth? Not many want it."

"What's what? What're a Satta-banâth?" wondered the portly one.

She shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. My Westron is… not the best? It is not my native tongue."

The hobbits made faces. "I was born and raised with Westron, and I've never heard such a word before!" said the one wearing the scarf.

"Perhaps it's from one of the big folk's languages," suggested the jovial halfling.

"That seems likely, Merry," said the brunette to his fellow.

Cameron wanted to bang her head on the table. "Another language? I struggle to understand this one!"

"You're not so bad," said the rotund hobbit.

"Thank you…?"

"Samwise Gamgee, Miss," he offered his hand, which she happily shook. The rest of the hobbits rushed―as their manners demanded of them―to introduce themselves as well.

"Peregrin Took, but I go by Pippin," the scarf-wearing hobbit declared.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck; call me Merry," piped up his companionable friend.

"Frodo Ba-Underhill," said the brunette, somewhat nervously. The lumberer raised a brow at his slight verbal stumble, but didn't draw attention to it.

"Cameron Stevens, lumberer."

Pippin tried to not appear rude, but he clearly was confused. "Cameron? Sounds like a man's name to me."

Merry smacked his arm in reproach. "Pippin!"

"I-It's a lovely name!" Pippin added quickly.

The lumberwoman found herself laughing again. "It is fine! Your honesty is… What is the word? Refreshing?"

Pippin smiled sheepishly. It was in that same moment that Butterbur made himself known, towering over the hobbits and Cameron. Normally he'd not be so tall compared to the young woman, but that's what she got for sitting at a hobbit table. It was a miracle her legs fit underneath.

"Oh, Cam! You're a right lovely sight to see! Arnie told me y'ur sellin' meat, and we're in desperate straits for it! Look at all the mouths to feed!" the innkeeper cried, his heavy arms gesturing wildly to the bustle around them.

The young woman unshouldered her axe, casually passing it off to Pippin as she pulled her pack off her back. He struggled to hold it aloft. She withdrew the wrapped meats with a practiced hand, laying them out on the table for Butterbur's preview.

"Seven venison, twelve coney, one pheasant, one fox."

Her present company boggled at the sight. Merry's wide-eyed gaze darted back and forth between the impressive meat selection and her rucksack. "How'd you manage to fit all of that in there?" he questioned in shock.

She gave him a blank stare. "Magic."

Butterbur laughed, shaking his head. "Always a joker, this one! I'll take the whole lot, Cam. Did you pay for your meal already? I'll return your coin to you, and pay your prices."

Cameron immediately brightened. So she did have a free meal in her future after all! That man always was a generous soul. Not that she can blame him for overpaying her. Unlike the amateur poachers in the area, she could actually provide something more than one or two shoddy-looking plucked pheasants.

"Thank you much, Barliman!"

Butterbur nodded, idly correcting, "Thank you very much, Cameron. Don't forget the very."

"I will have it eventually," she grumbled as the innkeeper wandered off. Pippin just about threw her axe at her, the weight of it was too much for the hobbit. "I know the words, I do! I just have a hard time ordering them at times."

"How many languages do you know, Cameron?" Frodo wondered.

And so the young woman found herself embroiled in a surprisingly deep conversation about Ardan languages despite her verbal stumbles. She was pleasantly surprised that she didn't correct herself as much after twenty minutes of continuous discussion with Frodo. Perhaps she just needed to practice more often. The lumberer didn't exactly have many people she conversed with, which probably explained why her Elvish was better than her Common. They talked to her the most, while most other people would rather ignore her existence; hobbits not included. And, unfortunately, she only learned enough Khuzdul to be equal to a five year-old dwarfling so far. For an Anthropology and Linguistics student, she was kind of pathetic.

As the night wore on, Cameron got to know her hobbit companions quite well over a few pints and a hardy meal. Butterbur had one of his servers―a halfling server named Nob―collect the wrapped meats from their table. It took the poor fellow a number of trips, but he eventually transported them all. Not long after, he brought the ale. Merry and Pippin were especially delighted in pint-sized flagons placed before them, which was amusing to watch. The pair of curly-haired blondes were like comedic geniuses, the way they bickered and joked. Medieval stand-up. Sam was a sweet, well-intentioned person. He ate the most out of them all, and had a habit of mothering anyone within reach. That did not exclude Frodo, who sometimes got so wrapped up in talking with her he'd forget to eat his food. It was obvious the dark-haired hobbit was very scholarly, what with his well-worded questions and equally interesting opinions. He was gracious in explaining and correcting her Sindarin, which Cameron deeply appreciated. Sam expressed an interest in hearing about her daily life in the forests of Fornost, explaining his job as a gardener in the Shire. Merry and Pippin took it upon themselves to dramatically describe their homeland to the far west in exceptional satirical detail. Frodo asked after where she originated, which caused Cameron a great deal of frustration in trying to teach the brunette halfling how to pronounce the United States of America without butchering the English. She forgot about the sorry state of her mud-stained pants and coat, forgot the exasperating encounter with her landlord.

But she shouldn't have forgot about Bill Ferny, and the fact he'd attempted to ban her from entering Bree.

"Why look who it is!" a voice boasted, "It's the dirt woman of Bree!"

Cameron just barely managed to hold herself back from leaping off the bench and drawing her cousin Bartie's combat knife. The cheer the hobbits had been reveling in had immediately cut off upon the appearance of the overly-greasy Man looming over their table.

The young woman took a slow, steadying breath. "Hello, Bill," she said, turning to look up at him with the brightest smile she could force upon her face. It was more a forbidding show of teeth than a look of cheer. "Finally emerged from the pig pens to walk amongst the normal folk?"

Ferny sneered in return. "Have ya' washed y'ur face recently, ya' bullish wench? Cuz' y'ur as filthy as one of them swarthy bastards that go stealin' from tha' stables," he spat.

Her jaw tightened, her false smile souring into an angry grimace. "What is the problem, Ferny? Did you think Harry could stop me from entering Bree? I live here; I will not be kept away."

"As if anyone in Bree wants ye' here!" he bellowed, his spit and hot breath hitting her face. Her face wrinkled in utter disgust. "Kip saw ya' hop tha' wall. If ye' don't leave this town by midnight, you'll git what ya' been askin' for!"

A few heads were beginning to turn at the confrontation, at Ferny's thinly-veiled threat of assault. The dwarrow took one look at the man, took a look at her person wearing an dwarven axe on her back. One of them was reaching for his mattock, a storm beginning to brew in his eyes. Let it be known that a dwarf will always defend a dwarf-friend, even if they don't know the individual personally. A handful of human patrons watched nervously, either uncomfortable at the idea of stopping Bill or uncomfortable at the idea of standing up for Cameron. In the far corner, the foreboding ranger pulled his pipe away, hood tipping in their direction. The four hobbits at their table appeared afraid. Frodo was especially nervous with all the eyes that were on their little drama.

"You do not scare me, Bill Ferny. If you want a fight, I will be here all night," she said, staring him straight in the eyes. "And, if you are too afraid I will kill you, Bill Ferny, I invite you to bring… what do people call him? The squinty-eyed Southerner? I welcome the challenge."

Ferny's face turned exponentially red with each word Cameron spoke. By the time she finished, he was the color of a chili pepper. Or at least, that's what she saw before the man grabbed their table and violently flipped it.

Hobbits went flying. What was left of the food and ale dumped onto the ground. Cameron went tumbling, and nearly took a vicious boot to the nose. The dwarrow screamed out a collective Du Bekar! before charging at Ferny. Half-drunk patrons looking for a tussle threw themselves into the mosh pit that seemed to bellow Khuzdul. Barliman Butterbur's expression was horrified, as were the remaining guests of the Pony that watched the chaos unfold. The lumberer scrambled safely out of the danger zone, only to see Frodo grabbed and flung by a nameless drunkard. He let out a panicked cry, echoed by his friends. Desperately, Cameron dashed forward to try and catch him.

He flew through the air, cloak fluttering around his body. The trajectory of his fall was destined to be the hard floorboards. The young woman stretched out her arms. Though the light in the Prancing Pony wasn't the best, Cameron managed to spot the faintest flash of gold slip out of Frodo's vest pocket. The hobbit crashed to the ground, his hand flailing out wildly. Another flicker of gold, a soft clink of metal hitting wood―

Frodo Underhill vanished.

The lone ranger threw himself into motion.