[ It is unwise to be out walking alone. Here. Well, he thinks, at least. There's too many pockets in his understanding, and again, he's reminded of how he'd run out his door with only a detail or two of what lied before him. Perhaps it's in his nature to get wrapped up in business a hobbit, a Baggins has no, well, business getting involved in; there's not enough Took blood in him to outweigh his lack of skill and knowledge, and for that, he's stuck wondering why he's been chosen to be amongst the ranks of the far better suited. The sword at his side is little more than an overdressed, belt decoration; the only sword something he knows how to wield is a butter knife and that fine silver if more blunt, than sharp. Of course, he'd managed to survive one quest long enough to be dragged into this one, but he is not vain enough to believe it's been his own doing. He isn't a hero. He isn't a warrior. He isn't even a burglar. Luck is his greatest weapon, and something so fickle and fleeting promises to desert him at the worst possible moment.
He's hoping this isn't that moment though.
There's still little reason for him to be out here. Fourteen reasons, perhaps, but the hope of bumping into an assortment of dwarves and one, frustratingly missed wizard is far too dwindling for him to believe it'll truly happen. He should turn back around and return to his new residence, and maybe he would have if the ominous creak of the floorboards and a wisp of something unnatural hadn't caught in the corner of his eye. Haunted they'd said, as though it is of little concern, but for Bilbo who still isn't used to the world beyond a cozy hearth and quiet sensibility, fleeing for a much earlier morning walk had seemed like the only available option. So here he is, walking down a barely beaten path and weaving around weeds and dead undergrowth, all the while wondering if trading a hammering heart for chilled, damp skin has been worth it.
Sighing, he rounds the corner of a too tall building and pauses as his gaze falls upon a small group of loitering men. They pay him little mind beyond glancing his way and scoffing something brief and dismissive, but Bilbo diverts and shuffles his feet to go another way; he isn't afraid of taller folk even if his experience with the bigger races is rather insignificant, but being so small in comparison and lost in a world not his own, Bilbo has taken to being alone. That first day in the courtyard, ha, he'd spent more time trying to get out of the way of others and not being bumped again by those too blind and rushed from the rain to see him, than he had in accomplishing anything of importance. He knows he's short, however, he's never thought himself small; it's as though he'd been, well, invisible and no, he is quite certain a particular piece of jewelry had been in his pocket.
And it's right then, as his thoughts drift that his hand does as well, as though absentmindedly drawn by something beyond simple wondering.
Fingers pat and dip, curling to find the gold band, and then he pulls it out to get a look. He hasn't tried it again since that first time. Logic tells him it couldn't be a fluke occurrence and that, yes, the same magic should endure to the next time he needs it, but something itches in the back of his mind and curiously, he eyes the gleam of gold, thinking that, perhaps, he should try once more, just to ensure the trick works in his new surroundings. There's no one around afterall. No one to see, no one to bother, or to question, and it's with that thought that his inquisitiveness wins out and he tips the band around a finger. Cool metal slips down and it's then that an already grey, muddled world becomes greyer, what little color draining out in favor of a disorientated fog. He twists his lips and wrinkles his nose in mild distaste, momentarily unused to the change and trying to remember how he weathered it last time; however, he hasn't traveled more than a handful of steps before there's noise behind him. His head snaps up and glances over his shoulder at the call of his name and...—
Aragorn?
A chance meeting that can once again be attributed to his luck had assured him an ally from his own world, but while he's found Aragorn to be friendly and welcoming and a number of other kind things he doesn't have the time to list right now, there's a feeling that seizes in him at the command to show himself. Light on his feet, he weaves away some, just to maintain space between himself and the man; once again, logic tells him that Aragorn has seen him inexplicably disappear, if the tightly strung concern in his voice means anything, so slipping off his ring now to reappear will not damage anything, however…
He slips away instead. He can't leave, but he can wind around a barren tree thankfully close, take a breath and pull off the ring before his hesitance can win out. He presses the ring back into his pocket, knowing he can't outwit the man without an explanation, but hoping to shy away from revealing his trinket; with that, he pops his head around the tree and presses his hands to the trunk, swallowing down his unease to supply a slightly strained— ] … Ah. Yes? Here I— [ A nervous clearing of his throat. ] —… am.
but bilbo doesn't want to show off his ttly awesome ring of destruction
He's hoping this isn't that moment though.
There's still little reason for him to be out here. Fourteen reasons, perhaps, but the hope of bumping into an assortment of dwarves and one, frustratingly missed wizard is far too dwindling for him to believe it'll truly happen. He should turn back around and return to his new residence, and maybe he would have if the ominous creak of the floorboards and a wisp of something unnatural hadn't caught in the corner of his eye. Haunted they'd said, as though it is of little concern, but for Bilbo who still isn't used to the world beyond a cozy hearth and quiet sensibility, fleeing for a much earlier morning walk had seemed like the only available option. So here he is, walking down a barely beaten path and weaving around weeds and dead undergrowth, all the while wondering if trading a hammering heart for chilled, damp skin has been worth it.
Sighing, he rounds the corner of a too tall building and pauses as his gaze falls upon a small group of loitering men. They pay him little mind beyond glancing his way and scoffing something brief and dismissive, but Bilbo diverts and shuffles his feet to go another way; he isn't afraid of taller folk even if his experience with the bigger races is rather insignificant, but being so small in comparison and lost in a world not his own, Bilbo has taken to being alone. That first day in the courtyard, ha, he'd spent more time trying to get out of the way of others and not being bumped again by those too blind and rushed from the rain to see him, than he had in accomplishing anything of importance. He knows he's short, however, he's never thought himself small; it's as though he'd been, well, invisible and no, he is quite certain a particular piece of jewelry had been in his pocket.
And it's right then, as his thoughts drift that his hand does as well, as though absentmindedly drawn by something beyond simple wondering.
Fingers pat and dip, curling to find the gold band, and then he pulls it out to get a look. He hasn't tried it again since that first time. Logic tells him it couldn't be a fluke occurrence and that, yes, the same magic should endure to the next time he needs it, but something itches in the back of his mind and curiously, he eyes the gleam of gold, thinking that, perhaps, he should try once more, just to ensure the trick works in his new surroundings. There's no one around afterall. No one to see, no one to bother, or to question, and it's with that thought that his inquisitiveness wins out and he tips the band around a finger. Cool metal slips down and it's then that an already grey, muddled world becomes greyer, what little color draining out in favor of a disorientated fog. He twists his lips and wrinkles his nose in mild distaste, momentarily unused to the change and trying to remember how he weathered it last time; however, he hasn't traveled more than a handful of steps before there's noise behind him. His head snaps up and glances over his shoulder at the call of his name and...—
Aragorn?
A chance meeting that can once again be attributed to his luck had assured him an ally from his own world, but while he's found Aragorn to be friendly and welcoming and a number of other kind things he doesn't have the time to list right now, there's a feeling that seizes in him at the command to show himself. Light on his feet, he weaves away some, just to maintain space between himself and the man; once again, logic tells him that Aragorn has seen him inexplicably disappear, if the tightly strung concern in his voice means anything, so slipping off his ring now to reappear will not damage anything, however…
He slips away instead. He can't leave, but he can wind around a barren tree thankfully close, take a breath and pull off the ring before his hesitance can win out. He presses the ring back into his pocket, knowing he can't outwit the man without an explanation, but hoping to shy away from revealing his trinket; with that, he pops his head around the tree and presses his hands to the trunk, swallowing down his unease to supply a slightly strained— ] … Ah. Yes? Here I— [ A nervous clearing of his throat. ] —… am.