Prologue
Satisfied, Bilbo looked around. The lobby of Hotel Baggins was absolutely untainted after his evening clean-up and finally it was time to go to bed. After a last glimpse through the room, he straightened a pillow on the worn out but cosy couch, and then he turned off the lights with a tranquil feeling.
At that moment, someone knocked on the door thrice, loudly.
"Now who might that be, at this hour? Don't they know it's long past closing hours?" Bilbo mumbled, hurrying to the door on his fluffy slippers. With a click he unlocked the door and in front of him were standing three men, most probably a father with two near-adult sons.
"I'm sorry, what can I help you with?" Bilbo asked politely.
"We need a place to sleep", the father responded in a gruff tone.
Bilbo forced a smile, wondering how someone could be so impolite to disturb him on a late hour like this and then talk to him in such a demanding manner. "Then you're at the right address," he said, as polite as the occasion let him. "You're lucky, I just wanted to close off. There are still some rooms available." He opened the door farther and let his guests enter the abandoned lobby.
"How long are you planning on staying? And how many rooms would you like to hire?" He tried not to let it show just how much the appearance of the father imposed on him, with his long black curls, sturdy leather jacket and haughty look.
"A room for one and one for two, for an undetermined period of time. You can assume a long stay," the man said in a commanding tone.
His way of communicating didn't appeal to Bilbo at all, but he kept his temper and showed the men their rooms as hospitable as possible.
"Breakfast is downstairs in the room at the right of the lobby, from half past seven to-"
"We'll find it," interrupted the father, who had hired the rooms under the name of Oakenshield.
"Oh. Well then. Good night," Bilbo said, rather bewildered.
He got no greet in return.
Again, he walked downstairs to close off the lobby, and when he arrived there, he groaned of frustration. Three pairs of muddy footsteps traced their ways over the white flagstone tiles. That meant night work. "Nothing I can't handle," he mumbled to calm himself down a bit. "It just happens sometimes. Not a problem. I'll have it clean in no time." He ran a hand through his gold-brown curls, straightened the tie of his bordeaux red uniform and went to work quietly.