Chapter I: Of "Unnatural Things"

Bree (February, 3014)

An Excerpt of the Sheriff's Journal, Concerning Undersheriff Nen Fielding

…Fielding is, without a doubt, a fine and accomplished deputy. However, despite my greatest reservations concerning the matter, I have revoked the aforementioned individual's standing as undersheriff of Bree. This decision follows a grave incident on the Greenway, and although I was not personally present, reports of travelers are numerous. I have personally (and reluctantly) conducted an in-depth investigation, and discovered these reports to be trustworthy. What follows is a compilation of these reports in narrative, as best as I am able to manage at the time being. I hope, to any concerned parties in the future, that it is enough to convince any in doubt of my decision.

January 10, 3014: Weather was unseasonably warm, rainy, and blustery. Strange reports from the South, and travelers in increased numbers on the road. Past the sheriff's lunch at noon (note: a frugal and quickly-eaten fare), reports arrived from the xxth mile marker of the Greenway. A party of travelers had been robbed, and a highwayman left straightaway for our humble office, imploring aid. Undersheriff Fielding, being experienced in dealings with unsavory characters in the surrounding Bree-lands, promptly volunteered her aid. She was provided with one of the swiftest company horses, a mare by the name of Mayburry. At an unspecified hour before sundown, Fielding arrived at the party, to find that a member had been abducted along with all valuable items. Without inquiring with the sheriff's office further, Fielding immediately set off to trail the brigands.

Here, the reports take an unsettling turn. The abducted traveler was a young man by the name of Winrow. Partway through his abduction, the brigands determined that they no longer wished to risk leaving a noticeable trail, and Winrow was quickly vanquished.

Nearly two days later, of course, Fielding returned, altogether not much worse for the wear, considering that at some point during that time, she had located the brigands, their camp, and the stolen goods. For a while at least, I merely attributed this success to Fielding's excellent, well, field skills. Had it not been for the later capture of one of the brigands, whose name will remain out of these records for the time being, I would not be aware of the means by which my undersheriff located them. This particular witness was following the party of brigands, being an experienced trail-extinguisher. When he heard Fielding approach on her horse, he promptly dodged into some underbrush, where he watched the following proceedings with dismay:

Fielding, upon finding the discarded body of Winrow, dismounted her horse and knelt beside him. At this point, she began speaking to the dead man, inquiring as to the events that left him there, and how she might find his killers. The conversation was quite casual, according to the brigand, as though she were meeting an acquaintance for afternoon tea. After spending a bit of time in her seemingly one-sided conversation, the undersheriff left on her horse with a parting promise to return and properly bury the man once her business was finished.

As if this information were not peculiar enough on its own, the brigand also recalled discussing the location of their secret camp in front of the soon-to-be-dead man. Fielding immediately set off in the proper direction of this camp, and came upon it without any coincidence. All that is left to be concluded, then, is that my agent had a proper conversation with a dead man, and has likely had similar conversations before.

At the risk of being removed from my position as High Sheriff for the exploitation of Unnatural Things, I have removed Fielding from her position. I hope that my decision is respected and understood, although I will not speak directly of these happenings unless I am called under official questioning. In the meantime, I have appointed a new undersheriff…

Bree (March, 3014)

The rain beat heavily on the murky windowpane of her small, second-floor room, which was located above an equally small and second-rate tavern called "The Ghostly Sailor." Considering that there was no place to sail for miles, a tavern of this name was not quite appropriate. However, it was more likely the ale that kept customers away, as it tended to be as sour as the tavern's owners were oft to be. Only its upstairs inhabitant found the name to be fitting, in an ironic sort of way.

The woman in question was sitting on her stiff bed, turning a small copper badge over and over in her fingers. Engraved in neat letters was her name, Nen Fielding. She was not allowed to wear the badge anymore, nor was she really allowed to have it. But the Sheriff, being the rather softhearted and reluctant fellow that he was, let it pass "just this once."

She turned her gaze to the only other piece of furniture in the room—a rickety chair, which was suddenly inhabited by a grim and gray old rascal with a trademark sea captain's hat that was as raggedy and tattered as his namesake tavern. He spoke with a wispy voice that did not match his terrifying appearance in the least: "Ye'er really gonna quit, aren't ye?" His town was outwardly scoff-ish, but held an almost fatherly tone that she only recognized after years of dealing with him.

"Well, I really don't have much of a choice this time," she said, continuing to fidget with the old badge.

"If I weren't so filled with my scruples, so to speak, I'd tell ye to stage a mutiny!" The sea captain raised himself from the chair, raising one fist in the air as though to rally her.

In an attempt to keep from laughing, Fielding shook her head and tucked the badge in her pants-pocket again. "Stage a mutiny against the entire sheriff's office of Bree? You tell me when you come up with a way to do that. In the meantime, I will enjoy not being chased down by countless mounted deputies." She shook her head again and muttered, "'Scruples,' certainly." When she glanced up, her ghostly companion had vanished, and she let a small sigh escape her lips. He was most likely off to mope invisibly at the bar, scheming up ways to cheer her (although he would never admit to such a thing). The old captain had been lonely for quite some time, unable to pass on due to the dark deeds that still haunted his past. She never inquired as to what they were, but she suspected, after many years of conversation, that he once had great status as a pirate. How he came to Bree was another matter, as was how he became her unlikely friend and guardian of sorts. He did tell her how he died, which seemed to be a favorite discussion point among the ghosts whom she encountered: "Was a bar fight, and you shoulda seen the other man, lassie. No, well, I understand the he lived and I died, but I were one-hundred and two years old, lassie. I woulda won, had me heart not decided I was done fer." And he had haunted the old tavern ever since, remaining for a reason that she did not entirely understand.

Ghosts were like that, she mused. Sometimes, as with Winrow, they passed on immediately after they fulfilled a purpose, which was often to help the living. Other times, they lingered on, unable or unwilling to leave behind the world of the living. Those ghosts were, in her experience, cantankerous and altogether unsavory, but not impossible to reason with. They were a world apart from wraiths and other dark spirits.

Fielding shivered then, and a gust of well-timed wind slammed against her small window. Wraiths were another matter altogether. She had encountered one on a rather ill-fated trip to the barrows in her youth. At the time, she knew she could see well what others could not see, unless they had a veil purposefully lifted for them. Because of this, her interactions with the "other" world were more poignant. In the case of the wraith, she had been nearly stricken with paralysis, so overcome was she by the hatred and unnatural magic that surrounded it. She did not know who rescued her that day, only that she was indeed rescued. She made a point to avoid barrows altogether, now. Which happened to raise a few questions during her years as a deputy…

She shook her head to clear thoughts that were threatening once again to draw on self-pity. Moping was getting rather old, and there were certainly still adventures to be had. Like buying bread, for instance. Gathering her threadbare walking cloak, she left the tiny room and her thoughts for the time being, setting out into the cold and rainy streets.

Fielding did not put much thought to it at first, but the more she walked, the more she noticed that the town was unusually quiet. The rain had made the cobblestones rather slick and soggy in places, and occasionally she caught her rather sorry-looking reflection in a puddle. But no passers-by. At that moment, she cursed the fact that she was now unaware of the dangerous and exciting happenings of the land. There was a time when she knew exactly why the town was quiet, and this was not such a time.

Upon reaching the bakery, Nen was drawn instead to the crowd of mounted and cloaked individuals outside of the jailhouse. They all wore cloaks of green, which in the rain took on the color of deep, sunless pine forests. In the center, the sheriff's tall, thin figure could be spotted, sporting his signature mustache beneath a long and sharp nose. The collective voices of the group sounded like the grumbling of distant thunder, and as Fielding neared them, she caught snippets of discussion.

"Danger to the south… Coming your way… Orcs and armies…" Her heart skipped a beat. Although she was familiar with the rising tides of bad news, this seemed so immediate. And these men, she realized suddenly, were Rangers of the North. It was rare but not unheard of to see them in Bree, but such a large gathering certainly spoke of ill tidings. She was now as close to the group as she possibly could be, and was now able to hear more of the conversation, as well as make out the forms of several of the sheriff's deputies.

"…Asking for your aid, in any form that you are able to provide it. We ride forth at sunrise."

The sheriff's voice came apologetically from the dark group. "I'm sorry, I cannot in good mind spare any of my deputies, especially if the news you carry is true. But there is food and drink to be had at the Prancing Pony, and I will gladly pay for your room and board while you are here…"

Fielding drew back and let her legs carry her swiftly home, heart pounding and mind racing all the way. Although a large part of her knew exactly how foolish it was, a larger part knew exactly how she could find her purpose again, in the course of a night.

An hour before sunrise, a cloaked figure entered the Prancing Pony, carrying naught but a light travel-pack and a one-handed sword strapped to her thigh. Above her heart, she wore the simple copper insignia of a Bree-land deputy. She approached the group of Rangers, who eyed her first with suspicion and then with growing appreciation.

"My name is Fielding," she said with as much confidence as she could muster, hoping that her voice did not betray her apprehension and excitement at such a daring action. "And the High Sheriff has had a change of heart, determining to spare me. I have been tasked to ride with you, and offer whatever help that I can."

And so, Nen Fielding rode out with the Rangers of the North on her "borrowed" mare Mayburry, straight for the mysterious trouble that loomed in the South.

Author's Note (or, What is this Story, Exactly?):

Ever since I read Lord of the Rings, I've fan of the Witch King and the Nazgul. They're just so...mysterious? At any rate, I have always had these stories bouncing around in my head, and finally I decided to write one. Who doesn't love a bunch of tall, gaunt, and fear-inspiring old kings? This first chapter was mostly focused around Nen, but expect plenty of ringwraiths in the future.

Thanks for reading, and reviews/critiques are welcome!