The journal was tucked away, hidden among piles of scrolls and other odds and ends from generations of librarians clearly keen to preserve it, so long as it went unnoticed. Faramir, newly appointed Steward of Gondor, was likely the first person in a century to poke about in this particular collection, but recent events* urged the investigation. How did one negotiate with such people? Was there legal precedent for dealing with them? He had no idea; Gandalf's tutelage had urged mercy when such was begged, not equal consideration under the law. Had Gondor, at any point in her history, engaged in successful and legitimate commerce with Orc-kind?

Travel-stained and worn, the hand-penned text fading with age, the journal caught the Steward's eye for its oddness. Upon the cover was embossed a shield of peculiar making; Faramir almost thought it misfiled. But it was the date on the first page that leapt to his attention, and while his suspicions of a mislaid diary were not allayed, fond recollections of folk who also invoked the name 'Shire' came to mind.

The writing began in comfortably bold letters, but as he carefully turned page after page, the entries were more cramped, the lettering smaller, as though the author realized the limited space remaining in the little book. Regardless, only a few entries were necessary to intrigue him enough to explore further. Perhaps not a tale of civil relations between Orcs and Men, so he assumed, but engaging for its novelty nonetheless. He soon realized, however, that it was precisely what he was looking for, and set about transcribing the dim lettering and converting the dates.

From Faramir's transcription:

Brandy Hall, 13 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [3 February 2912 Third Age]

Freedom is at last my travel companion as I embark on what my folk would call 'an adventure' with shocked whispers and haughty distaste. What rubbish. Long have I sat at Gandalf's knee, avidly listening to his wondrous tales, eagerly applauding his fantastical fireworks, and longing for this day, the day of my liberation. What a bother that I was delayed until well after my parents had declared the crisis 'over.'

Not over by a long mile, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Gandalf has been around the past month, as have been many Big Folk supplying us with food, for the winter was uncommon harsh this year. The gaffers go on and on about the Long Winter and its depradations, yet none were here in those days. Like as not, they'll be crowing about this one for years to come.

But I suppose I make light of a dreadful situation, in hindsight. The Brandywine froze, and we were beset by white wolves. They were cunning and fierce, yet how different were they from any other animal so aggrieved by want? Who provided them with food, I wonder? Why, us, alas. Our hunters and trappers scoured the Woody End for any beast, large or small, unwise enough to poke its nose from a burrow, so who are we to condemn the wolves who did the same? They are animals, and that is what animals do. I hold no grudge against them.

It is past now, and I wish to look ahead. I have cut a sturdy walking stick and packed my knapsack with what provisions I was able to secure without doing harm to my fellow Hobbits in Bywater. I imagine, once my absence is noted, my eldest brother Tom will be most chagrined that he ever taught me woodlore! You never thought I'd use it, did you? Equally vexed, no doubt, will be that pustule brother of mine, Corbus, who has personally seen to my torments since birth. To him, I bequeathed all my best dresses. May he wear them proudly, for 'tis all I left him with.

Now then. Proper introductions, dearest diary. I am Petunia Grubb, so named because that is what was in full bloom upon my birthing day. Little wonder, then, that my favorite flower is a begonia. My slightly elder brothers had difficulties with such a complicated name as Petunia, and so bestowed 'Una' upon me. I have preferred that name over my given one for its disassociation with the hated bloom.

I am the youngest child of seven, and only daughter, of Nordbert and Adda Grubb, residents of Bywater, West Farthing of the Shire. My brothers are, in order of eldest to youngest, Tom, Dodric, Bando, Wilred, Padric and Corbus. I'm certain to mention them from time to time, for some have given wise advice and are kind, while others are plagues upon the land and should be punished vigorously. You know who you are, Pox and Box.

I plan to set forth on the morrow, departing the smials at Brandy Hall and heading out the East Road. I have it on good authority from the Brandybucks here that the mead in Bree is not to be missed, so I'm bound for the Prancing Pony. I've little enough pocket money, but perhaps there are chores needing doing along the way that may provide me with means when needed. Otherwise, Tom was foolishly thorough in his teachings, so I might live somewhat comfortably off the land even in rough country.

I consider myself a sturdy Hobbit; I shouldn't have trouble managing on a curbed diet of only four or five meals a day, surely.

* This story is within the Out of All Proportions universe, though it predates the War of the Ring and thus the activities described in Misfire, Hookup, et al. The 'event' Faramir alludes to is briefly mentioned in another fic of the series, Reconciliation of Mammoth Proportions, and is intended for more detailed description in its own fic yet to be written. In brief, an Orc of Mordor has emerged in the months following the end of the War suing for peace with Men on behalf of Orc-kind. Needless to say, that one'll be very AU. :)

A/N: For those who aren't 'date obsessed' in LOTR, for context, the events of The Hobbit begin in 2941 Third Age, and Frodo takes off on his whirlwind adventure in 3018 Third Age. Misfire begins, as the initial chapter indicates, in 3019.