Chapter Four: Blood on the Cobblestones
Ivy tensed, watching the direction that the noise had come from for a second before unfreezing and doing as instructed. The cobblestone roads were well-kept, but she managed to find a small number of small stones that had been brought in from other places.
Shifting the stones in her hand, Ivy waited for the Big Person to show himself, nerves raw. It could be just a simple drunkard, or something much more dangerous...she hated the suspense.
A soft scraping on the cobblestone road came from one direction... and continued for several moments. All too soon, a thumping noise arose from a dark shack on the roadside. The large figure of a draft horse was seen in the shadows, stomping a hoof on the floor of his stall.
Small sounds of the night arose from all around. Then, booted footsteps came swiftly from behind and a strong arm wrapped suddenly around Ivy's neck, a hand held tightly over her mouth. It was the same frighteningly wild man that had been seen in the Prancing Pony with the bloody dagger. His wide, blazing eyes were just barely seen beneath the shadows of a hooded cloak.With a strong grip still on Ivy, he lunged at Roscoe...
His body reacting before his brain could command it, Roscoe flashed out his hobbit-sword and struck the man in the hand; the wound did not seem deep, but Roscoe hoped it would be enough to deter the murderer for a moment at least. It might give Roscoe the chance to come up with a strategy...
His mind was now racing. He tried to go for the man's other arm, the one holding Ivy. Perhaps he would loosen his grip if that arm was wounded. "I just hope I don't miss and get her instead!" Roscoe thought.
Ivy took in a startled breath as the man grabbed her, gathered stones falling to the ground with a small clatter as her still unheld arms struck blindly at him...they were sadly weak, as it was quite hard to punch somebody when not facing them at all.
She watched Roscoe with wide eyes, constantly twisting and struggling to get out of the smelly Big Person's grasp.
The man gasped in pain as the small sword struck his hand. He held it tightly to his chest for a moment before swinging his arm, catching Roscoe sharply across the face. Blood from his wound splattered over the hobbit and the cobblestone road.
He then moved Ivy to his side and drew a sword that had been hidden beneath his cloak. He raised it and used the hilt to land a heavy blow to the top of Roscoe's head. A sudden scuffling noise caught the murderer's attention and he panicked. With Ivy held fast under one arm, the man staggered down the street, glancing behind him warily until he disappeared into the shadows.
Ivy growled under her breath, not able to do much of anything in the man's hold. It wasn't very pleasant being carried, that much was certain. She suddenly realized that she was completely alone...Roscoe wouldn't come around for at least an hour, and who knew what her captor would have done by then? At that moment, she began to feel afraid for the first time since initially spotting the body of Mungo Bracegirdle in the Prancing Pony. Fearing that he would strike her unconscious if she made a fuss, Ivy grudgingly hung limp. Wherever they went, she wanted to be awake to see it...
Roscoe felt cold stone against his face before he opened his eyes. The ground seemed to recoil and advance beneath him, and his heart beat in his ears, throbbing up in his temples. He rolled over onto his back and stared up into the sky. "What time is it?" he asks himself. "And how long have I been laying here?" At first he didn't remember anything that had happened; then he looked to his right to see his sword lying on the ground by his head…
"Ivy!"
Roscoe tried to sit up, but a whirlwind of dizziness and pain forced him to the ground again. "Bad idea!" he thought. "Must not get up yet…"
But he must, he realized. He couldn't delay any more than he already had. Every moment on the ground was one less moment not finding Ivy -- "And that just won't do at all," Roscoe thought.
Roscoe forced himself to his feet, grasping his sword and trying desperately to keep his balance. The pain in his head, though immense, seemed less oppresive to him than the feeling of utter helplessness that overcame him. Frantically looking at the whirling and fuzzy world about him to discern where to go next, Roscoe began to emit involuntary sobs of anger and despair.
"What do I do now?" his brain shrieks. "Where could they have gone? Think, Roscoe, think! There is no time... no time…"
Roscoe raised his hand to his face and noticed blood... the man's blood! He was bleeding! Roscoe quickly looked down at the cobblestone street for a trail that might lead him to Ivy, and it being not hard to find Roscoe tightened his belt and followed as fast as he could.
"If there be any good governing this world, may it give me speed in my quest!"
The trail of blood wound through alleys and secret ways through which Roscoe had never been, and it was quite difficult to follow in the dark; however, Roscoe's eyes were very keen -- even for a hobbit -- and his determination allowed him to concentrate so much on following the trail that he had forgotten even the gnawing pain in his empty stomach.
Roscoe winced. "Oh bother, I wish I hadn't thought of that! No time for food now, though. Must keep moving, even if my stomach turns inside-out for lack of nourishment!"
Roscoe was silent as a hobbit can be (which happens to be extremely so, fortunately for Roscoe), yet he still moved at a great pace. His head was still throbbing and he felt sick to his stomach, but he pressed on nonetheless. He began to recount in his mind the events that occured the night before (for he was almost certain it was morning already) and tried to find anything that he could have done differently. "Perhaps," he thought, "I could have avoided all of this!"
However, thinking it through, Roscoe was glad he had been there to intercept Ivy; if he hadn't, then she probably would have been in the inn -- all by herself -- when the murder took place. "Then again," he thought with a frown, "I wouldn't have been there to draw all of that wretched attention to myself with all my dratted yammering! Oh, what a pickle I've put us in now!"
Roscoe wondered where he was in the town; he'd never been along those back ways before (at least not in the dark), and he thought it would be very much improved if he at least knew where he was. "I must be near the outskirt by now," he thought, for he at least had a pretty good Hobbit sense of what direction he was more or less following as he twisted and turned through the deserted alleyways: west, it seemed, always west. "Good gracious me, I hope he doesn't take her into the Old Forest! What a chase that would be, to be sure!"
For a moment, the few drops of spattered blood seemed to drift over to the side into the shadows of a shed... but soon moved violently out down the alley again. The trail continued in this manner for nearly another half mile before reaching a high wooden gate that surely led to the outside along the crossroads.
There were several red drops on the wood and half of a red handprint, which suggested that the villian had climbed over it. That would have been somewhat of a simple task for a Big Person, but it was about six feet high, and there were no secure footholds in it save one at the very bottom and one near the top.
Roscoe stepped back and looked up at the imposing gate, wondering what to do. "There's no way I'm going to able to climb this." He began to look around for ideas. "Come now, Roscoe, don't panic; you don't have the time. Now, think.…"
Roscoe wasn't much at climbing -- especially not smooth, vertical gates -- and he didn't want to waste time finding the gatekeeper and asking for his assistance (especially since the gatekeeper tended to be a little inquizitive and conversational -- traits that were quite unwelcomed given Roscoe's great rush).
Roscoe looked up at the roofs of the neaby buildings: they appeared to be apartment houses, which was luck for Roscoe since they were bound to have some sort of way to get down from the top rooms if there ever was a fire. Roscoe jogged silently round the building and sure enough found a fire ladder -- a bit off the ground, but nothing too high for a hobbit to jump up to.
Roscoe sheathed his sword and began his ascent: though he wasn't particularly fond of heights, he climbed ladders every day as part of his job (he was a painter after all) and didn't think twice about climbing this one. However, the building was a two-story for Big People, which was quite higher than he was accustomed to, and the ladder seemed to be particularly rickety and unstable, causing Roscoe's heart to jump into his throat every time he thought it was going to slip. He eventually made it to the top without any such incident, to the great relief of Roscoe's imagination of all the unpleasant things that might happen in that event.
Once Roscoe made it to the roof, his heart sank as he realized that the apartment building was much higher than the town wall; Roscoe couldn't think of jumping from such an immense height. He looked around for a roof that was closer to the ground, yet high enough to be able to clear the wall. And indeed, there was such a building nearby -- however, to get to it he would have to jump across a rather impressive-looking alleyway to get there, and his landing would certainly make more noise than he would like. Plus, it was quite a far ways down from the roof of the apartment to the roof of the second building.
Roscoe saw no other obvious options, though, and his time was running out. Roscoe decided to jump for it -- and he did so, though he landed with quite an audible clack! of wooden shingles that seemed to echo throughout the deserted area.
Not wasting time to see if anyone had heard him, he immediately took a running jump for the wall and cleared it. He landed on the hard ground outside the town with a loud thud that knocked the wind out of him. He lay on the ground a little while to catch his breath.
The hoofbeats soon grew even louder and the horse and rider turned onto the westward road. As the figure approached, it could be seen that it was shrouded in a hooded cloak. The material wasn't dark or sinister-looking, but rather of very fine make and a soft grey color.
The steed was about the same shade of grey and it ran lightly, barely leaving a tiny swirl of dust as it went. The rider seemed to be completely focused on his route, yet just as he passed the tree Roscoe was hiding in, his hooded head jerked very slightly in the hobbit's direction. He sunk his heels deep into the horse's sides and the steed gathered speed.
Horse and rider continued down the road, but made a sudden turn into the thicket and disappeared beneath the shadows of the forest.
Ivy tensed, watching the direction that the noise had come from for a second before unfreezing and doing as instructed. The cobblestone roads were well-kept, but she managed to find a small number of small stones that had been brought in from other places.
Shifting the stones in her hand, Ivy waited for the Big Person to show himself, nerves raw. It could be just a simple drunkard, or something much more dangerous...she hated the suspense.
A soft scraping on the cobblestone road came from one direction... and continued for several moments. All too soon, a thumping noise arose from a dark shack on the roadside. The large figure of a draft horse was seen in the shadows, stomping a hoof on the floor of his stall.
Small sounds of the night arose from all around. Then, booted footsteps came swiftly from behind and a strong arm wrapped suddenly around Ivy's neck, a hand held tightly over her mouth. It was the same frighteningly wild man that had been seen in the Prancing Pony with the bloody dagger. His wide, blazing eyes were just barely seen beneath the shadows of a hooded cloak.With a strong grip still on Ivy, he lunged at Roscoe...
His body reacting before his brain could command it, Roscoe flashed out his hobbit-sword and struck the man in the hand; the wound did not seem deep, but Roscoe hoped it would be enough to deter the murderer for a moment at least. It might give Roscoe the chance to come up with a strategy...
His mind was now racing. He tried to go for the man's other arm, the one holding Ivy. Perhaps he would loosen his grip if that arm was wounded. "I just hope I don't miss and get her instead!" Roscoe thought.
Ivy took in a startled breath as the man grabbed her, gathered stones falling to the ground with a small clatter as her still unheld arms struck blindly at him...they were sadly weak, as it was quite hard to punch somebody when not facing them at all.
She watched Roscoe with wide eyes, constantly twisting and struggling to get out of the smelly Big Person's grasp.
The man gasped in pain as the small sword struck his hand. He held it tightly to his chest for a moment before swinging his arm, catching Roscoe sharply across the face. Blood from his wound splattered over the hobbit and the cobblestone road.
He then moved Ivy to his side and drew a sword that had been hidden beneath his cloak. He raised it and used the hilt to land a heavy blow to the top of Roscoe's head. A sudden scuffling noise caught the murderer's attention and he panicked. With Ivy held fast under one arm, the man staggered down the street, glancing behind him warily until he disappeared into the shadows.
Ivy growled under her breath, not able to do much of anything in the man's hold. It wasn't very pleasant being carried, that much was certain. She suddenly realized that she was completely alone...Roscoe wouldn't come around for at least an hour, and who knew what her captor would have done by then? At that moment, she began to feel afraid for the first time since initially spotting the body of Mungo Bracegirdle in the Prancing Pony. Fearing that he would strike her unconscious if she made a fuss, Ivy grudgingly hung limp. Wherever they went, she wanted to be awake to see it...
Roscoe felt cold stone against his face before he opened his eyes. The ground seemed to recoil and advance beneath him, and his heart beat in his ears, throbbing up in his temples. He rolled over onto his back and stared up into the sky. "What time is it?" he asks himself. "And how long have I been laying here?" At first he didn't remember anything that had happened; then he looked to his right to see his sword lying on the ground by his head…
"Ivy!"
Roscoe tried to sit up, but a whirlwind of dizziness and pain forced him to the ground again. "Bad idea!" he thought. "Must not get up yet…"
But he must, he realized. He couldn't delay any more than he already had. Every moment on the ground was one less moment not finding Ivy -- "And that just won't do at all," Roscoe thought.
Roscoe forced himself to his feet, grasping his sword and trying desperately to keep his balance. The pain in his head, though immense, seemed less oppresive to him than the feeling of utter helplessness that overcame him. Frantically looking at the whirling and fuzzy world about him to discern where to go next, Roscoe began to emit involuntary sobs of anger and despair.
"What do I do now?" his brain shrieks. "Where could they have gone? Think, Roscoe, think! There is no time... no time…"
Roscoe raised his hand to his face and noticed blood... the man's blood! He was bleeding! Roscoe quickly looked down at the cobblestone street for a trail that might lead him to Ivy, and it being not hard to find Roscoe tightened his belt and followed as fast as he could.
"If there be any good governing this world, may it give me speed in my quest!"
The trail of blood wound through alleys and secret ways through which Roscoe had never been, and it was quite difficult to follow in the dark; however, Roscoe's eyes were very keen -- even for a hobbit -- and his determination allowed him to concentrate so much on following the trail that he had forgotten even the gnawing pain in his empty stomach.
Roscoe winced. "Oh bother, I wish I hadn't thought of that! No time for food now, though. Must keep moving, even if my stomach turns inside-out for lack of nourishment!"
Roscoe was silent as a hobbit can be (which happens to be extremely so, fortunately for Roscoe), yet he still moved at a great pace. His head was still throbbing and he felt sick to his stomach, but he pressed on nonetheless. He began to recount in his mind the events that occured the night before (for he was almost certain it was morning already) and tried to find anything that he could have done differently. "Perhaps," he thought, "I could have avoided all of this!"
However, thinking it through, Roscoe was glad he had been there to intercept Ivy; if he hadn't, then she probably would have been in the inn -- all by herself -- when the murder took place. "Then again," he thought with a frown, "I wouldn't have been there to draw all of that wretched attention to myself with all my dratted yammering! Oh, what a pickle I've put us in now!"
Roscoe wondered where he was in the town; he'd never been along those back ways before (at least not in the dark), and he thought it would be very much improved if he at least knew where he was. "I must be near the outskirt by now," he thought, for he at least had a pretty good Hobbit sense of what direction he was more or less following as he twisted and turned through the deserted alleyways: west, it seemed, always west. "Good gracious me, I hope he doesn't take her into the Old Forest! What a chase that would be, to be sure!"
For a moment, the few drops of spattered blood seemed to drift over to the side into the shadows of a shed... but soon moved violently out down the alley again. The trail continued in this manner for nearly another half mile before reaching a high wooden gate that surely led to the outside along the crossroads.
There were several red drops on the wood and half of a red handprint, which suggested that the villian had climbed over it. That would have been somewhat of a simple task for a Big Person, but it was about six feet high, and there were no secure footholds in it save one at the very bottom and one near the top.
Roscoe stepped back and looked up at the imposing gate, wondering what to do. "There's no way I'm going to able to climb this." He began to look around for ideas. "Come now, Roscoe, don't panic; you don't have the time. Now, think.…"
Roscoe wasn't much at climbing -- especially not smooth, vertical gates -- and he didn't want to waste time finding the gatekeeper and asking for his assistance (especially since the gatekeeper tended to be a little inquizitive and conversational -- traits that were quite unwelcomed given Roscoe's great rush).
Roscoe looked up at the roofs of the neaby buildings: they appeared to be apartment houses, which was luck for Roscoe since they were bound to have some sort of way to get down from the top rooms if there ever was a fire. Roscoe jogged silently round the building and sure enough found a fire ladder -- a bit off the ground, but nothing too high for a hobbit to jump up to.
Roscoe sheathed his sword and began his ascent: though he wasn't particularly fond of heights, he climbed ladders every day as part of his job (he was a painter after all) and didn't think twice about climbing this one. However, the building was a two-story for Big People, which was quite higher than he was accustomed to, and the ladder seemed to be particularly rickety and unstable, causing Roscoe's heart to jump into his throat every time he thought it was going to slip. He eventually made it to the top without any such incident, to the great relief of Roscoe's imagination of all the unpleasant things that might happen in that event.
Once Roscoe made it to the roof, his heart sank as he realized that the apartment building was much higher than the town wall; Roscoe couldn't think of jumping from such an immense height. He looked around for a roof that was closer to the ground, yet high enough to be able to clear the wall. And indeed, there was such a building nearby -- however, to get to it he would have to jump across a rather impressive-looking alleyway to get there, and his landing would certainly make more noise than he would like. Plus, it was quite a far ways down from the roof of the apartment to the roof of the second building.
Roscoe saw no other obvious options, though, and his time was running out. Roscoe decided to jump for it -- and he did so, though he landed with quite an audible clack! of wooden shingles that seemed to echo throughout the deserted area.
Not wasting time to see if anyone had heard him, he immediately took a running jump for the wall and cleared it. He landed on the hard ground outside the town with a loud thud that knocked the wind out of him. He lay on the ground a little while to catch his breath.
The hoofbeats soon grew even louder and the horse and rider turned onto the westward road. As the figure approached, it could be seen that it was shrouded in a hooded cloak. The material wasn't dark or sinister-looking, but rather of very fine make and a soft grey color.
The steed was about the same shade of grey and it ran lightly, barely leaving a tiny swirl of dust as it went. The rider seemed to be completely focused on his route, yet just as he passed the tree Roscoe was hiding in, his hooded head jerked very slightly in the hobbit's direction. He sunk his heels deep into the horse's sides and the steed gathered speed.
Horse and rider continued down the road, but made a sudden turn into the thicket and disappeared beneath the shadows of the forest.
