So this is the follow-up to Those Darn Fanfic Writers, the story that so many people seemed to like so much. Unfortunately I only have a few chapters written so you'll have to wait until about February (because of school) for it to be posted. This though is the first chapter, it's not really funny, but I have to set it up a little bit.

I don't own it, but I wish it did.

Warning: It gets a little graphic at the end, so if you're not fond of the stuff, don't read it. Just a friendly warning.

So read, relax, and tell me what you think (if I should continue or toss it)

Lord of the Pen

The Pen Poem

Three for the elven-kings under the pixels
Seven for the dwarf-lords in their halls of chips
Nine for mortal men doomed to write
One for the Dark Lady in her dark corner
in the land of Ciffan where blood pools

One pen to write them all, one pen to hit them
One pen to drag them all and in the darkness torture them
in the land of Ciffan where blood pools
(or until they cry uncle; which ever results in more angst)

Bilbo's Story

Bilbo Baggins was sitting at his desk, holding a pen in hand ready to stain the parchment in front of him with strange markings that would represent actual words and eventually an entire novel. But right now he was stuck and couldn't even fathom having an entire novel written anytime soon.

'Bilbo,' Frodo Baggins called out, 'I'm going out.' Bilbo muttered a yes before giving a word of caution.

'Be careful, m'boy. Don't look for trouble.' But trouble always seemed to find young Frodo. It seemed that he had an unnatural talent for finding trouble and then getting hopelessly caught up in it. In fact, it was public knowledge that Frodo had almost died seven times, three of which occurred in two months time. Total, those seven times set a new record for Hobbiton, one that had previously been held by Halfred Holman, a stout man of seventy years. It was a record, however, that Frodo was not proud of holding, especially not as a twenty-seven year old hobbit, not even considered an adult by Hobbit standards.

'Yes Bilbo,' Frodo answered, sighing a bit as he did so. His uncle's concern was touching, but he was rather annoyed by the constant worry and concern; the hovering over his every move just because he was able to get hurt by taking a leisurely walk in Sam's garden.

Bilbo listened for the door to shut before continuing with his writing, or rather his attempt at writing and as he did so his mind began to wander. His thoughts drifted first to food and he toyed with the idea of a second meal, but dismissed the idea for he really felt he must get a start on his novel. So he drifted to the next best thing for hobbits, nature. Hobbits loved nature; lush, green, and full of life as it was. Trees, Bilbo thought for no real reason, Hobbiton was littered with them. There were all sorts of trees; tall, narrow ones and short, fat ones; some who's branches arched to the sky in a beautiful pattern, while others' branches became gnarled and tangled up with one another until the tree looked like one huge knot.

Now, he thought to himself, if I recollect right, there's a tree very similar to that not more than three hour's walk away. Yes, it was all alone, standing by itself in the middle of a patch of grass that had a nasty habit of turning into a mud patch when it rained even the slightest bit.

Nevertheless, it was lovely out there, provided it was a nice day like today. It would be wonderful to take a trip out there, just to gaze at the beauty of nature, he thought, but no he couldn't, he had to work on his novel. And then something popped into his mind and he began to mark his blank parchment, telling the story of a young hobbit who went out one day for a nice, relaxing walk and got much more than he bargained for.

Bilbo was writing with such a ferocity that before long he had finished the first chapter and already had the hobbit battling with the forces of nature as he recklessly continued on his path despite the imminent storm that was dropping bolts of lightning in the background.

But alas the hobbit finally reached the tree. It was beautiful, its knotted and twisted branches stretching towards the sky. Without hesitation he began climbing, for if the tree was this magnificent, then surely its view was spectacular and it should be an easy climb what with the thick, contorted branches. Climbing, however, proved to be more difficult than first imagined and his the problem lied in reaching the first branch for even if he stood on the tips of his toes it was still out of his grasp. But not one to give up easily, he tried jumping.

Huht. He mumbled something his uncle wouldn't be pleased to hear. If only he could jump a little higher… huht… he could reach the branch, but he landed back on the ground. One last…huht… time he thought. He felt the coarse bark of the branch as he went up.

Clasping his hands quickly, he hoped to feel the bark of the branch, but felt nothing except the air as it escaped from his grasp. He'd almost made it, just once more. Huht. This time he leapt with all his might and was rewarded with the feel of rough bark in his grips.

He then began to swing himself, his goal now was to get on top of the branch. His palms grew sweaty with each swing and he began to feel his grip lessen when he, in one fluid motion, flipped himself on the top of the branch. He sat for a moment to gaze at the view and regain his posture. He could see his house from here, and something else, something familiar. If only he could get a little higher, he thought reaching out to grab a higher branch, he would be able to find out what it was.

His fists closed around a branch and he pulled himself up. Hearing a low creak, he stopped and looked around. When nothing seemed to be wrong, he chalked it up to the wind and began to pull himself up again. But he heard the creak again and it was louder this time. Suddenly it stopped only to be replaced by a snap which was accompanied by a sudden feeling of weightlessness.

Strider had seen the danger before the hobbit jumped and began to reveal himself. As he scrambled up the side of the small ditch he'd been hiding in, he tried to call out, but let out a harsh cough instead as something got caught in his throat. After a few failed attempts at trying to ascend the muddy slope he finally made it, though not without cursing yesterday's hard rain.

He looked up just in time to see the hobbit jump- the warning was too late, but he could catch the falling halfling if he hurried. But as the hobbit began his plummet to the ground, Aragorn felt his boots loose traction. Instinctively, he put out his arms to balance himself for he desperately wished not to get muddy again.

The last time he'd gotten muddy was on a month's trek with Legolas and the prissy elf insisted that he bath after having rolled down a hill and collected not only grass stains, but dirt caked in more places than one could imagine and apparently rolled in something that, as Legolas described it, smelled worse than three hundred sweaty humans packed into the Prancing Pony in the stifling heat of summer right before a thunderstorm and none of them had come near anything that even resembled water in the last two weeks.

When he refused Legolas had tossed him into a nearby river. When Strider emerged, or rather didn't emerge Legolas jumped in to save him. What he brought out was a screaming toddler with the conscious of a twenty-eight year old Aragorn, but none of the intelligence. Legolas had joked that the only differences were age and size. Strider didn't take too kindly to that and tried to walk off only to discover he couldn't fend off a young wolf not more than a foot and a half high. Legolas rescued him and took him to Lord Elrond where he was restored to his normal self, but not before becoming the laughing stock of Imladris.

After that incident Strider had no desire to see the world through the eyes of a two year old again for he'd gained nothing from it but humility and a nasty cold which forced him to spend an entire week in bed at the mercy of his brothers' constant teasing thus prompting him to beg his father to drug him for the remainder of the week, but that only earned him another week in bed and a tea that forced him to stay awake.

But alas, the flailing arms failed to help, rather they provided a source of entertainment for anyone who happened to be watching, though no one was for the storm was more than imminent now and no one with any sense of self preservation would remain outside for Strider's impromptu Ranger of the North Show. Without any real knowledge of it, Strider slipped again and landed back first in a puddle of mud. As the thick substance splattered on his face, he let out a few dwarvish curses his brothers had taught him.

No doubt they'd be pleased by his memory. It was then that he heard the hobbit hit the ground with a soft thump and once again cursed for he was too late, but he should see to the injuries no less. Determined to help, he started to push off the ground with his hands but got no further than a few inches before his back erupted in pain. Wincing, he ignored the pain and pushed himself up higher, biting his lips as the pain magnified.

Halfway up the pain overwhelmed him and he fell back to the ground, his breath coming in short gasps as bolts of pain shot through his back and collided with his spine, creating mini explosions of pain. He let out another curse, father would not be happy, just last week he'd be released from the elven lord's care. Legolas had brought him home with a nasty rash and a terrible cough. The cough developed into a cold and from there progressed into full-blown pneumonia, curse human mortality.

Pushing those thoughts away, he resolved to get to the hobbit and help him in whatever way he could. With some degree of discomfort, he forced himself onto his stomach and began a slow and painful crawl to where the hobbit lay. But he got no more than a few feet when he began to sense that he was being followed and whatever it was, was getting closer.

Although it caused him great pain, he turned his head just in time to see a wolf pounce on his back. He let out a loud cry as the claws dug into his back. He could feel its hot breath on his neck and closed his eyes, waiting for the yellowed teeth to sink into his flesh, but nothing came and soon the wolf's claws relaxed and it stepped back a bit. Strider felt a thick, warm fluid drop into the deep cuts on his back and opened his eyes, letting out another curse at the sight that greeted him.

Over by the hobbit there were two wolves preparing to tear the halfling apart limb by limb. Strider cried out, attempting to scare the wolves away, but to no avail. The wolf on his back moved forward again, its claws pulling the skin tight and creating tension until the skin finally broke and the claw began to pierce the skin, sinking further in as the wolf edged forward.

With each successive puncture, Strider's pain increased until black spots began to dance across his vision and his mind grew thick with haze. He looked towards the halfling; another wolf had joined the group, Strider noticed that he was bigger than the others and moved a lot more. With more curiosity than fear he watched as the wolf swung around rising to its hind feet. Strider tried again to free himself from the wolf on his back but as he tried to rise, the wolf's claws tore at his back once again and he felt his flesh tear before passing out.