CHAPTER 1 – CONCERNING GRUNTS
Grunts are a rather quizzical race. They are a simple people of stout hearts, and strong dwellings built into the hillsides. There is nothing, however, that a grunt loves more than a room full of food, ale, and good company. They are not a rowdy sort, and so you will rarely see one quarreling with another. In fact, it is a wonder that you should see one at all. They know to avoid trouble and generally do not like being seen.
It was on a warm day in the summer when the Arbiter came riding along a dirt path through the shire at a leisurely pace. He was riding a ghost which pulled along a hover cart filled to the brim with fireworks and plasma grenades of every color. Although the ghost could achieve impressive speed, the Arbiter was in no hurry. After all, it was a beautiful day and he was in the Shire. What could be more relaxing…
That evening, however, was anything but relaxing. It wasn't stressful though either. It was the reason the Arbiter had come. Bilbo's one hundred eleventh birthday was this day, and he had been cordially invited. The atmosphere of the party was one which the Arbiter had seldom seen before.
The Arbiter had brought along a magnetic focusing device that was used to make plasma behave in certain fashions. It was now employed to make all sorts of figures, shapes, and even scenes from past events play out across the sky; in the form of explosions from plasma grenades. Grunts everywhere were dancing, which to the Arbiter, quite honestly, was a very humorous sight.
Several hours into the party, many of the grunts began to demand a speech from Bilbo.
"Me thankful that everybody here," said Bilbo in the high pitched, squeaky voice of a grunt, "Me like less than half one third you more than eight tenths of irrational number."
Nearly all of the grunts sitting in the audience took a quick look at one another. They were confused at Bilbo's choice of words, and many of them had never even heard of irrational numbers before.
"Me sorry, but this is end. Me going away. Goodbye."
In that instant, Bilbo vanished completely. Thinking it was some sort of magic trick, all of the other grunts gave a wild applause. The Arbiter knew better, however. He knew that there were certain keys floating around in the world that could grant their user active camouflage. Acting quickly, he made his way back to Bag End. He arrived just as Bilbo disengaged his active camouflage.
"Do you suppose that was clever?" inquired the Arbiter, dissatisfaction in his voice.
"What wrong? You no see their faces?"
"There are many sacred icons on this ring, but none of them should be used lightly."
"Me just having fun," Bilbo retorted. Reconsidering his actions, he said, "You probably right." He thought for a moment. "It time for me to leave," he said, "Me going to Rivendell."
"You're leaving the ring here then?"
"Yes, it in envelope near fireplace," he began to walk away.
"No it's not," said the Arbiter with a scolding tone, "It's in your pocket."
Bilbo removed the index from his knapsack, giving it one last look. He then dropped it on the floor and walked out the door of Bag End one last time. Already, he felt as though a burden were lifted from him. The Arbiter watched him as he walked off into the twilight, the upward curvature of the halo in the background creating a picturesque landscape.
The Arbiter, however, was not easily tempted to relax anymore. He had heard the stories about the Prophet of Truth and his index. Suspicion was arising in him. He returned into Bag End and looked at the icon sitting eight feet below him on the floor. With all due caution, he reached down to touch it-
In a split second, he saw the terrifying face of a flood organism. Gravemind. That was the form which the Prophet of Truth had taken on after the great battle. He had become so corrupted by his own creation that he was transformed into the overlord of all flood.
In that moment, all that must be done became terribly clear to the Arbiter.