Footsteps: A Hobbit Isekai
Or: Journey Into Several Territories of an Unfamiliar World, By Willdomaneis, First a Coward, and then a Curmudgeon of Many Names.
Greetings, my dear readers. I'll keep this short, much like how I intend to keep the chapters of this here story.
I present to you an idea that has been floating around my head as of late. I've been conceptualizing since the fall (maybe even since the summer) but it's finally here! I'm very excited to finally get this project underway as a way to show my love for the works of J.R.R. Tolkien, and also for Japanese isekai anime/manga.
Without further ado, I present Footsteps: A Hobbit Isekai!
Written by me.
Disclaimer: Any use of the word "queer" is to be taken in the old sense of the word, which means "strange". Same goes for any future mentioning of the word, and same goes for the word "gay"; any mention of it denotes "happy/joyful". In the words of SSJ9K, this is a parody. Don't get it twisted.
Prologue: Bigfoot's Lament
May 3rd, 2945, or so it would seem.
Misfit.
Goliath.
Beanpole.
Lanky-Shire.
These were the names I have endured throughout my life in the Shire. None were more common than the worst of all:
Bigfoot.
I have taken to keeping a diary now, having left the Shire unexpectedly, yet thankfully so. Some may have speculated my leave was on business beyond my home of Buckland in the Eastfarthing.
To what I assume is my new way of life, I trust that those in speculation would not necessarily pity my absence. Having been one of "errant" ways, I would have been more genuine to garner a passionate hatred from my neighbours rather than my arguably worse reality. Villains are far more admirable; might it have been so selfish to aspire, to become one of these, lest I remain but some cheap form of entertainment for these primates?
Humiliation: a far worse punishment than notoriety, I have pondered.
Such a relief, then, as I realised my fall was not in vain; something awaited me on the other side. And so I welcomed this change with open arms. Having fallen, though, my recollection seems a bit sparse and prone to inaccuracies. Nevertheless, I shall endeavour:
I recall approximately a week prior, I was in Woodhall by Green Hill Country. If I can recall, however, what circumstances led me to there... ah!-yes, it was a parcel that I had been meaning to deliver three months out, but met with no sense of urgency, the parcel merely blended into the foyer beneath the coat pegs. Until the day I was tidying my house-yet another task I had pushed aside for "later", so I said but never intended-and rediscovered the parcel; tidying truly cures those too myopic to perceive such missing items.
I had just donned my coat-for, being April, cool zephyrs lingered and brushed over the land, threatening to freeze solid those who shared my unfortunate gauntness and density (or lack thereof)-when I heard a knock at the door, and upon opening was met with yet another... saccharine individual.
"Afternoon, neighbour!" called the rather cheery hobbit. "If it isn't Buckland's own Bigfoot, Mister Willdomananana-something-or-other Brandybuck!" He could have otherwise said, "Good day to you, you lanky beanpole, I can never remember your name! Give my best to the clouds and the sun!", which would have stung just as equally. Alas, I feigned a cheerful demeanour, like Montresor to Fortunato.
"Well met, sir," was my reply; I admit that I had not taken the time to familiarise myself with the names of my tormentors, therefore most hobbits I referred to simply as "sir" or "ma'am".
The man was portly, donning a hat and a casual suit, accompanied by a pipe. A common pastime among hobbits, smoking pipe-weed was; I never had much desire nor understood the appeal of such acts. Such was further reinforced as I was greeted second-handedly by a large puff of the smoke from his diseased lungs. A rueful smile shone on my face-oh, why had I answered the door? Surely you may wonder, hospitality was certainly a mark of most hobbits, was it not? However, you must understand, dear reader, that I had not much time nor fancy for guests. Certainly, I was no old codger like my old gaffer, being myself only forty-five, but given the queer type of folk that surrounded me, I would be hard pressed to show any such outward kindness. Thus, I preferred mostly to keep to myself, avoiding such trivial matters as acquaintanceship or guests or hospitality.
The stout man had come to share with me some of the pipe-weed he currently smoked, of which I declined, and also to ramble on about some party that was being held in Hobbiton in the Shire's Westfarthing. This I declined also, turning the man away hastily and having felt a sense of annoyance, but also a sense of pride having not been bought into the man's schemes; clearly he intended to go from door-to-door all over Bucklebury and Newbury attempting to recruit any unfortunate souls for some meaningless function over in Hobbiton, with the pipe-weed as his persuasion tactic.
I scoffed upon turning him away and shutting the door, peering through the curtain in the kitchen to see that he had indeed gone, then taking the path south along the Brandywine River with the long parcel in my arms. Once I had confidence that he was completely gone, I remembered the parcel and once again opened the door and without turning back turned to follow the path north out of Newbury and towards the Brandywine Bridge. It was about late afternoon when I crossed the bridge and began walking south to Stock. There was a path which ran southwest along Stockbrook towards Woodhall from Stock, but mainly I wished to stop at the Golden Perch in Stock for it was soon to be evening. After a whole afternoon of travelling by foot, I wished to relax with a few good draughts of their ale. Though adamantly against smoking, I quite enjoyed some good beer when I could get it.
When I awoke the next morning I had set out to Woodhall (after breakfast, of course), following the path along the Stockbrook. Curiously, I eyed the parcel, attempting the recall who I was returning it to. I remembered a friend of my father's before he passed, who he wanted to return this to. However, being a young lad at the time, I recall not the contents of the parcel. I was quite lost in thought at the time, you see, that it is understandable what happened next.
Suddenly, I had lost my footing and the next thing I knew, I was suspended on the edge of a cliff, only holding myself with one hand which gave out. I fell off the cliff and down a waterfall, presumably into the Stockbrook below. I fail to recall how long I fell for, though I had perceived it as eternity. I remembered the weight of the parcel pushing me deeper below the surface, and as my vision and consciousness faded slowly to black, my last thought was that of regret for having missed second breakfast.
I recall not being unconscious for very long afterwards, however. When I came to, I lay on my left side on what I thought to be the riverbank. Only, it turned out not to be the riverbank once I had fully come to my senses. Actually, I found myself to be resting on the side of a lake in the clearing of an unfamiliar forest. How or why I was brought so deep into the forest, I could merely speculate, but I glanced around for any sign of my saviour. Who-or, what-ever had saved me from the river, I assumed that they had been long gone by now, presumably off to save those in similar peril.
Retrospectively, the area certainly seemed strange, more so than simply unfamiliar; though, I wished to exit the forest not due solely to unease of the mind, but mainly unease of my stomach, for I had missed second breakfast, and was soon to miss elevenses by this time if I had not already. This would take approximately an hour to navigate as no path was clearly visible, but fortune found me well as I trekked to the edge of the forest, met with the blissful sight of what seemed to be Woodhall. I had made it! and would soon celebrate with a good and hearty meal that I had sorely missed. Another twenty minutes was the walk to town, but upon entrance, a horrible feeling struck me: this was not Woodhall; I have been before, and this was not it.
This fact was made far clearer as I lost my balance, staring up at a staggering 300 centimetre tall, fully armoured, club-wielding orc.