The Faric was roaring below him, white with foam, like a rabid beast hungry for unlucky travelers. He was almost to the other side when suddenly he plunged into a large gap. He realized the remaining planks had been removed as he reached for the ropes at his sides. His foot dipped into the cold waters of the Faric but his small arms saved him as he latched onto the rope to his left.
The vivid flash of his dream struck him as he held on; he knew his real father wasn’t as lucky as himself. He shimmied across the unfinished bridge cautiously keeping as much balance as he could. As his feet touched the ground he heard the sound of men shouting. His hand was at his sheath as he walked through what looked like makeshift workshop. Wooden planks and iron nails riddled the path; saws and spools of rope scattered and knocked over. It was a bridge builder camp, but the workers were nowhere to be seen.
A sharp yelp came from the road to the west before he pieced the situation together. He drew his knife and crouched as he glided across the path next to the short shrubbery. Peeking down the road he saw two short hobbit men fighting with a hooded figure. The hobbits were sturdy and dressed in tan workers garb. Large utility belts wrapped themselves around their waists and leather caps held down their curly hair.
Each equipped with hatchets, swinging ferociously at their elusive enemy. The hooded figure was wearing a dark leather armor which hugged his thin figure from head to toe. His hood was a black piece of cloth which wrapped itself around his noggin and trailed in the wind behind him. A thin slit was left open for his eyes, the rest of his face was concealed.
He danced around with the two stout hobbits brushing off their attempts, but the hobbits had much more stamina than the nimble thief. Balamor wanted to avoid confrontation with any of them at all costs; his best bet was to sneak by them through the trees. He looked past the combatants and saw a caravan parked off into the brush. Their short distanced blows now crashed against the bandit as Balamor crawled through the trees bordering their match.
He moved quickly through the thick brush. Carefully making his way in and out of cover, only moving when the men were preoccupied. The darkness of the dawn was seeping into the green hills of the horizon as Balamor paused at the side of a damaged caravan. He saw a hobbit man sprawled out in the grass beside him, two arrows stuck in his back. He glared the horrible sight of one of his own, slain before he could return home. He shook the idea from his mind, looking back over to the fight on the road.
A cry pierced the air with pain as one of the small hobbits thudded to the ground. Balamor quickly climbed into caravan before being spotted by the hooded man. His eyes adjusted to the darkness as he pulled himself inside. Standing in the back was another highwayman searching through boxes and trunks. Before he could observe the items himself, the man turned around at the sound of his comrade outside, his voice muffled by the wooden walls of the caravan.