The messenger walked for what seemed days until finally breaking through the thick vegetation which suffocated the road along with himself. He strolled to the edge of the Faric cautiously, frightened by its thrashing waters as they splashed up and soaked his hairy feet and legs. Looking upstream he saw huge cliffs towering above the horizon, cradling the life of the village below in a crescent shape. Dim lantern lights pierced through the dense morning fog, outlining a road which led to the edge of the Faric. There, a narrow rope bridge draped between large wooden posts, nearly skimming the river's surface.
Dropping his left hand to his tan vest he slipped a glass vial from his inside pocket to his calloused palm, Jabit studied the vial closely. Its shape was that of a teardrop, pressed into its clear surface were four dots in the shape of a square. Within was a ghostly white liquid, streaks of bright white slithered like eels, mindlessly. What ever this potion was, Jabit knew it was to be taken across that bridge before the sun fell behind the hills as his mother insisted.
He returned the vial to his vest and proceeded down the path to the Rhael, whistling to himself as he walked the dirt trail. He found comfort in the melodies, they reminded him of his childhood when his mother would sing to him before he slept. The songs helped him ignore the awkward silences, and the sounds of nature he found mundane.
Jabit had walked the south plenty of times, traveling between the small hobbit villages and the kingdom of Anstia making deliveries from his mother's farm on the outskirts of the fishing town Paetok. He wasn't living the dream, but with time taking its toll on his mother, she depended on him to travel and tend to the animals from time to time. If he didn't have such a burden he would be out adventuring the lands in search of precious treasure, a tale to tell, and the fame of a hero. He waited for the day he could take on such a way of life.
For now he would continue his travels to a familiar hobbit village, the Rhael. He had to make a few trips there last season to deliver his mother's famous jams. But this time was different, removing the tear-shaped vial from his pocket he began to study it once more. It's ghostly contents twisted and occasionally glowed fluorescent green, whatever it was, it certainly was no jam.