God of middle-earth (11/n)

Dundro stared at the giantic rucksack that lay on the floor. He made sure all his belongings were in the bag. Food, check. Food, check. Clothes, check. “There and back again”. Check. Sword, check. (The sword was, the one and only Sting). Mithril armor. Check. Food, check. Water, check.

Dundro huffed. He slung the bag over his shoulders and teetered around wildly. Maybe abit too much food.

Again he stared at the bag, cursing himself for even conceiving of this suicidal plan. He should have known better than to just simply leave Hobbiton with no knowledge of the future. The plan had more holes in it than cheese! For one, Dundro had no clue how to prevent a possible encounter with the Orcs. Neither did he know the locations of each of them who would surely be located around the town. Despite all that, how would Dundro even handle an encounter? He didn’t know how to use a sword in the first place either!

But what would become of him if he stayed? Only death would await. Who knows if the Orcs were capable of diplomatic problem-solving. And thus, Dundro sat contemplating his choices with Death curled up beside him.

It was not long before he made his choice.