Tales and adventures sprouted up all over the place wherever the wizard went, lies most, told to comfort the already lost. The wizard, his cloak gray as weathered bone, had not gone that way under The Hill for ages and ages. The curse of memory meant that most of them had forgotten what he looked like. He had been away over The Hill and across the water for a long time, a long time indeed. Those who were small once had gone, food for the earth much like what was under the wizard’s feet.
Good Morning! It was the hobbit.