"Ruby!"

Glancing away from the kitchen cabinets as she was called for, the young Huntress smiled and hollered back, "Coming, Frodo!" Then, hooking the handle of a wicker basket into the crook of her elbow, she headed toward the entry hall.

Even after four months of residing with Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, Ruby still found herself staring around in awe at every marvelous aspect of Bag End. Normally, something as trivial as a house wouldn't have impressed her, but she was enamoured by the place. The masterfully carved wood structures; the little round windows that gave a perfect view of the garden and the river beyond; the rooms that all seemed to be on the left side, not to mention the same floor. And, of course, the sitting room, with its stacks of old parchment, books and maps, and wider windows overlooking Hobbiton. She passed through there most often, and found herself adopting - or, perhaps, rediscovering - a Blake-like love of reading. Many a night saw the leader of Team RWBY seated beside the fender, a stack of books surrounding her in a miniature fortress, a shimmer of pure wonder in her silver gaze.

Still, for all she'd grown to love the peaceful rolling hills of the Shire, the constant pang of misery at the continued unknown nature of her team's whereabouts hadn't diminished. If anything, it had increased a thousand fold. Bilbo, however, reassured her constantly. 'You needn't worry, my girl,' he'd say. 'I'm sure they're perfectly safe! They'll turn up - just you wait and see.'

So, wait she did.

Her bare feet brushing the sun-warmed stones, Ruby shut the door behind her and sauntered down to where Frodo waited, leaning casually against the wooden fence, "Hi Sam!" She called exuberantly, waving to the Baggins' gardener, who was hard at work uprooting some nasty pigweed that had recently taken to choking out the flowers.

The blonde looked up from his work, hazel-blue eyes brightening as he smiled at her and returned the gesture, "Good afternoon t' you, Miss Rose. Off t' meet Mr. Gandalf?" Ruby's excited nod had Sam chuckling as he returned to his task. He'd grown fond of the young girl's seemingly ceaseless enthusiasm for even the smallest of things - not to mention how contagious her sunny mood was. She seemed to illuminate the whole Shire with every step.

"Right then. Shall we be off, Miss Rose?" Frodo tossed her way in a playful tone, raising an eyebrow as she unlocked the gate and came to stand at his side.

"We shall, Mister Baggins," Ruby gave a chortling laugh, taking the basket in both hands, and the pair started off down Bagshot Row. They were an unlikely and rather odd duo - the nephew of the illustrious Bilbo Baggins, and the hyperactive human girl who'd appeared from thin air. Ruby stood almost exactly a foot and two inches taller than Frodo, let alone most Hobbits. She'd been uncomfortable with it at first, awkward and unsociable. But, gradually, the Hobbits had come to accept her wild ways, though some did so begrudgingly.

'She's one of the big folk,' one had stated rudely upon a trip to the market, 'And they don't belong in these parts.'

Ruby had often wondered how the rest of her teammates, if they had fallen into the same world as her, were fairing, wherever they might be. That train of thought almost always ended with her giggling at the prospect of Yang trying to settle into life in the Shire as she had.

"You're awful quiet today, Ruby. Is there something on your mind?" Frodo questioned as they rounded the bend, following the road that lead down toward the town.

"Oh - no," Ruby shook her head, though her smile was somewhat forced, "I mean, nothing more than usual."

"Quite a lot, then," Frodo chuckled, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his suspenders.

"Just..." For a moment, she considered confessing her worries that she would never find her friends again, something that had been especially pressing on her mind since that morning. But then she recalled Bilbo's words, told herself she was being silly, and opted instead for, "Thinking about the party tonight. It's gonna be awesome! Er, how old did you say he's gonna be again?"

"One hundred and eleven," Frodo replied with a smirk, "And, if I recall correctly, you said that was 'wicked old'."

"But it is!" Ruby insisted, "A hundred eleven?! That's, like..." She struggled to come up with a good analogy, but found herself drawing a blank. No one in Remnant ever lived that long. Well, maybe Professor Ozpin... Her smile widened at the ludicrous thought.

Content that he'd gotten her mind off whatever had been bothering her, Frodo began whistling to himself as they lapsed into silence. The young Hobbit was excited to introduce Gandalf - the grey wizard, and a dear old friend of his Uncle's - to his new companion, though more than a little concerned he might press her for answers about her arrival in their world. Neither he nor Bilbo had believed Ruby when she first insisted she wasn't from Middle-earth, although they'd quickly come around when she demonstrated her... abilities.

As if on cue, Frodo was broken from his thoughts as Ruby dashed ahead, leaving a trail of blood red flower petals in her wake. When he raced to catch up, wondering what could possibly have caught her eye, he found her grasping the fence, peering out over the fields, the position offering a full view of the Party Tree and surrounding green. Her silver eyes sparkled with wonder as she watched strings of colorful flags being hung high, tents being pitched, and a grand yellow banner hoisted into position.

"Come on, Ruby," Frodo put an arm around her shoulders, shaking her from her reverie. She cast him a toothy grin and allowed herself to be veered back onto the dirt track, "We're going to be late. And he doesn't approve of being late."

"What's he like? Gandalf?" Ruby asked, tilting her head slightly, "Bilbo's told me about him a little, but he sounds like he's being dramatic. I mean... magic?" She raised an eyebrow in disbelief. There was no such thing, in her experience.

"Oh, he isn't exaggerating at all, Ruby! Although I've never seen him use his magic proper, his fireworks are magnificent - the best you'll ever see. Sam appreciates them especially," he explained, recalling their splendor as if he had just seen them the previous day. "They shoot up right over the trees, and explode in showers of colors you didn't even know existed."

Ruby giggled at his description. She'd never seen fireworks before. The way he talked about them made them sound like the most beautiful thing in the world, and she couldn't help but imagine intricate patterns dancing amongst a sea of stars, vibrant sparks of light raining from the darkened sky. It felt like something from one of the stories Yang had once read to her - fantastical and distant, yet somehow so real. At least, she thought, a strange relief flooding her mind, there aren't any Grimm here. She didn't know what danger this world held, but she was fairly certain it couldn't be worse than a Deathstalker or Nevermore. Besides, with Crescent Rose in hand, she was confident in her abilities, even on her own.

Soon, the grove and Party Tree were behind the pair, strolling past the Water with a gentle Westerly breeze tousling their hair, and they were turning a bend toward the Garden, and beyond, East Farthing Wood. Almost subconsciously, Ruby lowered her gaze as they passed small gatherings of chatting Hobbits, who quieted and watched them with judging eyes as they walked by. This didn't escape Frodo's notice, who cast a sour glance over his shoulder.

"Pay them no mind, Ruby," he reassured with a smile, one she had a little trouble returning. Is this what Blake deals with? she wondered dejectedly, only sinking further when she realized that her teammate had probably had it much worse her entire life. Then, as quickly as her doubt had come, a thought occurred. If Blake could get by, and keep her head up, so could she. It would do her no good to sulk.

Ruby perked up immediately, squaring her shoulders and waving to the women picking vegetables and barley in the Garden with a bright smile and a chipper, "Good afternoon!" that was pleasantly returned.

The soft grass tickled her soles as she and Frodo stepped off the path, approaching the towering treeline. Wandering through the undergrowth, shaded from the sun save for areas where the light trickled through the foliage, they scaled a small hill to a spot elevated from the main road, but still within earshot. With a contented sigh, Frodo settled comfortably beneath a young maple and opened the book he had brought, the spine crackling. Ruby swept her long skirt beneath her and sat against the rough bark of a tree opposite him, snagging a strawberry from within her basket before following suite.

Ruby's wasn't a book, however - rather, a journal she'd taken to keeping, detailing her time in the Middle-earth and anything she recalled from home. There were pages filled with stories of her year at Beacon, and her times at Signal; even the odd fairytale she'd committed to memory. She had noted that Ao, one of her old friends from Signal, would've adored the tranquility of the Shire.

Flipping to a fresh page, Ruby took up her quill and dipped it in the well of black ink she'd brought. In measured, delicate strokes, and with a patience formerly unknown to her, she began to write of her excitement for the party that evening. It was to be a grand affair - half the Shire had been invited, and those who hadn't were turning up anyways. There was going to be dancing, and more food than could feed all the students at Beacon. The one thing Ruby wasn't too pleased about was the concept of drinking. Although Bilbo had made mention of it being one of the many indulgences of Hobbits, it reminded her of her Uncle Qrow's habit of incessant drunkenness. That was something she had never enjoyed, though, considering it, his tales weren't nearly as lavish when he was sober.

Popping another piece of sweet fruit in her mouth, Ruby gave a drawn out exhale. It was times like this she wished she had her headphones with her, or even her scroll - something beyond the chirping of birds that lulled her into a drowsy state. While she didn't particularly mind it, life here was borderline boring at best. She missed Beacon sorely. She longed for the company of her friends, the daily lightning-speed lectures, the combat training. Okay, maybe not with Goodwitch though, she snickered, then shifted and went back to writing.

She wasn't certain how long the two of them sat in the quiet of the forest, warmth radiating from their surroundings, but by the time Ruby raised her head, the shadows around them had elongated and Frodo was at least six chapters into his book. Craning her neck to alleviate the soreness that had taken hold, she set her writing utensils aside and stood, brushing off her outfit, which was comprised of a soft red blouse with black laces, and a white skirt - clothes that she'd bought, upon Bilbo's insistence, from the markets a week or so after her arrival.

As she lowered her arms, a sound reached her ears. Straining to hear clearly, she realized it was a low voice, singing a tune of some sort, and accompanied by the clacking of wooden wheels. In that instant, Frodo heard it as well, and he peered about before leaping to his feet. A smile of pure joy appeared on his expression, and he grabbed Ruby's hand.

She found herself with barely enough of a second to grab her basket before she was stumbling as he set off running. Momentarily flailing, she managed to find her footing and keep pace, raising a hand to keep her straw hat from blowing away as her cape billowed behind her. Bounding over the uneven hill side, the two descended toward the road. Frodo came to a halt where the path had been carved out, forming a small, alyssum-covered rise on either side, his arms crossed in a seemingly unimpressed manner,

"You're late," he announced, his tone both amused and condescending. The man he spoke to sat on a cart, the reigns in hand, wearing a simple grey robe and with a pointed wide-brimmed hat of the same color that cast a shadow over his face. Slowly, he looked up at the pair, revealing a wizened face framed by lengthy hair and beard. He stared at Frodo, obviously not appreciating the comment,

"A wizard is never late, Frodo Baggins. Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to."