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The Elves are the First Born, Eru Ilúvatar's favored children created to live forever in harmony with the Great Song of existence. Men are the second born, with the gift of Mandos giving them both the burning desire for power and the grace of eternal rest once their wick has burned through. The Dwarves are Aulë's beloved creation, hewn from stone and given their gift of life in a moment of humility, grace and love.

Yes, even the Ainur, encompassing both the Valar and Maiar, and the Orcs, Trolls, and Ents of Middle Earth all have well-known origins. But no one quite knows where the Hobbits fit into it all.

Given their affinity for all that's green and growing, it would be natural to assume they are the children of Yavanna, the Green Lady. But Yavanna claims the Ents as her own, with no word of any smaller, hairy-footed cousin.

Were one to make a study of Hobbits, as Gandalf the Grey could be said to have done, one might have any number of plausible theories on the matter. The strongest of which is that in the mysteries of the time before the Sun a great many of the Ainur who entered the physical world of Middle-earth were consumed with individual pursuits, playing their part in the Song that they alone could hear. And more than one were more than a little prone to mischief.

While the business of the greater spirits, the Valar, are written in the lore of all Free Peoples, the lesser spirits, those called the Maiar, went largely unrecorded. *Most of the Valar and Maiar withdrew from Middle-earth to the Undying Lands of Valinor, though some of the Maiar assumed mortal forms to help or hinder the peoples of Middle-earth, such as the five Istari, the Wizards of Middle-earth, Melian Queen of Doriath, and even the Dark Lord Sauron.*

Not all of the Maiar were known to each other, nor can they all be specifically accounted for as there is no recorded history of their existence. It is well within the realm of possibility that some unknown Maia had a hand in the making of Hobbits, and did so in such a way as to avoid a similar conflict as that between Eru and Aulë when he created his children in secret. Small things are often overlooked, after all.

In the lore of many races there are fanciful tales of those known most often as the Fae. Mischief-makers and mercurial beings of great power, there's quite a lot of confusion as to where they may have come from, or if they really ever existed at all. The tales often place them in the shadowed depths of great forests, or perhaps lurking among mushrooms and flowers.

Gandalf, once known as Olórin, has a hunch. In the murky mists of his memory, back in the gilded Years of the Trees, he knew a pair of Maiar alike enough as to be called twins, if such a thing existed among his people. Their names are long lost to time. These two were odd even to their fellow Maiar, which is saying something given the breadth of diversity in the race. Small and waif-like, they delighted in playing mostly harmless pranks and casting disorienting illusions on those who stumbled into their path. They ran about as bare and barefoot as babes, and were known to be unfailingly tempted by any manner of sweet or savory treat.

The two could be found hiding deep in Yavanna's garden, especially when their mischief made them a target for the ire of another, which was often. The two little Maiar together were uncommonly powerful, but their favorite tricks more often involved painting colorful swirls and shapes of power on things or beings, which invariably resulted in the inconvenience or embarrassment of their target, much to their delight.

They may have been Yavanna's agents as Olórin was the agent of Manwë and Curumo pledged to Aulë. Aiwendil, first in the service of Yavanna, would huff in the manner of a disgruntled older sibling when asked about them, and refuse to speak. The Green Lady indulged them fondly and sometimes hid them in the flowering vines that made up her skirts. She encouraged them to ply their arts on all manner of flowers, leaves, and mushrooms that she created, adding splashes of vibrant hues to the vegetation.

Once Olórin was himself marked by their silvery brushes and experienced a powerful illusion that caused him to produce wisps of smoke from his mouth whenever he spoke. The smoke would take fanciful, animated shapes that would cavort and swirl around his head mockingly, which was most unbecoming when one is the scribe of the King of the Valar. It took days for the effect to fade, though the faint swirl of blue-gray on his wrist lasted much longer.

It was the first thing Gandalf thought of when he was granted the honor of viewing Belladonna Baggins’ steel-gray and blue feather-like Marks on her shoulders. In memory of that far off, gilded time Gandalf then became known to blow his own fanciful smoke rings. What could have happened to the two odd Maiar after the destruction of the Two Trees Olórin never knew, but much of the world changed in that time. So, perhaps, it may be that the Hobbits could possibly be called the children of these artistic tricksters, the grandchildren of Yavanna. Sort of. Maybe.

But, regardless of any theory, the Hobbits are. They are vibrant and secretive, jolly and kind (for the most part), lovers of comfort and home and family. Those who account them as nothing more than half-sized Men are sorely under-informed to the true nature of Hobbits. The true nature of Hobbits lies in their Marks.

Nominally, Marks are a sacred secret of the Hobbitish race. In truth, they are terrible at keeping secrets, especially one that brings such joy and pride. It's really more a matter of the fact that hardly anyone pays Hobbits all that much attention that the fact is not more widely known. That, and a strong sense of propriety and the influence of cultural modesty keep their Marks from view.

A Presentation of Marks is a traditional part of Hobbit courtship, and one of the only times that even family members would see another's Marks past the years that parents care for their child's every need. Long-forgotten ceremonies for swearing fealty or pledging service in the repayment of a life debt or other such outdated practices had fallen out of favor many generations past.

Hobbit faunts are born with a smattering of tiny freckles on their upper body that develop as they grow into a variety of soft, organic colors and forms. Most hobbits have a variety of colors and gradients to their Marks, and the shades and shapes are often an indicator of that Hobbit's inherent talents or personality. Once a Hobbit reaches their majority the Marks are fairly static, barring some tragic upheaval or the like, which can result in the fading or shifting of lifelong patterns.

One most distinctive trait that Hobbits guard a bit closer is the Spark. A Spark is a very personal thing. When Marks glow with a warm, gentle light it's an indication that the hobbit is doing the things they love best, that which they are most suited for, like singing or cooking or tending to growing things.

Occasionally, the intensity of the glow boosts latent talents with a subtly magical quality. Singers who Spark have voices that carry a little more, ring with overtones in ethereal self-harmony, or imbue the listeners with particularly strong emotion. Hobbits who Spark with growing things (and most of them do, at least a little) have more bountiful fruits, lusher greenery and larger blooms with sweeter smells that seem to hang tangibly in the air.

While a Spark, private as it is, cannot always be kept from view, it's considered proper to keep Marks strategically covered whenever possible, though it's often fashionable to skirt the edge of propriety with Marks that are a particular point of pride. Some daring hobbits may subtly accent their marks with clothing in some way. Tweens in particular would often wear something racy to hint at the forms beneath their strategic lace or cut-out neckline.

There was once a lass in Buckland who was well-known for wearing dresses with a large lace insert in the back to show off the beautiful yellow-brown peony-shaped Mark on her upper back. Matrons may have tutted at the impropriety, but none could argue against the fact that Ditty Brandybuck grew the most prolific and long-lasting blooms in the Shire.

Most hobbits just have a bit of Marking on their back, chest, or shoulders, sometimes down their arms. Bilbo Baggins' excessive Marks that extended even down his legs were quite difficult to hide and seen as a bit vulgar, being such a peculiar color. A Hobbit with silver or gray marks hadn't been seen in several generations, and no one knew quite what to make of him.

Bilbo rarely Sparked when gardening and never while singing, but a faint glow would appear when he was spinning one of his ridiculously fantastic tales. One could see him flicker like a swarm of fireflies when he was off ranging through the woods on one of his "walking holidays." He was a most peculiar hobbit, indeed. So, it was no surprise to anyone when he ran off one morning with a passel of grubby-looking dwarves.

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Adventures are not like walking holidays, Bilbo quickly learned. A pleasant and invigorating jaunt through the woods, a night spent under the stars pillowed on the long, sweet grass of a Shire meadow, and a quick walk back to be home in time for tea, now that is a walking holiday.

Adventures are dirty, uncomfortable, and rough with smelly ponies and smellier Dwarves. And even after weeks on the road together, the Dwarves were about as conversationally adept as the ponies, he was finding.

"Is that a scar?" Bilbo jumped at the cheerful voice so close to his calf. He was mounted on Myrtle and had dozed off a bit waiting for the word to move out. It was odd to look down on Bofur's furry hat, but even more odd to be so casually questioned on the pale silvery Mark that curled down the back of his calf.

"No, oh, erm," Bilbo faltered and reached down to tug his long, fitted trousers back over his calf. The hem was lower than the typical Shire style; long enough to cover his Marks. It used to be dreadfully uncomfortable to have pants mussing his hair there, but Bilbo had long gotten used to the sensation for the sake of saving himself the whispers and stares that inevitably followed when his Marks were visible. The trousers were most definitely not cut with pony-back riding in mind, however, and they inevitably rode up.

"It's, uh…it's nothing." He mumbled, though Bofur was already ambling down the line to his own mount.

None of Bilbo's attire was really made with adventuring of any kind in mind. The delicate linen undershirts he'd brought that had a stiff, high collar and long cuffs that covered the backs of his hands were already stained beyond saving after weeks of hard travel. His second best waistcoat had a tear near the pocket, and his velvet jacket, while sturdy, was definitely not the thing to wear in a summer rainstorm.

Bilbo was fretting over his torn waistcoat later after camp was made and they were waiting for dinner to be ready, when Dwalin's bulk plopped down beside him. Bilbo was still somewhat scandalized by the blatant markings on his scalp, though he understood now it was ink applied with needles, of all things!

"Hobbits don't mark their skin, then?" The dwarf asked abruptly. Bilbo flushed a bit. He hadn't realized he'd been staring so blatantly.

"No, goodness no." He started. "No need, really."

"Do y'have marks of achievement or status?"

"Well, not exactly. When everyone knows everything about everyone else it's rather unnecessary, isn't it?" Bilbo fidgeted, buttoning his coat to cover the ruined waistcoat.

Dwalin grunted and began his nightly routine of examining the edge on all his weapons. Bilbo opted for wandering over to the pot that Bombur was working over. The quiet dwarf held out two steaming bowls and with a jerk of his head said, "For the princes, with the ponies."

Bilbo nodded as he took the bowls and set off towards the clearing where the ponies had been staked out. The moon was new and Bilbo could barely see in the darkness until his eyes adjusted away from the firelight.

"Over here, Mister Boggins!" Kili called out to his left, quickly followed with his grunt and a scolding shush from his brother. It must have been glaringly clear that Bilbo hadn't had any idea where the boys had gotten off to, so he was grateful for the direction, imprudent as it was. The two young dwarves were slumped against a tree, seemingly quite relaxed for those who should be on watch. They grabbed their bowls and dug in.

The wind picked up and rattled through the trees, and Bilbo shuddered as he peered around. "Do you know where Daisy is?"

"Whi' one issat?" Kili asked around a mouthful of stew.

"She's your pony!" Bilbo huffed.

"Oh. Hmm." The young dwarf hummed as he looked around...then, "Uh oh."

What followed was the most terrifying, disgusting, exhilarating experience of Bilbo's life.

He thought he'd gotten clear of the worst of it once the ponies were free, then suddenly he was snatched up by huge rough hands. He couldn't do anything but make shocked eye contact with Thorin as the trolls stretched his limbs every which way. There was a moment when Bilbo thought surely Thorin would leave him to his fate and press on with the battle, then suddenly the dwarves were all cursing and tossing down their weapons.

Once they were all bagged and trussed and the trolls started nattering on about seasonings Bilbo's blank mind finally began to reengage.

"W-wait!" he cried. "You're making a terrible mistake!"

Hopping up to the fetid breath of a stone troll, Bilbo applied his most convincing voice. "You-you…if you really want to make a proper meal of a dwarf you'll need something stronger than sage, you know."

The largest troll leaned close to his face and snarled, "An’ what would you know about cookin’ dwarves?"

Bilbo just barely managed to keep from retching as he expounded, "I'll have you know, my great Aunt Forsythia is a leading expert in the proper seasoning of…of dwarves." All three trolls were suddenly focused on Bilbo's words. He scrambled to keep them listening, relying on his instinctive ability to blather on about basically anything with an air of authority.

"Yes, really can't even begin to cook a Dwarf without…without soaking them first! Terribly gritty, you know."

“Well, what are you then, if you aren't a runty dwarf?” The snotty one poked at Bilbo experimentally, which he deftly dodged while hopping around the fire in his sack.

“Runty indeed!” Bilbo huffed. “I'm a, a…burglahobbit.”

“I don't think I've rightly ever heard of a burglahobbit. Is they good eatin’?”

“We…We're fairies! You know, small folk, pointed ears, big feet. Quite sour when served without a proper amount of sweetener.” Bilbo ineffectually shook a hairy foot from within his sack, but it seemed to keep the trolls’ interest well enough.

“Well ‘en where's your wings?” the larger one demanded.

“Well, I can't show you those!" He cried indignantly. "It would be very improper, nearly as improper as roasting a dwarf without the correct seasonings. Why, it just isn't done!”

Bilbo could feel himself really getting into storytelling mode. “In the days when fairies lived in every tree of the forest, it was a well known fact that the rare delicacy of a Dwarven roast was prized by kings and queens alike!” His companions bleated and blared at that but after a swift kick they settled down.

“And a proper roast simply must include a healthy dose of sage, rosemary and tarragon. Oh, and plenty of garlic!” He added sternly, counting off on his fingers as he did so, then quickly stuffing his hands back in his sack. At this the trolls began diligently scuffing around in the scrubby plants nearby, as if they'd just so happen to uncover an herb garden.

“Ah, a meal fit for a king, indeed!” Spinning the tale with sweeping gestures only somewhat hampered, Bilbo began to feel the familiar tingle of a good tale well told sweeping over his skin. He hoped no one had noticed the glow from the marks on his hands through his threadbare shirt, but they all seemed well-enthralled, trolls and dwarves alike. Well, that was a useful tidbit of information. “It was once said that King Fortinbras the Third …”

“DAWN TAKE YOU ALL!” Gandalf shouted, cracking the boulder and letting the sunlight stream over the doomed trolls.

The dwarves seemed dazed as they stumbled out of their sacks. Gandalf just stood by, smirking indulgently at Bilbo. “Well done, my boy.”

“Yes, well,” he noticed the residual spark fading and curled his hands together over his chest.

Once Thorin was freed he grabbed Bilbo arms firmly, not roughly though, checking him over with a suspicious and inscrutable look. “I'm fine, thank you very much! You're welcome!” Bilbo huffed as he dusted off his hopeless trousers. Thorin stalked away silently.

Later, while Thorin and Gandalf were looting the trolls’ hoard, Kili asked Bilbo, "Do you have some trinket under your shirt? Something was sparkling like crazy in the firelight."

“Oh, erm...” Bilbo had never been so grateful to see yet another crazy wizard at that exact moment.

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