Mungo Underbough's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Mungo Underbough pushed through the thick undergrowth of Mirkwood, his eyes scanning for the perfect location. His underground supper clubs had outgrown their secret spaces. He needed something permanent, something grand—a proper inn where travelers would line up to taste his seventeen varieties of mushroom soup. Then he saw it. A massive mushroom rose from the forest floor, its cap painted in swirling patterns of magenta and gold. Purple gills rippled beneath like silk curtains. Mungo's heart raced. This specimen alone would draw curious travelers from every corner of the realm. He could already picture tables arranged around its base, lanterns hung from its cap, guests marveling at its beauty while savoring his honey-glazed pheasant. But his excitement died when he spotted the building behind it—a hobbit house with a rainbow-scaled roof and ornate stone archways. Someone had already claimed this spot. Mungo approached the round door and knocked. No answer. He pressed his ear against the wood. Silence. He tried the handle—locked, but the brass was tarnished, the doorstep thick with leaves. Abandoned, then. His confidence surged back. He'd find the owner, make an offer, do whatever it took. This place was perfect, and Mungo Underbough didn't let perfect slip away.