I decided not to use the first prompt. I think Cecil seeing dead hobbits is the kind of bombshell that would be more interesting during the campaign rather than before.
And so I chose the second prompt:
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[in the foothills of the Vales of the Anduin, after a journey across the Misty Mountains]
Cecil leaned against his staff and turned to face his enemy. Bedrock ebbed in staggered clusters, rising in balance toward the mountains until it met a shear upward face. He turned back. In front of him now, beyond the foothills, spread an endless bed of grass with rivulets running crossways down a shallow gorge. The earth was wet here and in many places too soft to walk, but the sound of water delighted him and so he loosened his fishing pole and found a comfortable spread to rest. He lingered there, forgetting quickly of snarling wolves and men and matters of business. He was beside the Brandywine again and not too far from honey nut cakes and good company. He began to sing:
“Yip!, yip!, yip! To the Brandy I go!
Down the line and not too slow,
Toss up the fish and back below
Till bucket’s full and paddles row!”
He unwrapped his feet and slid them into the river, letting the blood between his toes wash away. The last, lonely stretch of mountain had spent every bit of him. The same was true of his guide, but the men of the Anduin were like springs and easily returned to form. Just as soon as Rothgil had left him, the man was back on his way to the High Pass, cheering and singing as if he were leaving for a feast.
Cecil leaned against a river boulder and fell into a heavy sleep. In his dreams, he heard his mother humming and it gave him comfort, but as he leaned to reach her, he dipped a foot into the river and was startled awake. Strangely, the hum persisted in a low, manly tone to the East and then stopped suddenly. There was a man standing on the raw edge of a cliff on the far side of the river, staring at him. Cecil scrambled to face him. He looked similar to Rothgil. Both had long brown beards and satchels with a braided loop. A small splitting ax hung on his belt and black hair draped over his shoulders, covering the strap of a quiver and his bow.
“What is your business here?” He said.
“What business is that of yours?” Cecil answered.
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
The man looked toward the cliffs. “I think you are.”
“What matter is it to you?”
“Matter?” The man tipped down the short cliff and approached, padding the ground for solid earth.
Cecil widened his stance and edged back. “I will have you know I have travelled a great distance! I am on official business! Very official!”
“No doubt. And how did you come to this valley?”
“A guide took me. Rothgil.”
“I have not heard this name.” The man now stood at the lip of the river, less than a stone’s throw from Cecil. A thin layer of mud caked his face and darkened toward his feet. He stood still.
Cecil continued. “I come seeking Mountain Hall. Wherever it may be.”
The man stiffened, his hand drifting to his bow. "How do you know that name?"
Cecil quickly shifted, “I should let you know - The song you were humming. Hmm hmm, hmmm. I’ve heard it - from Rothgil:
‘There upon the collared stone
I swing my axe and hew alone.
So Winter’s pass may not be late
To -'"
“To mountain’s pass and forest gate.” The man spoke over him. He stroked his beard and smiled, with mud cracking around his cheeks. He limbered up and thought carefully for a moment. “So - friend of the Woodman. You wish to see Firienseld?”