Unnatural Selections
"Why, thank you," Dwim replied to Bingo, who had just ushered Amalda away. "Your compliment about my collection humbles me. You are correct, hoards of weapons such as mine are a rare thing in the Shire. Unless you know where to look..." He cleared his throat awkwardly, realising that this was perhaps not a responsible thing to say in front of a Shirriff.
"Oh yes, the box!" he replied next, glad for the change of subject, not realising quickly enough that this topic could also bring them down a rabbit hole he may not have wanted to enter. What would he say about it though? He suspected that Bingo had already heard more than he was meant to, and Dwim regretted his decision to talk so freely to Timothy about where it had come from.
Dwim suddenly felt the urge to be rid of this box. It had brought him nothing but trouble today. Accidents, injuries, suspicions, and now more inquiries from a Shirriff. Then the prior words from Timothy rang in the back of his head. Words he'd heard briefly before the distraction of new customers, but words he had not paid any heed to then:
"Master Dwim, I would make you..."
...An offer for the barrow-box? Is that what Timothy had been about to propose? Would the hobbit still be interested in making an offer, now that he too knew that a member of the Watch was asking questions?
Dwim certainly had hesitations in openly revealing more information about this box, but if you could not trust a Shirriff of the Watch, who could you trust? In the interest of openness and honesty to all parties involved, he decided to open up about it. Perhaps it would lift a weight off his shoulders. Besides, what more damage could be done to his reputation anyway? It was already tarnished enough by the contents of his collection.
Answering Bingo, he opened the silver box and replied. "This box comes from the Barrow-downs. It is perhaps the darkest item in my collection. I had told Timothy here that the pieces of vellum inside had come from horse skin, in hopes of deflecting from its truly morbid nature. But I believe, in fact, that the patches of skin have come from a murdered human victim of the Barrow-wights. According to a book I have in my collection, the marks stamped onto the vellum are a sign of the wights. The man from Bree who traded it to me was of a similar opinion."
Dwim knew this was certainly unbelievable information to be shared amongst hobbits of the Shire, but he was done with the secrecy around the box. He would prefer to do away with the object now. "As we saw from Timothy's fall earlier when he opened the box, and that nasty bruise on his head, there is a great darkness surrounding this thing."
He decided to end his revelation there, as another curious hobbit (Faramond) had made his way to the stall, and he realised any more rumours overheard now had the potential to cause a stir, or even an uproar, among the market.
"So, Bingo, Sir." Dwim concluded, "Have you heard anything like this before? What's your opinion on it?" Then he looked at Timothy with an amused gesture. "And how about you, are you still interested in the box? I would not be opposed to parting with it."
Michel Delving Market
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Shirriff Bingo Took
Brandy (The Dog)
Unnatural Selections
One of the main problems of being a lawman in the Shire, Shirriff Took reflected, was that there were no laws.
He sighed into his pipe. Usually, the lack of rules did not trouble him; hobbits behaved themselves, and if they did not, only rarely would one call a Shirriff to settle a quarrel. He was mostly called to tend to stray beasts, cows and suchlike; in the Eastfarthing, he heard, the Shirriffs, along with the more numerous Bounders, had some serious problems with the borders they were entrusted to guard, but the Westfarthing presented no such problems.
Now, however, standing in the shade of the tent of Unnatural Selections, rain pattering slowly outside, a strange foreigner obviously trying to avoid him and the stall's owner claiming he possessed an artifact that once belonged to the Barrow-wights... the Shirriff was faced with some very troubling questions as to the exact nature of his job. Did he have any authority to question the two? Could he forbid @Dwim's selling of the box to Mr Rankweed (@Aodh Hammerhelm)? Did he need to? If Mr Timothy Rankweed of Bree or Mr Dwim Took of the Shire wished to harm themselves, why should he interfere? As long as they weren't involving others unwillingly in their troubles...
No, he thought, the steely Took within him taking over. No. Not in my Shire. No hobbit, man, or cow within the Four Farthings should be endangered, willingly or unwillingly, especially not by a shady artifact out of an even shadier place. No Barrow-wights in the Shire, thank you very much. And nothing that belongs to them, either.
One problem at a time.
"Rankweed, is it?" Bingo had been to Bree, once; and if his memory served him right - and when it came to names he was not easily forgetful - "Rankweed" was a name better associated with Big Folk families than with hobbits. Was this hobbit trying to make him suspicious?
"May I ask what business brings you to the Shire?" The Shirriff's keen eyes watched Timothy intently, and though his voice was friendly enough, it was pure politeness that shaped the words as a kind question and not a demanding inquiry. His ever unsmiling lips tightened around his pipe as he shifted his attention back to Dwim, nearly missing a curious comment about "knowing where to look" for hoards of weapons. He sighed inwardly. It seemed the hobbit was collecting troubles along with his stacks of Mathoms. One problem at a time, he reminded himself, as the other Took hurriedly shifted to another discussion, one that seemed to concern their present problem rather closely.
He was surprised and relieved by the stall owner's honesty about the strange Barrow-box. Pieces of human victim skin? He shuddered. To think that he should stand in his peaceful Shire and seriously discuss such horrifying evidences for matters of legend! The Barrow-wights? Stamping marks into human skins and keeping it in a box? That box, coming into the most unlikely hands of a hobbit? And a hobbit, albeit from Bree-land, who seems interested in buying that gruesome artifact? No, not interested: perhaps eager would be a more accurate description. When Dwim finished his story, asking for his opinion, Bingo smoked in silence for a few long moments, taking his time to answer.
"Dark indeed," he said finally. "I have never heard anything like it before," he admitted, though it was no great surprise; "but I suspect Mr Rankweed here has heard something about it." He paused for a moment before carefully continuing. "As to my opinion. I find it highly suspicious that a Barrow-wight - if indeed that creature is to blame for making this box or its contents - would willingly part from this box; and why anyone would steal it I cannot guess, nor how, if it was indeed stolen, the thief had managed to stay alive." He looked at Timothy, or the hobbit hiding behind that name, and waited to see if he chose to shed more light on the mystery. He suspected, though, that the odd Bree-lander will not be willing to speak of the artifact so easily.
Brandy (The Dog)
Unnatural Selections
One of the main problems of being a lawman in the Shire, Shirriff Took reflected, was that there were no laws.
He sighed into his pipe. Usually, the lack of rules did not trouble him; hobbits behaved themselves, and if they did not, only rarely would one call a Shirriff to settle a quarrel. He was mostly called to tend to stray beasts, cows and suchlike; in the Eastfarthing, he heard, the Shirriffs, along with the more numerous Bounders, had some serious problems with the borders they were entrusted to guard, but the Westfarthing presented no such problems.
Now, however, standing in the shade of the tent of Unnatural Selections, rain pattering slowly outside, a strange foreigner obviously trying to avoid him and the stall's owner claiming he possessed an artifact that once belonged to the Barrow-wights... the Shirriff was faced with some very troubling questions as to the exact nature of his job. Did he have any authority to question the two? Could he forbid @Dwim's selling of the box to Mr Rankweed (@Aodh Hammerhelm)? Did he need to? If Mr Timothy Rankweed of Bree or Mr Dwim Took of the Shire wished to harm themselves, why should he interfere? As long as they weren't involving others unwillingly in their troubles...
No, he thought, the steely Took within him taking over. No. Not in my Shire. No hobbit, man, or cow within the Four Farthings should be endangered, willingly or unwillingly, especially not by a shady artifact out of an even shadier place. No Barrow-wights in the Shire, thank you very much. And nothing that belongs to them, either.
One problem at a time.
"Rankweed, is it?" Bingo had been to Bree, once; and if his memory served him right - and when it came to names he was not easily forgetful - "Rankweed" was a name better associated with Big Folk families than with hobbits. Was this hobbit trying to make him suspicious?
"May I ask what business brings you to the Shire?" The Shirriff's keen eyes watched Timothy intently, and though his voice was friendly enough, it was pure politeness that shaped the words as a kind question and not a demanding inquiry. His ever unsmiling lips tightened around his pipe as he shifted his attention back to Dwim, nearly missing a curious comment about "knowing where to look" for hoards of weapons. He sighed inwardly. It seemed the hobbit was collecting troubles along with his stacks of Mathoms. One problem at a time, he reminded himself, as the other Took hurriedly shifted to another discussion, one that seemed to concern their present problem rather closely.
He was surprised and relieved by the stall owner's honesty about the strange Barrow-box. Pieces of human victim skin? He shuddered. To think that he should stand in his peaceful Shire and seriously discuss such horrifying evidences for matters of legend! The Barrow-wights? Stamping marks into human skins and keeping it in a box? That box, coming into the most unlikely hands of a hobbit? And a hobbit, albeit from Bree-land, who seems interested in buying that gruesome artifact? No, not interested: perhaps eager would be a more accurate description. When Dwim finished his story, asking for his opinion, Bingo smoked in silence for a few long moments, taking his time to answer.
"Dark indeed," he said finally. "I have never heard anything like it before," he admitted, though it was no great surprise; "but I suspect Mr Rankweed here has heard something about it." He paused for a moment before carefully continuing. "As to my opinion. I find it highly suspicious that a Barrow-wight - if indeed that creature is to blame for making this box or its contents - would willingly part from this box; and why anyone would steal it I cannot guess, nor how, if it was indeed stolen, the thief had managed to stay alive." He looked at Timothy, or the hobbit hiding behind that name, and waited to see if he chose to shed more light on the mystery. He suspected, though, that the odd Bree-lander will not be willing to speak of the artifact so easily.
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Unnatural Selections: NPC: Onhæle Hoblyta AKA Timothy Rankweed:
The furtive hobbit did not answer the shirriff’s (@Nolewen) question immediately. It was a discourteous one – “Pert!” Arthur Heath would have named it – but he supposed lawmen were allowed such bluntness, even in the Shire. He marked the firm set of Bingo’s mouth and flint-keen stare, as he considered his options.
Flight was one, but not any longer for he noticed, for the first time, a large hound sitting beside the shirriff. He’d shed some of his bulk during his years with Will Dearborn’s harriers (a regime of three squares a day would have slimmed the portliest of hobbits) and was fit and fleet. Not fleet enough to out run a dog though!
His second choice was bluff and bluster. This had not worked with Dwim, the stall-holder. In fact it had led to a series of events that had placed him in this pretty pickle. No, if subterfuge had failed to win over @Dwim Took it was unlikely to ward off the hard-eyed shirriff.
As the lawman turned his attention on Dwim, Timothy looked down at the counter top. His hands rested on the green leather book handed to him before the incident with the wee silver casket.
He flipped its cover open.
There were no letters on the fly leaf, but centre page he saw a black and white image of kindling stacked ready for firing. The hobbit found this picture extremely disturbing; the way in which the chips of wood had been sketched spoke of a hand obsessed with precision, and a mind set with singular purpose.
He turned his gaze on the board pasted on the interior of the cover. It was stained, the inked border of arcane sigils and symbols faded and unclear. He stroked the board with his left hand and felt a slight rise ‘twixt it and the green leather. Casting a quick eye at the vambrace, satisfied that the two Tooks’ interest was turned from him, he produced his little knife.
He made a deft incision between the top of the cover and its board then probed the opening gently with his blade. Something shifted and slipped into his left hand. La! A map of some sort… A map with words penned by a hand he knew well! He palmed the folded parchment, tucked it away in his breast pocket, and closed the book.
Lessons learned from the hand of Will Dearborn and Corð the Lærm had served him well, all this was done in a thrice and unseen.
A bell sounded outside the tent. The hobbit looked out and saw a new hobbit (Faramond @Lokktar Ogar) with a herd of goats. Timothy grinned. The arrival of another prospective customer outside Unnatural Selections offered him a third way out of his predicament.
Truth… and indignation!
“Yes, Master Dwim” he said. “I am still interested in the box!”
He cast what he hoped was a withering look at Shirriff Bingo: “No, sir, you have no business asking me what my business is, shirriff or otherwise! What has become of the Shire? Are all folk treated now with rudeness and suspicion? It’s not right or proper. But I’ll tell you anyway…
I’m searching for a friend, a man about yea tall (Timothy stood atop the barrel, arms stretched upward to their fullest extent to illustrate this point). He has a bushy red beard – unless he's shaved since last I saw him! Well, not exactly red, russet coloured, do you kennit? Like leaves in autumn.
His name is Arthur Heath and the box belongs to him. Yes to HIM, I SAY! Not to anyone else and certainly not to a BARROW-WIGHT!”
Timothy was aware that his voice was becoming shriller and louder, and that was all to the better. Hobbits hated fuss and ruction, but it intrigued them also. He noticed several folk converging on the tent to see what all the commotion was about
He plopped his bottom down on the barrel: “I’ve silver to trade you for the box, Dwim. Name your price, I shall pay you and be on my way!”
The furtive hobbit did not answer the shirriff’s (@Nolewen) question immediately. It was a discourteous one – “Pert!” Arthur Heath would have named it – but he supposed lawmen were allowed such bluntness, even in the Shire. He marked the firm set of Bingo’s mouth and flint-keen stare, as he considered his options.
Flight was one, but not any longer for he noticed, for the first time, a large hound sitting beside the shirriff. He’d shed some of his bulk during his years with Will Dearborn’s harriers (a regime of three squares a day would have slimmed the portliest of hobbits) and was fit and fleet. Not fleet enough to out run a dog though!
His second choice was bluff and bluster. This had not worked with Dwim, the stall-holder. In fact it had led to a series of events that had placed him in this pretty pickle. No, if subterfuge had failed to win over @Dwim Took it was unlikely to ward off the hard-eyed shirriff.
As the lawman turned his attention on Dwim, Timothy looked down at the counter top. His hands rested on the green leather book handed to him before the incident with the wee silver casket.
He flipped its cover open.
There were no letters on the fly leaf, but centre page he saw a black and white image of kindling stacked ready for firing. The hobbit found this picture extremely disturbing; the way in which the chips of wood had been sketched spoke of a hand obsessed with precision, and a mind set with singular purpose.
He turned his gaze on the board pasted on the interior of the cover. It was stained, the inked border of arcane sigils and symbols faded and unclear. He stroked the board with his left hand and felt a slight rise ‘twixt it and the green leather. Casting a quick eye at the vambrace, satisfied that the two Tooks’ interest was turned from him, he produced his little knife.
He made a deft incision between the top of the cover and its board then probed the opening gently with his blade. Something shifted and slipped into his left hand. La! A map of some sort… A map with words penned by a hand he knew well! He palmed the folded parchment, tucked it away in his breast pocket, and closed the book.
Lessons learned from the hand of Will Dearborn and Corð the Lærm had served him well, all this was done in a thrice and unseen.
A bell sounded outside the tent. The hobbit looked out and saw a new hobbit (Faramond @Lokktar Ogar) with a herd of goats. Timothy grinned. The arrival of another prospective customer outside Unnatural Selections offered him a third way out of his predicament.
Truth… and indignation!
“Yes, Master Dwim” he said. “I am still interested in the box!”
He cast what he hoped was a withering look at Shirriff Bingo: “No, sir, you have no business asking me what my business is, shirriff or otherwise! What has become of the Shire? Are all folk treated now with rudeness and suspicion? It’s not right or proper. But I’ll tell you anyway…
I’m searching for a friend, a man about yea tall (Timothy stood atop the barrel, arms stretched upward to their fullest extent to illustrate this point). He has a bushy red beard – unless he's shaved since last I saw him! Well, not exactly red, russet coloured, do you kennit? Like leaves in autumn.
His name is Arthur Heath and the box belongs to him. Yes to HIM, I SAY! Not to anyone else and certainly not to a BARROW-WIGHT!”
Timothy was aware that his voice was becoming shriller and louder, and that was all to the better. Hobbits hated fuss and ruction, but it intrigued them also. He noticed several folk converging on the tent to see what all the commotion was about
He plopped his bottom down on the barrel: “I’ve silver to trade you for the box, Dwim. Name your price, I shall pay you and be on my way!”
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Unnatural Selections
As Dwim had suspected would be the case, Bingo was sceptical about the story of the box. He did not seem suspicious of Dwim, and did not appear to think he was lying (which he was not, as he truly did believe the story). But he was suspicious of the story Dwim had been told, and of the research that he had done on the matter. That was fine, he was used to it actually. And for now he had been more concerned about the Shirriff trying to confiscate the item from him and prompting an investigation into the other contents of his market stall.
It appeared that the Shirriff was currently more suspicious of Timothy, and he had every right to be, for while Dwim and Bingo had been distracted for a moment, the hobbit had sliced open one of Dwim's books and removed a hidden map from it. But neither of them saw this, which was very fortunate for the thief, and the main suspicion continued to mainly revolve around who Mr. Rankweed really was and what his business was.
Dwim was eager to distance himself from that matter, for he was entirely unhappy with Timothy's sudden outburst and wished to be done with him.
"The box belongs to him. Yes to HIM, I SAY! Not to anyone else and certainly not to a BARROW-WIGHT!”
Who was he to make claim to Dwim's items on behalf of others? Items which had been bought or traded for at a fair price from honest people. But it was clear that the easiest way to resolve the matter was indeed to sell the trinket box to him and let him be off.
"Very well, Mr. Rankweed," Dwim replied. "I do not understand why this box has sparked such a level of aggression from you. But you may have it. Five silver coins should cover it, for I do not want to make a profit off an item which is clearly the cause of such ire and suspicion." Yet he had traded the most glorious crystal from the Blue Mountains for it, and was certainly making a loss. But it was becoming clear that Dwim would have to endeavour to remove some of the more macabre items from his collection to avoid suspicion and further incidents such as this one. Or if he did not remove them, he would at least have to keep them hidden.
"Here you are," he said as he handed over the box. "Good day to you, thank you for your business. I hope the rest of your day is less eventful!"
As Dwim had suspected would be the case, Bingo was sceptical about the story of the box. He did not seem suspicious of Dwim, and did not appear to think he was lying (which he was not, as he truly did believe the story). But he was suspicious of the story Dwim had been told, and of the research that he had done on the matter. That was fine, he was used to it actually. And for now he had been more concerned about the Shirriff trying to confiscate the item from him and prompting an investigation into the other contents of his market stall.
It appeared that the Shirriff was currently more suspicious of Timothy, and he had every right to be, for while Dwim and Bingo had been distracted for a moment, the hobbit had sliced open one of Dwim's books and removed a hidden map from it. But neither of them saw this, which was very fortunate for the thief, and the main suspicion continued to mainly revolve around who Mr. Rankweed really was and what his business was.
Dwim was eager to distance himself from that matter, for he was entirely unhappy with Timothy's sudden outburst and wished to be done with him.
"The box belongs to him. Yes to HIM, I SAY! Not to anyone else and certainly not to a BARROW-WIGHT!”
Who was he to make claim to Dwim's items on behalf of others? Items which had been bought or traded for at a fair price from honest people. But it was clear that the easiest way to resolve the matter was indeed to sell the trinket box to him and let him be off.
"Very well, Mr. Rankweed," Dwim replied. "I do not understand why this box has sparked such a level of aggression from you. But you may have it. Five silver coins should cover it, for I do not want to make a profit off an item which is clearly the cause of such ire and suspicion." Yet he had traded the most glorious crystal from the Blue Mountains for it, and was certainly making a loss. But it was becoming clear that Dwim would have to endeavour to remove some of the more macabre items from his collection to avoid suspicion and further incidents such as this one. Or if he did not remove them, he would at least have to keep them hidden.
"Here you are," he said as he handed over the box. "Good day to you, thank you for your business. I hope the rest of your day is less eventful!"
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Unnatural Selections: NPC: Onhæle Hoblyta AKA Timothy Rankweed
The furtive hobbit felt the hot flush of shame upon his cheeks, but his ruse had worked and he pressed home his advantage. Ignoring Dwim’s brusqueness, a rudeness for which Timothy Rankweed, esquire, was solely responsible, he dropped his money pouch upon the counter.
A dilemma faced him - more than one actually!
The stall-holder was offering him the silver box for an absurdly low fee – hadn’t @Dwim mentioned trading Dwarven crystal for the trinket box? And then there was the matter of the map he’d filched, and the minor damage he’d caused to Dwim’s book retrieving it.
His purse contained the travel funds Ælfred had given him, riches unseen in the Shire except, perhaps, by the descendants of the Old Took or Bilbo Baggins. The ingots of silver and gold his friend had cast before they’d left the fishing village below Eryn Vorn were apt to rouse fresh suspicion in Shirriff Bingo. He rummaged in the pouch, careful not to expose the thin fingers of gold and silver, and dug out his remaining coins.
“Here you are,” he said to Dwim, pointedly excluding the Shirriff from the transaction. “Five silvers for the trinket box… And two more, plus twenty bronze as a thankee-sai for your kindness, the seed cake and lemonade and any, erm, damages or embarrassment you may have suffered.”
The hobbit slipped the trinket box into a wes’kit pocket, bowed to Dwim. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure,” he piped cockily at the Shirriff, then skirting the large hound trotted off into the throng of onlookers. Without a backward glance he zipped around Quill and Ink and vanished through a hole in the hedgerow that lined the road.
His gunna lay where he’d left it, tucked under a broad stone. He seized it up, slipped it onto his back and hurried off north. With any luck the pony-train bound for Bree would be running late.
--
@Nolewen & @Dwim << Thanks for testing Mr Rankweed mightily. Hope to RP with you both again soon! >>
The furtive hobbit felt the hot flush of shame upon his cheeks, but his ruse had worked and he pressed home his advantage. Ignoring Dwim’s brusqueness, a rudeness for which Timothy Rankweed, esquire, was solely responsible, he dropped his money pouch upon the counter.
A dilemma faced him - more than one actually!
The stall-holder was offering him the silver box for an absurdly low fee – hadn’t @Dwim mentioned trading Dwarven crystal for the trinket box? And then there was the matter of the map he’d filched, and the minor damage he’d caused to Dwim’s book retrieving it.
His purse contained the travel funds Ælfred had given him, riches unseen in the Shire except, perhaps, by the descendants of the Old Took or Bilbo Baggins. The ingots of silver and gold his friend had cast before they’d left the fishing village below Eryn Vorn were apt to rouse fresh suspicion in Shirriff Bingo. He rummaged in the pouch, careful not to expose the thin fingers of gold and silver, and dug out his remaining coins.
“Here you are,” he said to Dwim, pointedly excluding the Shirriff from the transaction. “Five silvers for the trinket box… And two more, plus twenty bronze as a thankee-sai for your kindness, the seed cake and lemonade and any, erm, damages or embarrassment you may have suffered.”
The hobbit slipped the trinket box into a wes’kit pocket, bowed to Dwim. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure,” he piped cockily at the Shirriff, then skirting the large hound trotted off into the throng of onlookers. Without a backward glance he zipped around Quill and Ink and vanished through a hole in the hedgerow that lined the road.
His gunna lay where he’d left it, tucked under a broad stone. He seized it up, slipped it onto his back and hurried off north. With any luck the pony-train bound for Bree would be running late.
--
@Nolewen & @Dwim << Thanks for testing Mr Rankweed mightily. Hope to RP with you both again soon! >>
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Unnatural Selections - CLOSED FOR LUNCH
Dwim was quite overwhelmed by the day's events, and it wasn't even lunch time yet! Timothy's lust for intrigue had caused quite a stir. But these sorts of things really should have been expected, considering the nature of Dwim's store and the items he had on show. Things had ended amicably enough though, save for Timothy's parting shot at Shirriff Bingo.
"I am terribly sorry about all of this," Dwim said to Bingo as he began to pack up some of his more macabre items before the shirriff became too tempted to do more investigating. "I did not have the slightest intention of causing a ruckus here this morning. I think I might shut for a bit now. I'm flustered and hungry." He then nodded his head politely at Bingo. "It's been a pleasure meeting you. Please do come by again some time. I'm sure you'll find my displays will be a touch more respectable from here on."
Dwim closed the lid on some of his more valuable chests, pulled up his slacks, then headed off into the crowd to find some food. He'd been tempted to head back to Lobelia's tearoom for some more treats, but she appeared to be busy and he was craving something he could chew out his annoyances on. Perhaps some roast beef or something of the like.
Dwim was quite overwhelmed by the day's events, and it wasn't even lunch time yet! Timothy's lust for intrigue had caused quite a stir. But these sorts of things really should have been expected, considering the nature of Dwim's store and the items he had on show. Things had ended amicably enough though, save for Timothy's parting shot at Shirriff Bingo.
"I am terribly sorry about all of this," Dwim said to Bingo as he began to pack up some of his more macabre items before the shirriff became too tempted to do more investigating. "I did not have the slightest intention of causing a ruckus here this morning. I think I might shut for a bit now. I'm flustered and hungry." He then nodded his head politely at Bingo. "It's been a pleasure meeting you. Please do come by again some time. I'm sure you'll find my displays will be a touch more respectable from here on."
Dwim closed the lid on some of his more valuable chests, pulled up his slacks, then headed off into the crowd to find some food. He'd been tempted to head back to Lobelia's tearoom for some more treats, but she appeared to be busy and he was craving something he could chew out his annoyances on. Perhaps some roast beef or something of the like.
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Ea had looked out of the window just about every hour this morning, but the weather didn't seem to be getting any better. And she simply had to buy some supplies for soon she would have a little tea party with a couple of friends. She sighed as she took off her apron and looked in her closet for her raincoat. There was nothing to be done abut it. She would have to go out in the rain.
Carefully she stepped around the many puddles on the road. She hated wet foot hair, and she had washed her feet so carefully this morning!
Upon arrival in the Market, she saw several stalls were open, despite the lousy weather. Ah, she wanted to save going to @Lobelia Brindleway for the last, so she could have a nice bit to eat. First she would buy some cheese, then she would see what goods @Istya Alassea and Heather (@Dimcairien Luiniel) were selling today. She loved knitting, and with autumn coming she needed a new scarf. But first that cheese! She had heard a rumor about a new shop with cheese from all over the Shire. She walked over to Faramond (@Lokktar Ogar) and nodded friendly.
'Goodday to you, kind sir! I was hoping to buy cheese, what kind of sorts do you have in store?'
Carefully she stepped around the many puddles on the road. She hated wet foot hair, and she had washed her feet so carefully this morning!
Upon arrival in the Market, she saw several stalls were open, despite the lousy weather. Ah, she wanted to save going to @Lobelia Brindleway for the last, so she could have a nice bit to eat. First she would buy some cheese, then she would see what goods @Istya Alassea and Heather (@Dimcairien Luiniel) were selling today. She loved knitting, and with autumn coming she needed a new scarf. But first that cheese! She had heard a rumor about a new shop with cheese from all over the Shire. She walked over to Faramond (@Lokktar Ogar) and nodded friendly.
'Goodday to you, kind sir! I was hoping to buy cheese, what kind of sorts do you have in store?'
Hobbit since 2002, proud to have been Samwise Gamgee alongside Rosie Cotton (Brandybuck).l
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Chef
Posts: 100
Joined: Mon May 18, 2020 7:09 pm
Istya and @EldorDasatra had been working on parchment labeling for the past few hours, through the rain and part of their lunch hour. Hobbit children had been continuously coming up to her husband, curious about the elf who loved to play with all of them. So that didn't make their task too easy. By the time they sat in the grass under her parasol to have a small meal together, she was a bit wiped out and definitely needed the energy from the food.
"I wonder what's all going to happen today?" she asked herself out loud. "This rain doesn't help, so business may be a little slow today. But at least we are all set up for the most part. Going through my parchment purchases is kind of like revisiting all of Middle Earth all over again. I wonder if Stardancer would still like to do business with me in selling me more of her parchment from Mordor. Maybe after the baby arrives we can go visit with her. Maybe not in Mordor itself. I've heard volcanic ash is not good for a baby to inhale. But maybe somewhere halfway."
"I wonder what's all going to happen today?" she asked herself out loud. "This rain doesn't help, so business may be a little slow today. But at least we are all set up for the most part. Going through my parchment purchases is kind of like revisiting all of Middle Earth all over again. I wonder if Stardancer would still like to do business with me in selling me more of her parchment from Mordor. Maybe after the baby arrives we can go visit with her. Maybe not in Mordor itself. I've heard volcanic ash is not good for a baby to inhale. But maybe somewhere halfway."
- Points: 131
Farmer
Posts: 46
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 4:00 pm
Dainty Daisies
Joel watched as Lily skipped over to the next stall as he made sure the seeds she purchased were stowed safely in a basket under the counter. He stood up as he heard the pitter-patter of raindrops start falling on the canvas that covered his stall. He smiled and breathed in deeply. Ah, that is a lovely smell indeed! He had fancied going over to the Tea Room, but seeing as the rain was beginning, he felt he would stay in his stall and enjoy the shower. It shouldn't last very long, he thought!
Joel watched as Lily skipped over to the next stall as he made sure the seeds she purchased were stowed safely in a basket under the counter. He stood up as he heard the pitter-patter of raindrops start falling on the canvas that covered his stall. He smiled and breathed in deeply. Ah, that is a lovely smell indeed! He had fancied going over to the Tea Room, but seeing as the rain was beginning, he felt he would stay in his stall and enjoy the shower. It shouldn't last very long, he thought!
- Points: 508
Esquire of The Mark
Posts: 374
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 2:40 am
Folcard Puddlefoot
Knitted Knacks: Shopping for Mother's Birthday
Raising a house full of little Hobbit children was no easy task. The sheer amount of energy that his mother expended chasing after his younger siblings was extraordinary. He was still young by Hobbit standards, only twenty-nine years old, and had not yet left his tweens. Yet as the oldest of seven children he was always expected to help around their home, a task which he dreaded. He loved his siblings, of that there was no question. But he was young and still irresponsible, still caught up in daydreams and more concerned with enjoying each day than helping his mother. It hadn't been an issue until recently when his father returned from a walking trip to Hobbiton. He had stayed with relatives for a few months, trying to finesse his way into an uncle's will so as to inherit a rather beautiful piece of farmland in the North Farthing. He had failed miserably and returned home rather dejected. Upon seeing his wife running ragged with a gaggle of screaming children nipping at her ankles, while Folcard sat smoking outside of the house, was enough to rile him up. Though almost an adult by their count, he was not old enough to avoid a proper hiding by his father. His ego bruised and his tail side a little worse for wear, he apologized to his mother and resolved to make it up to her.
He worked occasionally for one of the local pubs as a cook and had saved away a little coin. He had intended to use it to purchase himself a house, or better yet, finance the construction of a hole, but now seemed a better time to utilize it. He reached under his mattress of stuffed hay and pulled out a small, weathered pouch of dark hide that kept his entire life savings in it. It was not much, certainly not enough to buy a home, but he hadn't truly thought that far ahead. The only thought in his head right now was that he had upset his father, and worse even than that, let his mother down. He had no formalized plan but decided to go to the market to see if he could find something nice for her. They lived a little way outside of the town, right on the very edge of the township as it were. The sun was high in the sky and warmed the back of his neck pleasantly as he made his way into town. He waved at his neighbors, stopping at a few homes for a brief conversation and a bite of whatever food they had on hand. By the time the market was in sight he was already full enough to not need lunch, though of course, he would still have one.
The market was bustling, as was common on a nice fall afternoon like this. The weather was pleasant and there was a little wind in the air, so even the slight creeping chill of autumn was not felt by the Hobbits there. There were so many stalls, filled with every good and sundry a Hobbit of any age could want. He wandered around for a little while, eyeing the stalls and trying to make a decision, talking out loud to himself as he walked.
"Well, there's flowers of course. All mothers love flowers. That's the first thing father taught me, he said: "Boy, don't you forget that all you ever need to do to cheer up your mother is give her a daisy." But father just brought her a whole bunch of daisies! One extra daisy won't be right. Hmm."
He paced back and forth, his internal debate raging. He waved hello at Joel Cotton at his stall, peddling flowers and gardening goods, and shaking his head as he decided flowers were not the right gift. Tari's stall was the buzz of the town, the honey that was sold there being rich and delicious on toast in the morning, but food just wasn't the right gift either. He was shocked the thought even entered his head. How could food not be a good present? But he knew the answer, of course, food being so quick to disappear. No, he needed a more permanent reminder of his love for her and to make amends for failing while his father was away. There was a Took in the town, one Dwim Took, who had an interesting stall filled with marvelous curios and items. All sorts of trinkets, odds and ends, and of course beautiful mathoms were sold there. He stopped in front of the stall and said hello, looking over an artifact or two before realizing that just wouldn't do either. Mrs. Puddlefoot was not very materialistic, as Hobbits went, and she had a curious habit of turning down gifts that were too garish and flashy for her taste. He had wondered before how long it took his father to settle on daisies for his mother and whether or not there had been many failed gifts before figuring out that flowers were best.
As he continued his trek through the market, he saw a young Hobbit lass who he did not know very well. He couldn't quite remember her name, it was...Heaven or Heaper or Hippy-hopper, something that started with an H. She stood at a stall filled with hand-made goods, all of them looking to be crocheted or knitted. He wasn't really sure what the difference was, not that it mattered too much to him, but it seemed like something his mother would like. He strolled up to her stall and waved at her, saying, "Hello there! I'm Folcard. Folcard Puddlefoot. I'm looking for something for my mother. Something that says I love her and I'm sorry for being lazy. Do you have anything like that?"
OOC: @Dimcairien Luiniel, no need to participate in this if you don't want to. I'd love to have Folcard RP for a post or two with Heather but if you're busy (I know you're working a ton right now, I can have Folcard just do his shopping at your stall on his own.
Knitted Knacks: Shopping for Mother's Birthday
Raising a house full of little Hobbit children was no easy task. The sheer amount of energy that his mother expended chasing after his younger siblings was extraordinary. He was still young by Hobbit standards, only twenty-nine years old, and had not yet left his tweens. Yet as the oldest of seven children he was always expected to help around their home, a task which he dreaded. He loved his siblings, of that there was no question. But he was young and still irresponsible, still caught up in daydreams and more concerned with enjoying each day than helping his mother. It hadn't been an issue until recently when his father returned from a walking trip to Hobbiton. He had stayed with relatives for a few months, trying to finesse his way into an uncle's will so as to inherit a rather beautiful piece of farmland in the North Farthing. He had failed miserably and returned home rather dejected. Upon seeing his wife running ragged with a gaggle of screaming children nipping at her ankles, while Folcard sat smoking outside of the house, was enough to rile him up. Though almost an adult by their count, he was not old enough to avoid a proper hiding by his father. His ego bruised and his tail side a little worse for wear, he apologized to his mother and resolved to make it up to her.
He worked occasionally for one of the local pubs as a cook and had saved away a little coin. He had intended to use it to purchase himself a house, or better yet, finance the construction of a hole, but now seemed a better time to utilize it. He reached under his mattress of stuffed hay and pulled out a small, weathered pouch of dark hide that kept his entire life savings in it. It was not much, certainly not enough to buy a home, but he hadn't truly thought that far ahead. The only thought in his head right now was that he had upset his father, and worse even than that, let his mother down. He had no formalized plan but decided to go to the market to see if he could find something nice for her. They lived a little way outside of the town, right on the very edge of the township as it were. The sun was high in the sky and warmed the back of his neck pleasantly as he made his way into town. He waved at his neighbors, stopping at a few homes for a brief conversation and a bite of whatever food they had on hand. By the time the market was in sight he was already full enough to not need lunch, though of course, he would still have one.
The market was bustling, as was common on a nice fall afternoon like this. The weather was pleasant and there was a little wind in the air, so even the slight creeping chill of autumn was not felt by the Hobbits there. There were so many stalls, filled with every good and sundry a Hobbit of any age could want. He wandered around for a little while, eyeing the stalls and trying to make a decision, talking out loud to himself as he walked.
"Well, there's flowers of course. All mothers love flowers. That's the first thing father taught me, he said: "Boy, don't you forget that all you ever need to do to cheer up your mother is give her a daisy." But father just brought her a whole bunch of daisies! One extra daisy won't be right. Hmm."
He paced back and forth, his internal debate raging. He waved hello at Joel Cotton at his stall, peddling flowers and gardening goods, and shaking his head as he decided flowers were not the right gift. Tari's stall was the buzz of the town, the honey that was sold there being rich and delicious on toast in the morning, but food just wasn't the right gift either. He was shocked the thought even entered his head. How could food not be a good present? But he knew the answer, of course, food being so quick to disappear. No, he needed a more permanent reminder of his love for her and to make amends for failing while his father was away. There was a Took in the town, one Dwim Took, who had an interesting stall filled with marvelous curios and items. All sorts of trinkets, odds and ends, and of course beautiful mathoms were sold there. He stopped in front of the stall and said hello, looking over an artifact or two before realizing that just wouldn't do either. Mrs. Puddlefoot was not very materialistic, as Hobbits went, and she had a curious habit of turning down gifts that were too garish and flashy for her taste. He had wondered before how long it took his father to settle on daisies for his mother and whether or not there had been many failed gifts before figuring out that flowers were best.
As he continued his trek through the market, he saw a young Hobbit lass who he did not know very well. He couldn't quite remember her name, it was...Heaven or Heaper or Hippy-hopper, something that started with an H. She stood at a stall filled with hand-made goods, all of them looking to be crocheted or knitted. He wasn't really sure what the difference was, not that it mattered too much to him, but it seemed like something his mother would like. He strolled up to her stall and waved at her, saying, "Hello there! I'm Folcard. Folcard Puddlefoot. I'm looking for something for my mother. Something that says I love her and I'm sorry for being lazy. Do you have anything like that?"
OOC: @Dimcairien Luiniel, no need to participate in this if you don't want to. I'd love to have Folcard RP for a post or two with Heather but if you're busy (I know you're working a ton right now, I can have Folcard just do his shopping at your stall on his own.
- Points: 810
Chef
Posts: 406
Joined: Thu May 14, 2020 5:03 am
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins
Eyeing the clear blue sky, Lobelia nevertheless took her trusty umbrella from its stand. You could never trust the weather to hold, and in any case umbrellas were useful for other things. She set out for the market with her usual scowl, and although the place was bustling, she never seemed to have trouble making her way down the crowded lane.
She swept the stalls with a squinted gaze. Humph. The prices folks were asking nowadays! But she had needed to get out of the house, what with that fool Otho and that twice fool Lotho both crowding the place, driving her to distraction. She leaned over a collection of knitted goods and frowned, touching the material. "What sort of hat d'you call this?" she demanded of the proprietor (Heather). "It's got all these little holes. Might be fashionable, but it won't do when winter comes around."
She turned around and all but ran into a young lad (Folcard) who was also surveying the knitted goods. "Watch your step, young man!" she snapped, smacking the side of his leg with her umbrella. "Some of us are shopping here. Or we would be, if there was much worth shopping for. What's a lad like yourself doing at the market anyway? You ought to be out doing some sort of work."
Eyeing the clear blue sky, Lobelia nevertheless took her trusty umbrella from its stand. You could never trust the weather to hold, and in any case umbrellas were useful for other things. She set out for the market with her usual scowl, and although the place was bustling, she never seemed to have trouble making her way down the crowded lane.
She swept the stalls with a squinted gaze. Humph. The prices folks were asking nowadays! But she had needed to get out of the house, what with that fool Otho and that twice fool Lotho both crowding the place, driving her to distraction. She leaned over a collection of knitted goods and frowned, touching the material. "What sort of hat d'you call this?" she demanded of the proprietor (Heather). "It's got all these little holes. Might be fashionable, but it won't do when winter comes around."
She turned around and all but ran into a young lad (Folcard) who was also surveying the knitted goods. "Watch your step, young man!" she snapped, smacking the side of his leg with her umbrella. "Some of us are shopping here. Or we would be, if there was much worth shopping for. What's a lad like yourself doing at the market anyway? You ought to be out doing some sort of work."
they/them/actual hobbit in search of a merrier world
- Points: 257
New Soul
Posts: 174
Joined: Mon Jul 31, 2023 1:21 pm
Owner: Periantar
Name of Stall: Periantar's Perennial Mushrooms and Puddings
Description of goods or services provided: Periantar has on offer, a fantastic array of the finest mushrooms in the Shire; plump, fresh and bursting with flavour. As you wonder through the market, you almost immediately pick up the aroma of a fine selection of these slowly roasting in a wood fired oven. Many Hobbits, naturally follow their noses over to the stall.
Beside the roasting mushrooms, on display you notice also, a variety of puddings and deserts, from the darkest and richest Christmas plum puddings, to lemon tarts covered with lashings of freshly whipped cream. Yes, Periantar's fine goods are most certainly fit for even the most descerning of hobbit folk.
Name of Stall: Periantar's Perennial Mushrooms and Puddings
Description of goods or services provided: Periantar has on offer, a fantastic array of the finest mushrooms in the Shire; plump, fresh and bursting with flavour. As you wonder through the market, you almost immediately pick up the aroma of a fine selection of these slowly roasting in a wood fired oven. Many Hobbits, naturally follow their noses over to the stall.
Beside the roasting mushrooms, on display you notice also, a variety of puddings and deserts, from the darkest and richest Christmas plum puddings, to lemon tarts covered with lashings of freshly whipped cream. Yes, Periantar's fine goods are most certainly fit for even the most descerning of hobbit folk.
Periantar:
I am a multi facited hobbit, for I am a gardener;
a leader, hobbit second regiment of the HDS;
and fireworks meister of TISAPA.
I am a multi facited hobbit, for I am a gardener;
a leader, hobbit second regiment of the HDS;
and fireworks meister of TISAPA.
