Elendor
Tastes Like Chicken
Brandebras gets a mouthful of dead chicken feathers.
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Stables, Prancing Pony, Bree
Game Date: January 14,1449
IC Time: 02:09
Weather: Misty rain, cold
Description:
================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Tue Jan 26 15:43:15 2010
Bree time: Midnight <02:09:45> on Sterday of Winter - January 14,1449
Moon Phase: Last Quarter Moon
===============================================================================
Breelands Weather
The midnight winter air is cold and dry around you. A misty rain comes down from the night sky. The moon is above the horizon and in its last quarter phase.
Brandebras enters the Stables from the Courtyard.
Brandebras has arrived.
Stables
Stall after stall lines the walls of this small outbuilding on the south side of the Prancing Pony, confirming that this building indeed serves as a stable. Heavy solid wood, practical though not beautiful, makes up the construction of the beams and gates that keep the beasts securely locked inside. A low wooden trough runs through each of the stalls so as to provide fresh water at all times, and bales of hay rest in the corner of each stall. Two large windows on the south wall, one at the front and one at the back of the stables lie propped open with a chunk of wood, affording fresh air to the animals as well as their owners and the stable hobbit who cares for the place. The doors currently stand wide open, though a heavy iron bolt can be seen from the inside, making it fairly evident that the stable can be protected from things on the outside if necessary.
Contents:
Brandebras
Pony Cart(#1580ae)
Dead Chicken(#30496VXhzMwB)
Obvious exits:
Out
Misty rain comes down from the night sky, and the excess can be constantly heard sliding off the roof of the stable, onto the wet ground outside. A few new ponies rest in stalls, and their cart sits near the wall farthest the door. Lying close to the vehicle is a hobbit, on a little pile of bunched-up hay, with a rag clenched in his hand. He snores peacefully, though, if the animals could talk, they might express agitation at the sound.
Brandebras
Brandebras Bywater - Messenger, errand-runner and expert gossiper
This average-sized hobbit looks to be barely out of his tweens - bright-eyed and apple-cheeked, his round face shines with the unmistakeable air of Youth. He wears a buttercup-yellow waistcoat, its brass buttons polished to a mirror shine, and orange trousers that are fastened round his broad middle by a black leather belt. His eyes are the brown of ripe nuts, and the curling hair that tops his head and protects his furry feet is a fine shade of chestnut. A goosefeather quill protrudes from one waistcoat pocket.
The pitter-patter of the rain masks the soft slap of furry feet on the cobbles at first then, as the downpour increases in volume, the door to the stables creaks open and a miserable, blinking Brandebras Bywater slips in to seek shelter. The hobbit has a bandage wound round his head, half-obscuring one eye, and only one arm is in his coat. The other lies close to his chest, supported in a sling. From the way the hobbit's blinking and yawning, it's likely he has recently been roused from a sound sleep and is not fully 'himself' yet.
Boldibad begins to stir and mutters almost incoherently, "No more mushrooms... I'm... I'm full..." He smacks his lips and rolls over on his other side. For some reason, though, a dead chicken is lying in that side, half-buried in the hay, and he comes face-to-face with it. Boldibad sniffs the air a few times and slowly opens his eyes.
"Aaiiiiii!!" He shrieks shrilly and rolls off his makeshift bed, crawling backwards as quickly as he can.
Brandebras, dripping wet and sorry for himself, nevertheless shivers a little more at the sound of incoherent murmurs. "Hello?" he calls, with a little nervous quiver in his voice. "Is anyone the-" It is at this point the shriek comes.
"Aaaah!" Without looking to see what has made that blood-curdling cry, Brandebras attempts to run back through the doors and out into the rain. Of course, he misjudges it and bangs his shoulder against the doorframe a moment later he has collapsed in a sobbing heap.
Boldibad's reaction to Brandebras is too much for him, and, were he not so respectably large, his next move would be a perfect somersault. However, it's more of a sloppy roll forward, and he finds himself sitting with his legs poking out before him and his head rubbing his head in confusion. He timidly looks over his shoulder and sighs, "Mr. Bywater... what are you DOING??"
The sobbing heap uncurls and whimpers, raising its right hand to feel at the left shoulder. "My arm hurts," the young hobbit mumbles and then memory comes clear. "Mister Bolger," he whispers fearfully, "there's something in the stables! I heard it scream."
With some effort, he gets to his feet, saying as he does so, "Of course there's something in the stables--a dead animal!" He sniffs, "I think it was one of these irritable Bree horses what made the... 'scream,' or whatever you say it was. I don't know, I must have been sleeping." He exaggerates a sigh and moves over toward the heap, "What happened to your arm, you whippersnapper? Alright now, get up first--tell me what's goin' on, eh?"
Boldibad glances at his hand and tucks in his bottom lip as he whips the rag to the ground.
"A ... dead animal?" Brandebras' tear-streaked face is pale and he keeps to the same whisper as before. "What kind of animal?"
At the rest of Boldibad's speech he blushes crimson, and pushes himself awkwardly back to his feet, where he stands trembling with reaction. "I- I didn't mean to bump into the doors," he mumbles, shamefaced. "Just I was trying to get away from the thing screamed, and they weren't where I expected they were. And - uh, I hit my arm and my head when I fell off the wagon."
Boldibad throws his arms up in groggy anger, "It's a dead--" He then leans forward and lowers his voice to a whisper, matching Brandebras', "It's a dead TROLL!" He shakes his head and walks over to the door, inspecting the frame carefully. "What--are you cracked? I don't see a wagon anywhere, except the one which I bought yesterday, and I know you weren't on THAT!" He sighs, rubbing a crack in the wood.
Dead .. troll? At that piece of information Brandebras, always suggestible, lets out a sudden shriek. If there is anything dead and nasty in the stable, the noise might just be enough to resurrect it. The hobbit turns again toward the doors - except that now Boldibad is standing blocking them. "No, the wagon Mister Miller was fixing. I was helping him break it up. C-can I go now?" He shivers as he looks round the shadowy stables.
Boldibad starts at the sudden shriek and whirls around, holding out his arms to catch the excitable young fellow. "I say," he exclaims, "settle down! It was only a chicken! A SMALL chicken!" Once he feels certain that Brandebras isn't going to run outside and alert the townspeople, he begins to feel the chill of the night as his adrenaline begins to fade. He pulls his cloak around him and shivers a bit himself. "What? Well, tell him to stop fixing it--I just bought a new'n. That long-legged fool should've been done with it last week!" He sniffs, "Besides, I only had enough for half. I told him Mr. Miller had the rest of my money, and he's going to have to pick up the rest of the cost."
Brandebras is neatly caught - as Boldibad's hand comes down on his shoulder he lets out another whimper, this one sounding much like pain. "J-just a chicken?" The quiver in his voice is still there, but at least he's stopped screaming. "M-maybe Mister Nob left it, for tomorrow's stew." The rest of the information is absorbed - or perhaps not really, for all Brandebras says is a polite, "Yes, Mister Bolger."
Boldibad walks over to the chicken and picks it up by the leg, waving it around, "Tomorrow's stew? This??" He tosses the chicken and puts his hands on his hips, "Are you telling me this is what they serve at the Prancing Pony? Why, I could get sick! I'm going to have a talk with Mr. Butterbur, and you'd better hope I forget to tell him about that cracked doorframe... wait a moment..." He stops and tilts his head in thought. "Did you say you were helping Mr. Miller... -break- up the wagon? What does that mean? Why, I ought to..." he moves toward Brandebras, but it isn't clear if this sleep-deprived old fellow means to replay an incident involving a shaken collar, or what.
Brandebras says, "Which direction was the chicken tossed? )"
You say, "Toward a Brandebras most likely )"
Boldibad says, "Poor chicken"
Brandebras watches open-mouthed as the chicken is waved around - which means he's taken quite by surprise when it's tossed in his direction. Any hale and hearty hobbit would have ducked - Brandebras, alas, does not fit the bill. His injuries slow his reactions enough that as the chicken slaps against him - not hard - he gets a mouthful of feathers. "Uggh!"
He spits, splutters and spits again, only belatedly aware of the rest of Boldibad's speech. But when the older hobbit starts to move toward him, it is definitely Too Much. Gathering his strength, Brandebras darts with all the speed his shaking legs can muster toward the open door and the teeming rain beyond. Some things are even worse than getting soaked.
Boldibad says, "Correction: Poor Brandebras lol"
Boldibad kicks at a pile of hay as he runs after the departing Brandebras. He stops under the doorframe, and waves his fist, "You marrow-eater! You come back here! One of these days, Brandebras Bywater!"
Boldibad's shouting only speeds Brandebras' steps further. It's a wonder the hobbit doesn't slip in the puddles and break a leg as well as an arm, but there you go ...
End.
================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Tue Jan 26 15:43:15 2010
Bree time: Midnight <02:09:45> on Sterday of Winter - January 14,1449
Moon Phase: Last Quarter Moon
===============================================================================
Breelands Weather
The midnight winter air is cold and dry around you. A misty rain comes down from the night sky. The moon is above the horizon and in its last quarter phase.
Brandebras enters the Stables from the Courtyard.
Brandebras has arrived.
Stables
Stall after stall lines the walls of this small outbuilding on the south side of the Prancing Pony, confirming that this building indeed serves as a stable. Heavy solid wood, practical though not beautiful, makes up the construction of the beams and gates that keep the beasts securely locked inside. A low wooden trough runs through each of the stalls so as to provide fresh water at all times, and bales of hay rest in the corner of each stall. Two large windows on the south wall, one at the front and one at the back of the stables lie propped open with a chunk of wood, affording fresh air to the animals as well as their owners and the stable hobbit who cares for the place. The doors currently stand wide open, though a heavy iron bolt can be seen from the inside, making it fairly evident that the stable can be protected from things on the outside if necessary.
Contents:
Brandebras
Pony Cart(#1580ae)
Dead Chicken(#30496VXhzMwB)
Obvious exits:
Out
Misty rain comes down from the night sky, and the excess can be constantly heard sliding off the roof of the stable, onto the wet ground outside. A few new ponies rest in stalls, and their cart sits near the wall farthest the door. Lying close to the vehicle is a hobbit, on a little pile of bunched-up hay, with a rag clenched in his hand. He snores peacefully, though, if the animals could talk, they might express agitation at the sound.
Brandebras
Brandebras Bywater - Messenger, errand-runner and expert gossiper
This average-sized hobbit looks to be barely out of his tweens - bright-eyed and apple-cheeked, his round face shines with the unmistakeable air of Youth. He wears a buttercup-yellow waistcoat, its brass buttons polished to a mirror shine, and orange trousers that are fastened round his broad middle by a black leather belt. His eyes are the brown of ripe nuts, and the curling hair that tops his head and protects his furry feet is a fine shade of chestnut. A goosefeather quill protrudes from one waistcoat pocket.
The pitter-patter of the rain masks the soft slap of furry feet on the cobbles at first then, as the downpour increases in volume, the door to the stables creaks open and a miserable, blinking Brandebras Bywater slips in to seek shelter. The hobbit has a bandage wound round his head, half-obscuring one eye, and only one arm is in his coat. The other lies close to his chest, supported in a sling. From the way the hobbit's blinking and yawning, it's likely he has recently been roused from a sound sleep and is not fully 'himself' yet.
Boldibad begins to stir and mutters almost incoherently, "No more mushrooms... I'm... I'm full..." He smacks his lips and rolls over on his other side. For some reason, though, a dead chicken is lying in that side, half-buried in the hay, and he comes face-to-face with it. Boldibad sniffs the air a few times and slowly opens his eyes.
"Aaiiiiii!!" He shrieks shrilly and rolls off his makeshift bed, crawling backwards as quickly as he can.
Brandebras, dripping wet and sorry for himself, nevertheless shivers a little more at the sound of incoherent murmurs. "Hello?" he calls, with a little nervous quiver in his voice. "Is anyone the-" It is at this point the shriek comes.
"Aaaah!" Without looking to see what has made that blood-curdling cry, Brandebras attempts to run back through the doors and out into the rain. Of course, he misjudges it and bangs his shoulder against the doorframe a moment later he has collapsed in a sobbing heap.
Boldibad's reaction to Brandebras is too much for him, and, were he not so respectably large, his next move would be a perfect somersault. However, it's more of a sloppy roll forward, and he finds himself sitting with his legs poking out before him and his head rubbing his head in confusion. He timidly looks over his shoulder and sighs, "Mr. Bywater... what are you DOING??"
The sobbing heap uncurls and whimpers, raising its right hand to feel at the left shoulder. "My arm hurts," the young hobbit mumbles and then memory comes clear. "Mister Bolger," he whispers fearfully, "there's something in the stables! I heard it scream."
With some effort, he gets to his feet, saying as he does so, "Of course there's something in the stables--a dead animal!" He sniffs, "I think it was one of these irritable Bree horses what made the... 'scream,' or whatever you say it was. I don't know, I must have been sleeping." He exaggerates a sigh and moves over toward the heap, "What happened to your arm, you whippersnapper? Alright now, get up first--tell me what's goin' on, eh?"
Boldibad glances at his hand and tucks in his bottom lip as he whips the rag to the ground.
"A ... dead animal?" Brandebras' tear-streaked face is pale and he keeps to the same whisper as before. "What kind of animal?"
At the rest of Boldibad's speech he blushes crimson, and pushes himself awkwardly back to his feet, where he stands trembling with reaction. "I- I didn't mean to bump into the doors," he mumbles, shamefaced. "Just I was trying to get away from the thing screamed, and they weren't where I expected they were. And - uh, I hit my arm and my head when I fell off the wagon."
Boldibad throws his arms up in groggy anger, "It's a dead--" He then leans forward and lowers his voice to a whisper, matching Brandebras', "It's a dead TROLL!" He shakes his head and walks over to the door, inspecting the frame carefully. "What--are you cracked? I don't see a wagon anywhere, except the one which I bought yesterday, and I know you weren't on THAT!" He sighs, rubbing a crack in the wood.
Dead .. troll? At that piece of information Brandebras, always suggestible, lets out a sudden shriek. If there is anything dead and nasty in the stable, the noise might just be enough to resurrect it. The hobbit turns again toward the doors - except that now Boldibad is standing blocking them. "No, the wagon Mister Miller was fixing. I was helping him break it up. C-can I go now?" He shivers as he looks round the shadowy stables.
Boldibad starts at the sudden shriek and whirls around, holding out his arms to catch the excitable young fellow. "I say," he exclaims, "settle down! It was only a chicken! A SMALL chicken!" Once he feels certain that Brandebras isn't going to run outside and alert the townspeople, he begins to feel the chill of the night as his adrenaline begins to fade. He pulls his cloak around him and shivers a bit himself. "What? Well, tell him to stop fixing it--I just bought a new'n. That long-legged fool should've been done with it last week!" He sniffs, "Besides, I only had enough for half. I told him Mr. Miller had the rest of my money, and he's going to have to pick up the rest of the cost."
Brandebras is neatly caught - as Boldibad's hand comes down on his shoulder he lets out another whimper, this one sounding much like pain. "J-just a chicken?" The quiver in his voice is still there, but at least he's stopped screaming. "M-maybe Mister Nob left it, for tomorrow's stew." The rest of the information is absorbed - or perhaps not really, for all Brandebras says is a polite, "Yes, Mister Bolger."
Boldibad walks over to the chicken and picks it up by the leg, waving it around, "Tomorrow's stew? This??" He tosses the chicken and puts his hands on his hips, "Are you telling me this is what they serve at the Prancing Pony? Why, I could get sick! I'm going to have a talk with Mr. Butterbur, and you'd better hope I forget to tell him about that cracked doorframe... wait a moment..." He stops and tilts his head in thought. "Did you say you were helping Mr. Miller... -break- up the wagon? What does that mean? Why, I ought to..." he moves toward Brandebras, but it isn't clear if this sleep-deprived old fellow means to replay an incident involving a shaken collar, or what.
Brandebras watches open-mouthed as the chicken is waved around - which means he's taken quite by surprise when it's tossed in his direction. Any hale and hearty hobbit would have ducked - Brandebras, alas, does not fit the bill. His injuries slow his reactions enough that as the chicken slaps against him - not hard - he gets a mouthful of feathers. "Uggh!"
He spits, splutters and spits again, only belatedly aware of the rest of Boldibad's speech. But when the older hobbit starts to move toward him, it is definitely Too Much. Gathering his strength, Brandebras darts with all the speed his shaking legs can muster toward the open door and the teeming rain beyond. Some things are even worse than getting soaked.
Boldibad kicks at a pile of hay as he runs after the departing Brandebras. He stops under the doorframe, and waves his fist, "You marrow-eater! You come back here! One of these days, Brandebras Bywater!"
Boldibad's shouting only speeds Brandebras' steps further. It's a wonder the hobbit doesn't slip in the puddles and break a leg as well as an arm, but there you go ...
End.
Players: Brandebras, Boldibad
