Elendor
Greenfields Day Drama
"Remember Greenfields" the celebratory banner proclaims. A handful of hobbits will, if not quite for the right reasons
Sort Date: no date set
Location: Shire: Greenfields (Northfarthing)
Game Date: Afteryule (January) 18, 1450 S.R. (3050)
IC Time: Noon
Weather: Cloudy
Description: Greenfields
The path passes a small lake to the east. There are a few apple trees close to the road, and close to them a square of stones, looking like the abandoned foundation of a home.
Between the road and the lake the meadows are full of raspberry bushes. To the west can be seen the moors and highlands that rise around Long Cleeve.
The opposite shore of the lake is bordered by a grove of huge oak-trees. In the grove, a herd of wild boars is looking for food. To the east, by the lake, you notice a statue of a hobbit decapitating an orc, which has some kind of weathered inscription. If you are interested in history this statue merits a closer look.
Contents:
Colorful Banner
Boldibad
Boldibad's Coach(#4884Vaet)
Buffet
Shire Ale Samples
Bolger Pipeweed Barrel
Obvious exits:
SouthWest leads to Bindbale Meadows.
North leads to Abandoned Road - Northern Bounds of the Shire.
South leads to Greenfields Road.
Colorful Banner
This large banner is attached to two poles, which have been driven into the earth on either side of the trail. It says, "REMEMBER GREENFIELDS!"
================================= +SHIRE TIME =================================
RL (Arizona) Time is Sat May 29 16:22:26 2010 (+time).
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IC Time is Noon
on Afteryule (January) 20, 1450 S.R.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IC Weather Conditions:
----------------------
Clouds/wind
===============================================================================
The mid-day sun seems dim and far away as clouds drift slowly overhead under the power of a chilly wind, perhaps from a storm. Still, a small group of hobbits have hiked up to this out-of-the-way location in the North-Farthing to gather around a large buffet table, and converse about the tales of what actually happened here, over 300 years ago. Boldibad appears to be one of them, walking around the side of a coach which has just recently arrived, and opening the compartment in the back. He puts his hands on his hips and peers inside.
One of those who has tagged along on this little expedition is the incomer Torebras Bywater, who is apparently /most/ eager to learn about Shire history. Currently he is engaged in conversation (or, more accurately, listening to a dry and erudite lecture from Dr Borembad North-Took), but at the sight of Boldibad peering into the coach he disengages himself with a polite murmur and heads that way. "Fine day, isn't it, Mr Bolger," he calls politely across. "Very .. ah, bracing."
A couple of younger hobbits haven't waited for their elders to decide what they're supposed to be doing - instead they've run off and are whacking at the frozen earth with long sticks. "Take, that, goblin!" cries one eagerly, beating a clod senseless.
An apple-cheeked hobbit lass stands by, holding a stick uncertainly. She shivers, looking around, then trips after the younger hobbits, flailing around with the 'weapon.'
Boldibad turns from the back of the coach. He smiles broadly and waves in a wide arc, "Hello there, Mr. Bywater. Yes, a fine day, if you increase the temperature a bit, and divert some of this wind." He winks, "Then again, I don't suppose Bandobras Took had the luxury of choosing what the weather would be like on this day, either." He turns back to the coach and pulls out a couple of wine bottles, and makes his way over to the picnic/buffet table.
One of the pair of hobbit youngsters, a dirty-looking lad with a gap in his front teeth, catches sight of the apple-cheeked lass and scowls at her. "Girls ain't allowed," he tells her with a lofty air."
"Oh, come on, Tolly," the other lad, rather cleaner and better-dressed, protests. "Tell you what - she can be a goblin." Turning to the lass, he informs her earnestly, "We'll give you till twenty to hide, then come and look." He offers her a cheeky wink.
Torebras' brows raise just a little at the sight of the wine bottle, and he pulls his feathered hat down over his eyes against the wind. "I see you've come well equipped," he can't resist remarking, and sidles after the wine-bearer. "You know, this is a most interesting custom. A most charming tale, indeed. Tell me, do you hold there to be any truth in it?"
Boldibad sets the bottle down and replies, "Indeed, good sir--this is my third trip from Oatbarton, you know. The Bolgers are always ready to help with a social event such as this one, unlike those rotten Proudfoots..." He chuckles, then, blushing slightly, and lowers himself into a seat at the table. He pulls a pipe from his waistcoat and reaches for the nearby barrel. "What's that," he says, mid-reach, "Truth? In what, the story of the Bullroarer, you mean?"
Torebras clears his throat. "Ah yes. I am sure those ... ahem, less well to do, are most grateful for the Bolgers' generosity." His gaze rests on the youngsters for a moment, and he remarks blithely, "Isn't it nice to see the youngsters having fun," despite the fact that his brows draw down with a snap when one - the dirty-looking 'Tolly' - swings his stick round and round his head and yells loudly, "Yaah!"
He winces, delicately, then nods to Boldibad, reaching out absently for a pastry. "Yes, indeed. I'm sure that this Bandobas Took was a fine upstanding leader, but ... really. Knocking heads off with a club? Riding a horse? It's a little colourful, don't you think? Not to mention .. ahem, violent."
Boldibad dips his pipe into the barrel and pulls it out again, packing the pipeweed down into the bowl with his thumb. He lights up the pipe and leans back in his chair, looking toward Torebras now, as the wind pushes his hair this way and that. "Well," he says, after a light chuckle as if he knows something important, "as a master unearther and collector of antiques, you see, I have thought about it quite a lot. I've heard many a hobbit express an opinion similar to yours, but I'm inclined to believe that it did happen." He takes a drag from his pipe. "If you keep in mind that Bandobras was known to be almost four and a half feet tall. And, don't believe for a second that he was frail! He was a large, stocky hobbit, who was fully capable of... ahem... removing a goblin-head with a club. Perhaps without the foolishness of the Tooks, we wouldn't be here today!"
Laughter rises up around the table.
Boldibad puffs on his pipe. A miniscule smoke-ring happens to pop out of the bowl.
The yelling hobbit-youngster 'Tolly', perhaps catching sight of Torebras' frown, quietens down, but then sticks his tongue out at his companion. "Come on, Bungy. This here's borin' as mud. Ha ha, can't catch me!" And he's off, loping across the hard ground toward the lake, swinging his stick at bushes as he goes.
"Hmph," is a comment from somewhere not far from (and rather behind) Boldibad, as he mentions the foolishness of Tooks. And there, glaring at the back of the other hobbit's curly head is one of that clan herself! Elderly - nay, ancient! - but not looking any less able for it, is Old Granny Fernbottom herself.
Torebras inclines his head, features thoughtful. "Now, now, Mister Bolger," he says hastily. "I was hardly calling the Tooks foolish. To defend one's homelands, why that is very right and noble! I was only wondering if some elements of the stories might have been .. ah, exaggerated." He gives Granny Fernbottom a polite smile. "Besides," he lowers his voice and moves closer to Boldibad, dodging the smoke-ring, "I'm not sure that it's good for the young folk to hear talk of violence. It might encourage .. ahem, delinquent behaviour."
Boldibad continues, "Why, I respect the Bullroarer quite a bit, after coming to realize the truth behind the old story. Whether it's true or not, now, isn't actually important. What -is- important, is a question to our young hobbits out there beatin' the bounds: are -you- ready to whack off a goblin-head, if the time comes? Well, hopefully, Bounders have little Bullroarers inside all of them."
He glances over his shoulder at the elderly Took lady, and whispers to Torebras, "Careful, that old lady has the ears of a fox. She shows up at social functions and just listens for gossip, I know she does!" He glances worriedly in her direction, and raises his voice, "Delinquent behavior? Perhaps, I suppose... but, look at me, I turned out alright, despite what the ladies at Overhill might say!" He looks around for laughs at his last statement, and puffs on his pipe again.
Boldibad puffs on his pipe. A faint blue smoke rises into the air.
"Delinquent Behavior!?!" The old lady's voice is sharp and furious - but thankfully (for Torebras and Boldibad) she is too busy sputtering angrily to actually come any nearer... or hear anything that might be said about her.
Several other folks however, look over, interested. An argument? Better yet... a fight?!?
Torebras, pastry long gone, leans forward to pour himself a cup of wine. "Why, Mister Bolger," he remarks, a twinkle in his eye, "one would almost think that you had a wild and wicked past! Is there something I should know?" He essays a slightly patronizing smile, then looks round and sighs. "Ah, that's better, a little peace."
Indeed, the pair of youngsters are now well out of earshot, the taller and older one having shot past the statue of Bullroarer and now pounding along the lake-shore. The younger one puffs and pants behind, casting a reluctant glance back at the buffet and the apple-cheeked lass he'd been trying to persuade to play hide and seek.
The peace, of course, is soon shattered by Granny Fernbottom. "What's that, my dear lady?" Torebras enquires, turning a polite, slightly glazed expression in the old hobbit-woman's direction.
Boldibad smiles widely in acknowledgement and lets his pipe burn as he looks across the table as laughter comes up in a separate conversation. After a moment, he replies, "I have had my rough times in collecting pieces of history! And that's all I'll say about that." Snickering a bit, he raises his pipe to his mouth again. On another thought, he says sidelong, "It takes an adventurer to know one, after all. As I recall, you weren't even born in the Shire, yet here you are!"
A couple of other children run off from the table, at their parents' urging, to run about and tug on the old lady's dress, chanting, "Granny Fernbottom!" in excitement.
Boldibad puffs on his pipe. Practically nothing rises from the pipe. Perhaps it should be puffed again, to keep the ember going.
Boldibad puffs on his pipe. The ember burns brightly.
The cane thumps against the ground. "Take that back!" demands Granny, of both Boldibad and Torebras indiscriminately.
Torebras, amazingly, blushes slightly. Is he about to reveal some great secret of his mis-spent youth? But no, all he says is, "I'm afraid that my boyhood is quite without incident. Growing up in Bree I spent much of my youth in book-learning - words are the family trade, you know. I'm sure that must seem very dull to you." He offers Boldibad a thin smile. "As for my move to the Shire, that was- ah, that is-" He stutters suddenly, at a loss for words.
Perhaps it's as well that Granny Fernbottom's interruption comes right on cue. "I beg your pardon?" Torebras offers, touching his hat. "Take what back, my dear lady?"
Boldibad leans in and whispers, "I told you..." He pokes his pipe in his mouth with a motionless expression on his face.
"What you said about the Tooks!" She glares again, and whacks at Boldibad's legs with her cane. "And it isn't polite to whisper! Speak up, boy!"
Without batting an eyelid, Torebras recites, "That they were right and noble to defend their homeland? That sounds a most proper thing to my ears - surely you would not wish me to slander them, my dear lady?" He edges away from the cane, just in case.
Boldibad rubs his knees, "Ah!" He grimaces in Fernbottom's direction, "We didn't say anything about the Tooks, Mrs. Took! You must have mis-understood!"
One of the onlookers - there's quite the crowd now, mouths open and half-chewed morsels of food clearly visible - remarks with a snigger, "Look at the old besom. Think she's mistaken Mister Boldibad for a goblin?" Alas that his words fall into the silence following Boldibad's answer.
Granny glares even more at Torebras for not being able to pick at his words before transferring a triumphant look to Boldibad. "AH HAH!" she says loudly. "You did, I heard you with ... " Her own ears pick up an even worse solecism, and she whirls, stamping across towards the hapless hobbit. "Shut your mouth!" she snaps. "You look like a fly-catcher. And let me tell you..."
Soon there's quite the arg-bargy going on. Interested hobbits transfer their attention to the new spectacle.
Once the coast is clear, Torebras peers worriedly at Boldibad. "Are you all right, Mister Bolger? Perhaps a glass of wine to steady the nerves ..." He pours one and holds it out (he's being awfully generous with the Bolgers' donation).
Boldibad shakes his head, "No, sir. I believe I'll be alright. I received bigger bruises from nosy ladies when that Overhill Club was still around." He stamps his foot a couple times and practically throws his pipe into his mouth in a swift motion. "But, let me know if she comes back this way, I may just have to go and see about something with my coach-driver, or something of that sort." He puffs on the pipe and his eyes rise up toward the sky as thunder rumbles distantly.
Boldibad shuffles some of the pipeweed into a pipe, leaving roughly 8 dips of weed in the barrel.
Torebras looks surprised. "You're sure?" He pulls back his outthrust hand and after a moment takes a sip from the wine-cup himself. Perhaps he's nerving himself to speak. He sidles a little closer to Boldibad, braving the fug of smoke that hangs around his fellow-hobbit. When the thunder rumbles he jumps, nervously, then looks embarrassed. "As I was saying, about my departure from Bree, I was-" He glances round at the other hobbits, most of whom are watching Granny Fernbottom and old Algy Brockhouse - a battle! Right here! One to rival the Battle of Greenfields! - then leans even closer to whisper in Boldibad's ear, "I was threatened. By-"
Suddenly there comes a distant scream. It is from the far side of the lake.
Boldibad's head darts forward as soon as he notices Torebras inching toward him. Loudly, he says, "Yes? What is it?"
As he listens to what Torebras has to say, his eyes widen with interest, and he nods his head enthusiastically. "Yes? By what, sir?" He asks as several hobbits get up to look around.
Boldibad looks over his shoulder immediately after speaking, "What was that noise?" he asks aloud. But, he looks back and leans closer, as if expecting he might miss an important explanation from Torebras.
Torebras' head whips round at the scream. "Oh my!" he exclaims, without moving, Boldibad's question seemingly quite forgotten for the moment. "You don't think ..."
In the distance comes a faint, rather piteous cry of "Help! Help!"
Torebras glances back at Boldibad, his features pale and his legs a-tremble. Clearly he is no Bullroarer.
"Goblins," comes a high voice, but it isn't immediately obvious whether it came from one of the children, or mothers.
Boldibad empties his pipe on the table and sticks it back in his waistcoat. "Well," he says to Torebras, "this sounds like trouble, if I ever heard trouble before. And I have."
A wind blows the dying embers away, off the corner of the table, and thunder rolls, seemingly miles closer to Greenfields than it was a few seconds before.
Goblins? Torebras is not the only one who's pale - Greenfields Day sounds like becoming a little too realistic.
Fortunately some hobbits at least keep their wits. Algy Brockhouse stomps away from his shouting match with Granny Fernbottom and stands with arms cross. "Goblins, my ar- my foot." He offers the world at large a hard glare. "We's a-goin' to see what's up afore this storm breaks, and," he turns his belligerent gaze toward the table and those huddling by it, "you's comin' with us. You got your bow, Mister Bolger?"
"I'll - ah, look after the buffet," Torebras offers, heedless of the fact that the embers of Boldibad's pipe are burning a hole in someone's flapping white tablecloth. He shivers - mind you, that wind has certainly got up.
Boldibad snaps his fingers, "It's in my coach! I'll just go and get it. Er, why don't you come along, Mr. Bywater. Two are better than one in a bad situation, you know." He winks and begins crossing over to the coach, where the ponies are now stirring in agitation. The driver joins him without any sort of visible signal, and the two speak at the head of the coach. Boldibad's hair is flopping around a good bit more now, as the wind pummels the clearing, hissing as it pushes through the grass and rustling as it flies out through the leaves of the surrounding trees.
Reluctantly, shakily, Torebras follows Boldibad toward the coach, wrapping his coat around him as tight as he can while he waits for driver and owner to finish conferring. He snatches at his hat as the wind tries to seize it.
Algy Brockhouse has not waited for Boldibad he and a few of the more burly hobbits are already stomping down the path to the lakeshore. The rest of the party watches them, whispering to each other in alarum. Some stare wide-eyed at the brave venturers, whilst others point at the sky and shake their heads. It would appear the party is over.
Noone seems to notice that the tablecloth is still smouldering, too.
Some of the ladies begin cleaning up the table as best they can, and one of them empties a bottle of good wine over the smouldering section of the cloth.
Meanwhile, Boldibad's driver climbs up into the driver's seat, and Boldibad calls across the field, "I'm having some trouble with my bow," he says in a loud, clear voice, as though he knew everyone was completely buying his little deception. "Go on ahead without me. I'll be along!" He puts his hands on his hips, and adds slowly, "After I dislodge the bow. From the coach." He turns and jumps into the side of the coach, and if someone blinked in that instant, they might have missed it.
Torebras, shivering miserably beneath the wind's blasts, stares at the place where Boldibad has disappeared. He, it seems, didn't blink. "Wait!" he exclaims, a quaver in his voice. "Let me help you!" He attempts to climb up after Boldibad - whether he will succeed depends on the speed of the driver and whether he's helped in or pushed out.
From Boldibad's Coach, Boldibad pokes a hand out the side of the vehicle as it stirs into motion, and the driver directs the ponies to turn around left, toward Torebras' side of the action. "The ponies have been startled by the thunder," he yells frantically out the side of the coach, holding on to the side with his free hand. "We'll be along shortly!"
Torebras seizes that extended hand - just then the coach gives a jerk and instead of standing on the running-board he finds himself dangling in mid-air, supported only by Boldibad's hand. The Bree expatriate turns a delicate shade of grey.
From away along the lakeshore come shouts and cries, deeper now. It appears that whatever the peril, Algy Brockhouse and his cronies are dealing with it. Noone else moves to help them. That's what Bounders are for, after all, time they did a bit of work. Instead those lucky enough to have tablecloths to huddle under do so, glancing worriedly at the heavens, and someone points back along the path. Likely they'll be leaving soon, if not as swift as Boldibad.
From Boldibad's Coach, Boldibad pulls Torebras with all the strength he can muster. "Pull yourself in--we'll go to Oatbarton!" He calls over a new peal of thunder. "For help, I mean. Pull, Mr. Bywater!"
Random roll: Torebras rolls a 8.
Your action is highly SUCCESSFUL.
A moan of protest comes from Torebras as his arm is roughly heaved, but Boldibad is strong and Torebras reaches up his other arm and clings on to the coach-side with the strength of desperation. His not inconsiderable bulk is heaved slowly up and across the side of the coach. Then, without warning, he tumbles down to land in a huddled heap at Boldibad's feet. He is not moving.
It appears that Mister Bywater has fainted.
From Boldibad's Coach, Boldibad falls backwards as the hobbit falls into the coach, and lies there breathing heavily as the pair of ponies run down the road toward Oatbarton. "You Bywaters," he says breathlessly. "I don't know how many scrapes I've been in on account o' you Bywaters."
Torebras does not reply despite the jolting of the coach, it is not until they reach Oatbarton that he rouses again.
The departing coach leaves behind it a group of miserable, scared and soon-to-be very wet hobbits. Perhaps next year, Greenfields Day will be quietly forgotten - or else celebrated only by the well-to-do with a quiet round of golf.
The path passes a small lake to the east. There are a few apple trees close to the road, and close to them a square of stones, looking like the abandoned foundation of a home.
Between the road and the lake the meadows are full of raspberry bushes. To the west can be seen the moors and highlands that rise around Long Cleeve.
The opposite shore of the lake is bordered by a grove of huge oak-trees. In the grove, a herd of wild boars is looking for food. To the east, by the lake, you notice a statue of a hobbit decapitating an orc, which has some kind of weathered inscription. If you are interested in history this statue merits a closer look.
Contents:
Colorful Banner
Boldibad
Boldibad's Coach(#4884Vaet)
Buffet
Shire Ale Samples
Bolger Pipeweed Barrel
Obvious exits:
SouthWest leads to Bindbale Meadows.
North leads to Abandoned Road - Northern Bounds of the Shire.
South leads to Greenfields Road.
Colorful Banner
This large banner is attached to two poles, which have been driven into the earth on either side of the trail. It says, "REMEMBER GREENFIELDS!"
================================= +SHIRE TIME =================================
RL (Arizona) Time is Sat May 29 16:22:26 2010 (+time).
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IC Time is Noon
on Afteryule (January) 20, 1450 S.R.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
IC Weather Conditions:
----------------------
Clouds/wind
===============================================================================
The mid-day sun seems dim and far away as clouds drift slowly overhead under the power of a chilly wind, perhaps from a storm. Still, a small group of hobbits have hiked up to this out-of-the-way location in the North-Farthing to gather around a large buffet table, and converse about the tales of what actually happened here, over 300 years ago. Boldibad appears to be one of them, walking around the side of a coach which has just recently arrived, and opening the compartment in the back. He puts his hands on his hips and peers inside.
One of those who has tagged along on this little expedition is the incomer Torebras Bywater, who is apparently /most/ eager to learn about Shire history. Currently he is engaged in conversation (or, more accurately, listening to a dry and erudite lecture from Dr Borembad North-Took), but at the sight of Boldibad peering into the coach he disengages himself with a polite murmur and heads that way. "Fine day, isn't it, Mr Bolger," he calls politely across. "Very .. ah, bracing."
A couple of younger hobbits haven't waited for their elders to decide what they're supposed to be doing - instead they've run off and are whacking at the frozen earth with long sticks. "Take, that, goblin!" cries one eagerly, beating a clod senseless.
An apple-cheeked hobbit lass stands by, holding a stick uncertainly. She shivers, looking around, then trips after the younger hobbits, flailing around with the 'weapon.'
Boldibad turns from the back of the coach. He smiles broadly and waves in a wide arc, "Hello there, Mr. Bywater. Yes, a fine day, if you increase the temperature a bit, and divert some of this wind." He winks, "Then again, I don't suppose Bandobras Took had the luxury of choosing what the weather would be like on this day, either." He turns back to the coach and pulls out a couple of wine bottles, and makes his way over to the picnic/buffet table.
One of the pair of hobbit youngsters, a dirty-looking lad with a gap in his front teeth, catches sight of the apple-cheeked lass and scowls at her. "Girls ain't allowed," he tells her with a lofty air."
"Oh, come on, Tolly," the other lad, rather cleaner and better-dressed, protests. "Tell you what - she can be a goblin." Turning to the lass, he informs her earnestly, "We'll give you till twenty to hide, then come and look." He offers her a cheeky wink.
Torebras' brows raise just a little at the sight of the wine bottle, and he pulls his feathered hat down over his eyes against the wind. "I see you've come well equipped," he can't resist remarking, and sidles after the wine-bearer. "You know, this is a most interesting custom. A most charming tale, indeed. Tell me, do you hold there to be any truth in it?"
Boldibad sets the bottle down and replies, "Indeed, good sir--this is my third trip from Oatbarton, you know. The Bolgers are always ready to help with a social event such as this one, unlike those rotten Proudfoots..." He chuckles, then, blushing slightly, and lowers himself into a seat at the table. He pulls a pipe from his waistcoat and reaches for the nearby barrel. "What's that," he says, mid-reach, "Truth? In what, the story of the Bullroarer, you mean?"
Torebras clears his throat. "Ah yes. I am sure those ... ahem, less well to do, are most grateful for the Bolgers' generosity." His gaze rests on the youngsters for a moment, and he remarks blithely, "Isn't it nice to see the youngsters having fun," despite the fact that his brows draw down with a snap when one - the dirty-looking 'Tolly' - swings his stick round and round his head and yells loudly, "Yaah!"
He winces, delicately, then nods to Boldibad, reaching out absently for a pastry. "Yes, indeed. I'm sure that this Bandobas Took was a fine upstanding leader, but ... really. Knocking heads off with a club? Riding a horse? It's a little colourful, don't you think? Not to mention .. ahem, violent."
Boldibad dips his pipe into the barrel and pulls it out again, packing the pipeweed down into the bowl with his thumb. He lights up the pipe and leans back in his chair, looking toward Torebras now, as the wind pushes his hair this way and that. "Well," he says, after a light chuckle as if he knows something important, "as a master unearther and collector of antiques, you see, I have thought about it quite a lot. I've heard many a hobbit express an opinion similar to yours, but I'm inclined to believe that it did happen." He takes a drag from his pipe. "If you keep in mind that Bandobras was known to be almost four and a half feet tall. And, don't believe for a second that he was frail! He was a large, stocky hobbit, who was fully capable of... ahem... removing a goblin-head with a club. Perhaps without the foolishness of the Tooks, we wouldn't be here today!"
Laughter rises up around the table.
Boldibad puffs on his pipe. A miniscule smoke-ring happens to pop out of the bowl.
The yelling hobbit-youngster 'Tolly', perhaps catching sight of Torebras' frown, quietens down, but then sticks his tongue out at his companion. "Come on, Bungy. This here's borin' as mud. Ha ha, can't catch me!" And he's off, loping across the hard ground toward the lake, swinging his stick at bushes as he goes.
"Hmph," is a comment from somewhere not far from (and rather behind) Boldibad, as he mentions the foolishness of Tooks. And there, glaring at the back of the other hobbit's curly head is one of that clan herself! Elderly - nay, ancient! - but not looking any less able for it, is Old Granny Fernbottom herself.
Torebras inclines his head, features thoughtful. "Now, now, Mister Bolger," he says hastily. "I was hardly calling the Tooks foolish. To defend one's homelands, why that is very right and noble! I was only wondering if some elements of the stories might have been .. ah, exaggerated." He gives Granny Fernbottom a polite smile. "Besides," he lowers his voice and moves closer to Boldibad, dodging the smoke-ring, "I'm not sure that it's good for the young folk to hear talk of violence. It might encourage .. ahem, delinquent behaviour."
Boldibad continues, "Why, I respect the Bullroarer quite a bit, after coming to realize the truth behind the old story. Whether it's true or not, now, isn't actually important. What -is- important, is a question to our young hobbits out there beatin' the bounds: are -you- ready to whack off a goblin-head, if the time comes? Well, hopefully, Bounders have little Bullroarers inside all of them."
He glances over his shoulder at the elderly Took lady, and whispers to Torebras, "Careful, that old lady has the ears of a fox. She shows up at social functions and just listens for gossip, I know she does!" He glances worriedly in her direction, and raises his voice, "Delinquent behavior? Perhaps, I suppose... but, look at me, I turned out alright, despite what the ladies at Overhill might say!" He looks around for laughs at his last statement, and puffs on his pipe again.
Boldibad puffs on his pipe. A faint blue smoke rises into the air.
"Delinquent Behavior!?!" The old lady's voice is sharp and furious - but thankfully (for Torebras and Boldibad) she is too busy sputtering angrily to actually come any nearer... or hear anything that might be said about her.
Several other folks however, look over, interested. An argument? Better yet... a fight?!?
Torebras, pastry long gone, leans forward to pour himself a cup of wine. "Why, Mister Bolger," he remarks, a twinkle in his eye, "one would almost think that you had a wild and wicked past! Is there something I should know?" He essays a slightly patronizing smile, then looks round and sighs. "Ah, that's better, a little peace."
Indeed, the pair of youngsters are now well out of earshot, the taller and older one having shot past the statue of Bullroarer and now pounding along the lake-shore. The younger one puffs and pants behind, casting a reluctant glance back at the buffet and the apple-cheeked lass he'd been trying to persuade to play hide and seek.
The peace, of course, is soon shattered by Granny Fernbottom. "What's that, my dear lady?" Torebras enquires, turning a polite, slightly glazed expression in the old hobbit-woman's direction.
Boldibad smiles widely in acknowledgement and lets his pipe burn as he looks across the table as laughter comes up in a separate conversation. After a moment, he replies, "I have had my rough times in collecting pieces of history! And that's all I'll say about that." Snickering a bit, he raises his pipe to his mouth again. On another thought, he says sidelong, "It takes an adventurer to know one, after all. As I recall, you weren't even born in the Shire, yet here you are!"
A couple of other children run off from the table, at their parents' urging, to run about and tug on the old lady's dress, chanting, "Granny Fernbottom!" in excitement.
Boldibad puffs on his pipe. Practically nothing rises from the pipe. Perhaps it should be puffed again, to keep the ember going.
Boldibad puffs on his pipe. The ember burns brightly.
The cane thumps against the ground. "Take that back!" demands Granny, of both Boldibad and Torebras indiscriminately.
Torebras, amazingly, blushes slightly. Is he about to reveal some great secret of his mis-spent youth? But no, all he says is, "I'm afraid that my boyhood is quite without incident. Growing up in Bree I spent much of my youth in book-learning - words are the family trade, you know. I'm sure that must seem very dull to you." He offers Boldibad a thin smile. "As for my move to the Shire, that was- ah, that is-" He stutters suddenly, at a loss for words.
Perhaps it's as well that Granny Fernbottom's interruption comes right on cue. "I beg your pardon?" Torebras offers, touching his hat. "Take what back, my dear lady?"
Boldibad leans in and whispers, "I told you..." He pokes his pipe in his mouth with a motionless expression on his face.
"What you said about the Tooks!" She glares again, and whacks at Boldibad's legs with her cane. "And it isn't polite to whisper! Speak up, boy!"
Without batting an eyelid, Torebras recites, "That they were right and noble to defend their homeland? That sounds a most proper thing to my ears - surely you would not wish me to slander them, my dear lady?" He edges away from the cane, just in case.
Boldibad rubs his knees, "Ah!" He grimaces in Fernbottom's direction, "We didn't say anything about the Tooks, Mrs. Took! You must have mis-understood!"
One of the onlookers - there's quite the crowd now, mouths open and half-chewed morsels of food clearly visible - remarks with a snigger, "Look at the old besom. Think she's mistaken Mister Boldibad for a goblin?" Alas that his words fall into the silence following Boldibad's answer.
Granny glares even more at Torebras for not being able to pick at his words before transferring a triumphant look to Boldibad. "AH HAH!" she says loudly. "You did, I heard you with ... " Her own ears pick up an even worse solecism, and she whirls, stamping across towards the hapless hobbit. "Shut your mouth!" she snaps. "You look like a fly-catcher. And let me tell you..."
Soon there's quite the arg-bargy going on. Interested hobbits transfer their attention to the new spectacle.
Once the coast is clear, Torebras peers worriedly at Boldibad. "Are you all right, Mister Bolger? Perhaps a glass of wine to steady the nerves ..." He pours one and holds it out (he's being awfully generous with the Bolgers' donation).
Boldibad shakes his head, "No, sir. I believe I'll be alright. I received bigger bruises from nosy ladies when that Overhill Club was still around." He stamps his foot a couple times and practically throws his pipe into his mouth in a swift motion. "But, let me know if she comes back this way, I may just have to go and see about something with my coach-driver, or something of that sort." He puffs on the pipe and his eyes rise up toward the sky as thunder rumbles distantly.
Boldibad shuffles some of the pipeweed into a pipe, leaving roughly 8 dips of weed in the barrel.
Torebras looks surprised. "You're sure?" He pulls back his outthrust hand and after a moment takes a sip from the wine-cup himself. Perhaps he's nerving himself to speak. He sidles a little closer to Boldibad, braving the fug of smoke that hangs around his fellow-hobbit. When the thunder rumbles he jumps, nervously, then looks embarrassed. "As I was saying, about my departure from Bree, I was-" He glances round at the other hobbits, most of whom are watching Granny Fernbottom and old Algy Brockhouse - a battle! Right here! One to rival the Battle of Greenfields! - then leans even closer to whisper in Boldibad's ear, "I was threatened. By-"
Suddenly there comes a distant scream. It is from the far side of the lake.
Boldibad's head darts forward as soon as he notices Torebras inching toward him. Loudly, he says, "Yes? What is it?"
As he listens to what Torebras has to say, his eyes widen with interest, and he nods his head enthusiastically. "Yes? By what, sir?" He asks as several hobbits get up to look around.
Boldibad looks over his shoulder immediately after speaking, "What was that noise?" he asks aloud. But, he looks back and leans closer, as if expecting he might miss an important explanation from Torebras.
Torebras' head whips round at the scream. "Oh my!" he exclaims, without moving, Boldibad's question seemingly quite forgotten for the moment. "You don't think ..."
In the distance comes a faint, rather piteous cry of "Help! Help!"
Torebras glances back at Boldibad, his features pale and his legs a-tremble. Clearly he is no Bullroarer.
"Goblins," comes a high voice, but it isn't immediately obvious whether it came from one of the children, or mothers.
Boldibad empties his pipe on the table and sticks it back in his waistcoat. "Well," he says to Torebras, "this sounds like trouble, if I ever heard trouble before. And I have."
A wind blows the dying embers away, off the corner of the table, and thunder rolls, seemingly miles closer to Greenfields than it was a few seconds before.
Goblins? Torebras is not the only one who's pale - Greenfields Day sounds like becoming a little too realistic.
Fortunately some hobbits at least keep their wits. Algy Brockhouse stomps away from his shouting match with Granny Fernbottom and stands with arms cross. "Goblins, my ar- my foot." He offers the world at large a hard glare. "We's a-goin' to see what's up afore this storm breaks, and," he turns his belligerent gaze toward the table and those huddling by it, "you's comin' with us. You got your bow, Mister Bolger?"
"I'll - ah, look after the buffet," Torebras offers, heedless of the fact that the embers of Boldibad's pipe are burning a hole in someone's flapping white tablecloth. He shivers - mind you, that wind has certainly got up.
Boldibad snaps his fingers, "It's in my coach! I'll just go and get it. Er, why don't you come along, Mr. Bywater. Two are better than one in a bad situation, you know." He winks and begins crossing over to the coach, where the ponies are now stirring in agitation. The driver joins him without any sort of visible signal, and the two speak at the head of the coach. Boldibad's hair is flopping around a good bit more now, as the wind pummels the clearing, hissing as it pushes through the grass and rustling as it flies out through the leaves of the surrounding trees.
Reluctantly, shakily, Torebras follows Boldibad toward the coach, wrapping his coat around him as tight as he can while he waits for driver and owner to finish conferring. He snatches at his hat as the wind tries to seize it.
Algy Brockhouse has not waited for Boldibad he and a few of the more burly hobbits are already stomping down the path to the lakeshore. The rest of the party watches them, whispering to each other in alarum. Some stare wide-eyed at the brave venturers, whilst others point at the sky and shake their heads. It would appear the party is over.
Noone seems to notice that the tablecloth is still smouldering, too.
Some of the ladies begin cleaning up the table as best they can, and one of them empties a bottle of good wine over the smouldering section of the cloth.
Meanwhile, Boldibad's driver climbs up into the driver's seat, and Boldibad calls across the field, "I'm having some trouble with my bow," he says in a loud, clear voice, as though he knew everyone was completely buying his little deception. "Go on ahead without me. I'll be along!" He puts his hands on his hips, and adds slowly, "After I dislodge the bow. From the coach." He turns and jumps into the side of the coach, and if someone blinked in that instant, they might have missed it.
Torebras, shivering miserably beneath the wind's blasts, stares at the place where Boldibad has disappeared. He, it seems, didn't blink. "Wait!" he exclaims, a quaver in his voice. "Let me help you!" He attempts to climb up after Boldibad - whether he will succeed depends on the speed of the driver and whether he's helped in or pushed out.
From Boldibad's Coach, Boldibad pokes a hand out the side of the vehicle as it stirs into motion, and the driver directs the ponies to turn around left, toward Torebras' side of the action. "The ponies have been startled by the thunder," he yells frantically out the side of the coach, holding on to the side with his free hand. "We'll be along shortly!"
Torebras seizes that extended hand - just then the coach gives a jerk and instead of standing on the running-board he finds himself dangling in mid-air, supported only by Boldibad's hand. The Bree expatriate turns a delicate shade of grey.
From away along the lakeshore come shouts and cries, deeper now. It appears that whatever the peril, Algy Brockhouse and his cronies are dealing with it. Noone else moves to help them. That's what Bounders are for, after all, time they did a bit of work. Instead those lucky enough to have tablecloths to huddle under do so, glancing worriedly at the heavens, and someone points back along the path. Likely they'll be leaving soon, if not as swift as Boldibad.
From Boldibad's Coach, Boldibad pulls Torebras with all the strength he can muster. "Pull yourself in--we'll go to Oatbarton!" He calls over a new peal of thunder. "For help, I mean. Pull, Mr. Bywater!"
Random roll: Torebras rolls a 8.
Your action is highly SUCCESSFUL.
A moan of protest comes from Torebras as his arm is roughly heaved, but Boldibad is strong and Torebras reaches up his other arm and clings on to the coach-side with the strength of desperation. His not inconsiderable bulk is heaved slowly up and across the side of the coach. Then, without warning, he tumbles down to land in a huddled heap at Boldibad's feet. He is not moving.
It appears that Mister Bywater has fainted.
From Boldibad's Coach, Boldibad falls backwards as the hobbit falls into the coach, and lies there breathing heavily as the pair of ponies run down the road toward Oatbarton. "You Bywaters," he says breathlessly. "I don't know how many scrapes I've been in on account o' you Bywaters."
Torebras does not reply despite the jolting of the coach, it is not until they reach Oatbarton that he rouses again.
The departing coach leaves behind it a group of miserable, scared and soon-to-be very wet hobbits. Perhaps next year, Greenfields Day will be quietly forgotten - or else celebrated only by the well-to-do with a quiet round of golf.
Players: Boldibad, Torebras, Granny Fernbottom
Located in: Shirefolk
