Going postal?

Pincup Post Office

A large, spacious room, the Post Office's far wall is lined with a long, wooden counter. Behind it sits a rather elderly gentlehobbit, a pair of half-moon spectacles hanging low on his nose. Several neatly written posters on the wall above the counter show postage prices to various towns in all the four Farthings, while racks dotted all about the room hold all the implements needed to send a letter various packets of paper and envelopes, stamps, and pens and pencils. A door behind the counter, slightly ajar, lends a view of a room filled almost entirely by a table, no doubt for sorting the post on.

Obvious exits:

 Out leads to Pincup.

================================= +SHIRE TIME =================================

RL (Arizona) Time is Thu Mar 04 14:52:43 2010 (+time).

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IC Time is evening on Friday, Thrimidge (May) 5, 1449 S.R.

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IC Weather Conditions:

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The temperature is mild, even warm, and a cloudless sky spans the Shire. The moon is hidden below the horizon.

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The door opens, and in walks Boldibad Bolger, a book under his arm, and a pipe hanging from his mouth. He looks around and smiles, nodding his head, as he walks up toward the postmaster.

The place has rather an empty feel. The fact it's high time the postmaster was closing up for the day might have something to do with that the other reason might be the smell that assaults the nostrils as one walks up to the counter. On that counter, in front of the elderly gentlehobbit, who greets Boldibad with a thinly disguised look of relief - "Why, good evening to you Mister Bolger!" - sits a box. It seems that someone is there before Boldibad.

The 'someone' is currently bent over, picking up a piece of paper that has fallen to the floor now he straightens and turns round. It is Torebras Bywater, red in the face and looking rather indignant. "Ah, good evening to you sir," he offers distractedly, then looks back to the postmaster. "As I was saying..."

Boldibad stops at the counter and, with a cheerful smile, slides Torebras' box over and out of the way. "Good evening," he says to each hobbit in turn. To the posthobbit, he adds, "I have an important letter that must be delivered right away. Just a moment, it's in here somewhere..." He begins thumbing through the thick book.

"Right away." The elderly hobbit straightens his spectacles. "Of course, Mister Bolger. Where's it to go to?" He reaches for his ledger, and starts scanning down it. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he adds pointedly to Torebras.

Torebras, however, is not going to be easily brushed aside. He fixes the elderly postmaster with a furious glare. "Don't try to duck the issue. I wish to know who is responsible for these- these atrocities!" He waves an arm toward his box. "The post office in Buckland sent me here." He pauses for breath, turning his fierce gaze on Boldibad as though whatever-it-is were his fault.

Boldibad gives the postmaster a wink as if to say, "Allow me to handle this." He leans on the counter, and turns to Torebras, "Pardon me, but whatever the matter is, I'm sure it isn't the Shire Post's fault. They're very busy, you know." He looks back down at his book and pulls a folded paper from between the pages. "If you'll excuse me, the postmaster and I have more urgent business to attend to." He clears his throat and opens the letter, "Now, before I give it to you, I'd like to have your opinion on the wording. One moment, let me just read it to you--pull up a seat, if you like."

The postmaster, midway down his ledger, looks up over the top of his spectacles, marking his place with a finger. "Of course, Mister Bolger." He slides his own stool along the counter away from Torebras, and motions for Boldibad himself to take another. "There is, of course, a charge for special deliveries," he adds to his new customer quietly and almost nervously. What if Boldibad should change his mind?

"Very busy," Torebras repeats, his tone acid. "Oh yes. Very busy flooding my home with items like these." His voice starts to rise as he chants a litany of outrage. "First it was the letters. Then it was," he stops, gives a convulsive shudder, "half a dozen of those - what do you call them? Slaters? Woodlice? In my nice clean little cottage! And now this. Look!" He reaches out and fumbles the box open a rotten, sulphurous odour assaults the nostrils. Inside are the remains of several smashed eggs.

Boldibad begins to recite his letter, but looks up in agitation and pulls his pipe from his mouth as he listens to what Torebras has to say. At the end, he says, "I say, aren't you that ex-mayor o' Bree? The Bywater fellow, aren't you?" He nods his head, "That's what I thought. Well, sir, if you're going to live with us, you may as well get used to how things go in the Shire. You see, they might think it right and good to send a box of eggs through the post in BREE... but good luck getting them without any cracks. A little Shire sense would tell you to hire a local Took lad to take your eggs where they need to go. Keep those whippersnappers busy, and they'll stay out of trouble, eh?"

The elderly postmaster, trying hard to shut out Torebras and focus on his new client, scratches his head when Boldibad breaks off. "Quite, quite," he murmurs hastily - just what he's agreeing with is unclear.

Torebras, meanwhile, is growing redder and redder in the face, and seems to swell up with indignation, much as might an enraged turkey. "What?!" he exclaims. "Of course I didn't send it. What fool of a tomnoddy would do that sort of thing? No, no, this is a deliberate attack." He walks over to Boldibad and waves the piece of paper he'd dropped on the floor earlier in his fellow hobbit's face.

Clearly it's not new, for it has a distinct fishy smell as though used to wrap someone's meal. On it, in stuck-on letters that any regular newsreader would recognize as the type used in headlines for the Shire Chronicle, are the words: OUTSIDERS GO HOME

Boldibad holds his pipe and tucks his free hand into a pocket in his waistcoat. He takes a step back as the paper is waved at his face, and tucks in his lip. "Now," he says finally, "you settle down now, and tell me what this is all about! Sometimes you Bree-types are so unpredictable... what's that paper you were waving at me?"

Torebras opens his mouth for a stinging retort to that, then clearly thinks better of it. Instead he hands the piece of paper to Boldibad. "Take a good long look," he says grimly. "That's only one of them, there have been many others. As I was telling the .. good postmaster here," he turns his head to give the elderly postmaster a hard stare, "it has to stop!"

At that, the elderly gentlehobbit shakes his head to the irate Bree expatriate and says wearily, "As I was telling Mister Bywater here, the postal service isn't responsible for what things persons choose to send through it. Why, it would be a breach of good old-fashioned hobbit-privacy if we were to start opening the mail!" He clears his throat, looking almost apologetically at Boldibad, then slides off his stool and walks slowly across to shut the lid of the foul-smelling box of addled eggs.

Boldibad nods his head at the old one, "Of course the Post isn't responsible. If I may be so bold, Mr. Bywater, what did you hope to accompolish by bringing this complaint to the posthobbit? Even the shirriffs won't be of much help--they're a lot of youngsters these days who'd rather spend their time around the pubs or catching a nap somewhere. Why, what you need is a hobbit like myself. Someone to vouch for you--I can help you work on your reputation in the Shire... well, that is to say, if I weren't going away next month..." He taps his pipe out on the floor and pushes it into his breast pocket, a faroff look in his eyes.

Torebras gives Boldibad a look that is part hope and part despair. "Well now," he manages after a moment's silence. "That's a very kind offer, Mister Bolger. What a great pity you won't be there to offer your assistance in person. Perhaps you can recommend someone else I should talk to?" He takes a deep breath and then says slowly to the postmaster, a gap between each word, "You can stop sending it. I wish to stop all mail."

The postmaster adjusts his glasses. "Well now, Mister Bywater, why didn't you say that in the first place? To do that you need to fill out forms 10A and 33B - you just take a seat there and I'll bring them right out when I'm done with Mister Bolger here. Now, Mister Bolger, where was it you said you were going? Will you be wanting your mail forwarded?" He reaches hopefully for his ledger. 'Away' is naturally assumed to mean some far corner of the Shire - of course!

Boldibad strokes his chin thoughtfully. "Well," he says after a deep sigh, "I suppose I can help you, if this turns out to be an SPP revival. I doubt it, though--they always hated dwarves, but I never heard of them egging a hobbit before... maybe in the old days. On the other hand, there weren't near as many Bree-folk coming around the Shire in those days..." He nods at the postmaster, "Thank you, sir."

Turning back to Torebras, he says, "If it turns out to be the case, however, speak with Thilo Bracegirdle of Hardbottle. Perhaps he can get some hobbits together to form an anti-spp group, or somesuch."

The postmaster waits expectantly, but when no forwarding address is forthcoming he sighs, sets down his ledger and begins rooting around under the counter. Eventually he emerges with a sheaf of forms. Torebras is handed three seperate pages, along with a worn-looking quill and ink-bottle Boldibad only one. "If you would just take the time to complete these ... And there you go, Mister Bolger." He shares with Boldibad a condescending, 'these ignorant Outsiders' smile. "Now, you were asking me about some letter?"

Meanwhile, Torebras's face has been growing steadily less red but rather more perplexed the brow beneath his chestnut curls is now creased in a frown. "SPP?" he repeats, blankly. "I'm afraid I don't know the name? And I'll certainly speak-"

He is cut off by the sudden thrusting of forms in his direction. "As they say, there's no time like the present," he murmurs, and with a thin smile picks up the foremost and starts to work his way through it, shaking his head every now and then. Clearly it will take him some time ...

Boldibad nods at the postmaster, "Yes, yes, just send it off now." He turns back to Torebras, "Don't you worry about all that, my good Bree-hobbit. Just find him, and he'll take care of it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a few things to do about town before it's too late." He nods and heads for the door.

The postmaster reaches out for Boldibad's letter, lying abandoned on the counter, and scrutinizes the address carefully. He makes a point of counting out the coins left for its delivery, then looks up across the rim of his glasses. "Everything seems to be in order - good day to you then, Mister Bolger." He offers the departing hobbit a polite smile, then reaches for his ledger and slowly, ponderously, begins to write.

Torebras meanwhile, looks up from his form-filling - already his expression is becoming slightly glazed - to tip his hat to Boldibad. "Of course, Mister Bolger. Thank you for your help in this most .. ah, unfortunate matter. Now, lets see ..."

Soon silence reigns, broken only by the scratching of quills.