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Post by Tallaith on Jan 10, 2010 14:25:59 GMT -5
The gilded glow from the lamp on the wobbly-legged table in the corner of the common room was plenty bright enough for the little lass's careful work. She was no larger than a half-grown Human child of six or seven years old, sitting with her legs folded beneath her to raise her high enough to lean over the parchment spread before her. Even Hobbit-sized furniture at times could overwhelm her petite build. However, her entire posture was focused on these sheets of paper and the bottle of cheap ink at her elbow and the pen clenched in her grubby little hand. She waved off the Hobbit girl, Norine, who appeared with a pitcher of drink, not even sparing her a glance. She knew the hushed whispers around the Green Dragon were strange for this time of evening and the size of the gathering; usually this sort of crowd would be boisterous and rowdy, exchanging tales and loud songs and jests. It was best to stay silent and still for as long as she could tolerate it, to finish this work and be done with this place as quickly as she could.
The gathered Hobbits would have gossip for weeks after her appearance. She was beyond the crippling embarrassment caused by the appraisal of her own race at this point; more than three years had all but worn away her sensitivity to their rudeness or unkind curiousity. But even after making her presense known as an oddity for the last few years, this was an entirely new and shocking state of being for the little lass. She'd limped in just after mid-day supper, caked in filth and thorns and other dirt of the wilds and the roads, not to mention with copious amounts of what could only be assumed to be dried blood. Norine was on call to swab the counters around mid-day and nearly asked the filthy and apparently crazed beggar to leave, until something caught her eye from beneath the scraps of rags the Hobbit wore. A strap of leather, engraved with intricate and weaving runes, which had once served her mistress as a quiver strap, was now knotted as a belt around the long tunic that straggled around the stranger's knees. This was that Wing lass. She'd been gone for ages, now, and her given name escaped the tavern-goers’ minds, but aye, that was her. The fosterling of the Long-Legs, Wing.
The Green Dragon quickly filled after Norine went to pick up baskets of bread for the big supper to be served around nightfall. Her slips of information to the baker in the square ensured a full house for the meal tonight, provided the ragged lass was still there when serving began. For good measure, the wench picked up four extra loaves before darting back to her place in the kitchen. If the strange little lass’s appearance kept Norine as busy as she hoped, there would be no time to go and fetch more.
Norine hauled her heavy baskets through the kitchen door of the Inn and carefully questioned the dull lad who swept up the leavings and tended the fires, aside from turning the spit in the kitchen and washing dishes. He shook his head and shrugged towards the figure framed in the common room’s doorway, still tucked in the farthest corner, still bent over her work on a stack of paper she'd produced from a dirty and careworn bag. "She ain't moved. Made no say what she wanted ta stay in a room er whatnot. Ordered nothin', says she ain't got no coin but a bit o' kindness so she can write her letters would be a blessin'."
Norine arched a brow and nodded shortly. The Green Dragon was quickly filling to the point where the younger Hobbits were leaving their seats for the elder to take, supposedly out of politeness but more as an excuse, and gathering on the floor near the rear hearth where the Wing girl had found her little table. Norine elbowed the slow boy.
"Get ta work. Bellies ain't full with ya standin' about gossipin'. This will be a busy night, less ya want ta work past midnight cleanin' up after this lot." She shrugged off the boy in dismissal and took her place near her uncle behind the bar. Soon she hadn't even a moment to spare a thought for the Wing girl.
The object of all that curiousity was bone-weary and growing even more tired by the second under the strain of trying to ignore the glances and whispers as she worked. Her pen moved more and more slowly on the parchment as a dull throbbing ache pressed behind her eyes. She was so close to being done with this damned letter...
The figure that moved past the table spoke in a low murmur, just loud enough for her ears alone to catch the words. "Ya heard o' tha duck in tha Bird an' Baby? Ya should go there, hear tha tale."
She looked up, startled into jerking a smear of ink onto her carefully-scribed page. "Damn! Aintcha got no..." She stopped herself, her eyes huge. No one was within half a dozen paces, though all the Hobbits nearby were studiously pretending not to notice her at all. She clamped her mouth shut.
The Bird and Baby. Now there she might find some peace and quiet. And this bit of work could wait for now. She wasn't even sure she'd ever have the nerve to drop it in the post regardless. She held her head high, her shoulders as stiff as iron wire, as she dropped the parchment and her writing things in her bag. She made sure that the pitiful little blade at her hip was secure and strode out of the Inn, her eyes focused on a spot a few paces in front of her nose. Her intent concentration, though, didn't hide the whispers and shuffling stares as she let herself out the door.
Deep in the bottom of the worn satchel slung over the Hobbit's tiny shoulder is a leather-bound journal, which in turn is wrapped in several swaths of suede and soft leather to protect the book from damp and harm. The cover is worn almost to nothing in some places where small hands have held it tightly for years and years, perhaps even worrying the surface with little fingers in a gesture of comfort or soothing. The pages are yellowing and crumble easily with harsh treatment. The inner cover is lined with fine, butter-soft vellum. There is line for the owner of such a precious, once-pricey book to inscribe their name. The original writing has been stricken out and replaced twice.
From Papa. To Coltsfoot Wing for her thirteenth birthday.
Caspia W.
Coltsfoot
Perhaps a third of the pages are taken up with the recollections of such a short life. Part of the writing is biographical, part is notes and instructions, reminders and lists, and no small portion is a rambling current of dreams and fears. Crude drawings line the borders of the pages; snakes and vines and flowers and footprints and castles nestled in loopy clouds decorate each entry. It is the sole treasured possession of one who cares nothing for herself or her other belongings.
The last entry in the journal is fresh. The reader can tell from the deeper pigment of the ink, the more refined hand that wrought it. It is in fact only a day old, give or take a few turns of the hourglass.
That day was the worst day of my life. I ain't saying much about the other bad days of the past, since I recall those well enough without writing them down.
Two weeks ago, or near enough, Cay sent me out on a bit of work in the hills around Gwingris in Eregion. Even more now I think she's trying to keep me busy and out of notice, since she's got a baby to tend to and that crazy cousin to raise up. Suppose she figures I'm grown enough on my own now, and can't think of no work for me to do so has to keep me busy with odds and ends like looking at grass I done seen a thousand times.
So just after dawn, and not happy about it because I was hungry and cold and it's rained for the last week and I can't get dry, I got up and got ready for my day. I spent the night in a ruined fall of stones half a day’s ride from the Elf settlement called Gwingris, which seems to be more of a gathering of desperate folks than a proper camp. My pony was even grumpy, and if I knew what was going to happen, I wouldn't have been so short with her when I was currying her and she fussed.
That day I was supposed to scout out a few camps of Men who worked for one called Sharku. Brigands, the regular sort of bad Men that I get paid to locate and count. It was my usual job; stay quiet, unnoticed, but bring lots of arrows and a sword and spear just in case. For me, “just in case” was such a rare happening that I only occasionally drew my bowstring and never, ever had to rely on bladework. I was so proud my whole life of being quick and clever, and never having an enemy closer than a dozen paces to me!
I was half-asleep when we left my camp. Torla, the pony, she wasn't easy about something, but I wasn't easy about being wet and half-froze and fed only on moldy travel biscuits for over a week now. So I pressed her on into a stand of trees and holly bushes that hid the gully where I heard the Men had been camped. I figured if I circled around in the thick cover of the prickly holly, trusting Torla to be very quiet and find the stealthiest path, I could get a good peek and count of who or what may be hidden down below. The copse didn’t make no sense as a place to position scouts, being so thick with spiked leaves so green they were almost black, and clumped up with hard, slick shale rock and fallen thorn branches. Unless someone was real small, like me, it would be a natural point of protection for the camp the Men could forget about and leave alone.
I don't recall very well what happened. The pony pressed deep into the holly, so deep that the sky was almost blocked out. It took all of my cunning not to get tangled and torn up by the holly branches, and I suppose I was so caught up in that I missed some sign that could have saved me!
Torla got shot out from under me by a arrow taller than I am and as big around as my arm. It went straight through her throat and came out just in front of my leg. It pierced her heart, I guess, and that's all I can say about it that's good. She died fast and she was my only true and good friend for more than two years. She fell with no sound right there, standing in a thicket of holly, and even in the last fell on her own belly to keep me from being crushed if she slipped over on her side.
I almost rolled right underneath her anyway, but I've always been pretty quick and hard to startle. I drew my bow and had a arrow on the string in half a second, before Torla even fell all the way down under me. I don’t remember ever being so afraid of something I couldn’t see. All I knew was that somewhere in all this holly and stone, someone saw me and I hadn’t a idea at all where they were. If I tried to turn and run, like as not I’d run right into a trap or snare or the blade of some brigand. If I was lucky enough not to get caught in wiry branches of thorns wicked enough to tear my leather plate and my skin right off me. I shot a whole quiver of arrows at anything that moved in that thicket of holly because I was so afraid! I guess I’m lucky I didn’t harm myself, aside from a few bowstring cuts on my wrist where I fumbled in a panic; the bushes were clumped up in a mess the size of a house and all green slick leaves and thorns that only let in a little of the grey morning light. I never saw the Men in all those leaves, only heard them.
The Men waited until I was spent of arrows. They didn’t make no noise, but I could almost feel them laughing as they appeared like wraiths from the thorns. Two of them reached for me and took me off my pony by the back of my neck. They knocked away my bow, my gorgeous bow made of wrought and precious wood and so old I don’t know if any Hobbits was even alive yet when someone made it sized perfect just for me. I’d never been so scared or surprised in my life! All I could do was hang there, choking to breathe as my collar cut my air off, and staring at them like a stone fool. I couldn’t think of nothing but, “I’m going to die in a thicket of holly and nobody will never know what happened. And I was supposed to keep that baby for a few days when I get back! Who else will Cay find to keep him?”
They didn't say nothing between them, just acted like they were doing a bit of work they'd done every day, for hours and hours, and had for years. The way they acted like housewives looking over a freshly gutted coney hanging in a meat stall finally made me move; the appraisal, the cold way they measured every inch of me, narrowed my vision down to a hot point like it does when I’m getting ready to go into battle. I’d never recalled being afraid before a battle until now, but then again, I’d never been caught unawares and taken so low and away from my advantages!
I drew my sword, since they hadn’t seemed to decide it was important that I had steel on me, but there were half a dozen of them, and one of me, and I've never been good with blade work. One of them flicked it out of my grip with his own halberd with a jerk so fast I thought he'd broke my wrist! The leadermost of them, I suppose he was since he had cleaner gear than the others, which ain’t saying much, and a taller helm stepped up and jerked away my spear too. He took that and my sword, and now I’m almost sick thinking of how he treated my weapons. He tossed my sword, such a precious thing made for me ages ago by one that would call me a friend, and me him, if I were ever forced to, to another one of the Men, who disappeared into the holly again. Though my spear… I get almost sick now to think of it! The spear I worked so hard to win from those odd ones way up in the frozen northlands of Forchel. I won it from a lass called Ida, and it was the best spear I ever laid eyes on. The Man smirked at me as he lay it over an outcropped bit of shale and stomped it with one huge boot, bending and splintering the fine woodwork until it finally gave and went to pieces in the dry, dead holly leaves.
If I’d had the breath, I would have cursed him and all he knew. I’m ashamed to say that I saw my broken spear, Torla’s soft face and open eyes still burning with soft, loving life, and I cried. I was just a little lass surrounded by too many enemies, and I wasn’t, and probably had never been, the great and mighty hunter and warrior I told everyone I was. I wasn’t clever, since I was so easy caught, nor was a fast or strong, as was proven by my current position hanging like a kitten over a pail of water, waiting to be drowned. I was, and I still am, just a little lass and barely older than a child, who was trusted with too much, too many weapons and choices, and freedoms and obligations.
I don't understand why they did what they did, then. Those Men broke my bow almost just like they ruined my spear, balancing it on a bit of taller rock and stomping it to pieces. It was a treasure and antique that was from the Second Age, or so I was told, and was the most beautiful bow I’d ever seen. They took my armour away piece by piece, passing it away to one young Man who bore it off into the holly, leaving me in my linen shirt and the heavy wool trousers I wore beneath the leather plate. They even took my boots, but left me my holey socks. The whole time they were quiet, not even saying instructions to each other. One of them, the one I guessed was the leader, found my cloak pin, which I wear on a bit of string around my neck when I'm working, and grinned, then let it lay on my chest. Then him and his friends went about what I guess is their best work.
I’ve had worse beatings in battles, of course, where somebody small and underfoot can easily get caught in the way of bigger folks with bigger matters on their minds. The Men didn’t seem angry, or even very interested, as they hit me with just their fists, their clubs and blades at their sides. They didn’t do nothing that would have to be sewn up, or seen to right off by a healer. They blacked my eye, maybe broke a few ribs, which are still sore and have a band of black marking them out on my sides, and basically made it hard for me to get up and limp out of the clearing when they finally disappeared. They said nothing, left me no sign as to why they did this. In a few minutes, I was alone again with the corpse of my pony, which someone had stripped of the saddle, though left me a traveling bag, and my empty quiver.
I stripped off the quiver strap, a gift made by a long-gone friend when I first took up my travels three years past. It was something I always had with me, even in sleep, engraved with runes and special moon-writings the Elves used. Torla’s saddle was much the same and leant me special speed and silence and skill in my travels, and it was taken from me now but I would not part with this. I looked through my bag, where my soggy food was untouched and this book, plus my fletching kit, were still whole and safe in the very bottom.
I tied my quiver strap around my middle and crawled out of the thicket. I couldn’t even pat Torla, or smooth back her pretty mane from her face. I was afraid I’d start crying and wouldn’t be able to stop, and since the Men seemed to have left me for now, this was the time to get the hell away.
This has been more than a week and a half ago. It took all of my knowledge to get back to the Shire, using what strength I had even as my old gifts for finding fast paths faded to almost nothing. Some folks were kind, some of them not even knowing what a Hobbit was and thinking I was someone’s lost or orphaned child. I spent a few nights in farmer’s sheds with the sheep, but mostly, as I used to always do, kept as far away from other people as I could. If the weather was too bad, or I was too cold, I slept in doorsteps or abandoned farmhouses. I found more and more of those than I’ve ever seen in my whole life.
This morning I crossed the Brandywine Bridge after cutting through the Breefields near the Silver Lakes. I don’t have any weapons, but for a sorry little dagger I found in a trash heap outside a forge that wasn’t manned in the dead of night. Mostly I travel after dark and try to rest during the day, but this is slow and hungry work. I don’t trust anybody enough to get close to them. I’m not even sure if I should go back to my sister and my Kinsmen after this. I still wear their pin, though I don’t reply to what I hear in it. That’s not so odd for me, since most folks know I travel silently and so rarely have anything to say that I want to share with a mess of sorry idiots like them.
Honestly, though, it’s because I’m scared. I’d never tell any of them that I care for them, some of them I even love. I don’t want to bring my failure, and the danger I’ve seen, on their heads. I didn’t know where else to go but back to the Shire, where I ran the first time my world ended three years ago when our homestead was burned down. At least here, physically, I may not be so easy to notice. Though other Hobbits will know I’m an outsider, so until I find somewhere far from everyone in the Shire to hide, my time of safety here will be very limited indeed.
What scares me the most is what I return to. Sharkey, the Boss, Sharku. I’ve heard speak of him from the Shire when I left all the way to Eregion, near the land of the hollies where my life was taken from me. Since I’ve been gone, the Shire has been even more over-run with Long-Legs working for some Boss. Before I thought nothing of it, hoping some sensible people could help the Hobbits know what real work and the harsh world was truly like. Now I worry more and more that the Boss has Hobbits in his pockets, including the Bounders here, and his Men get away with more and more rotten things.
Anyone whose name stretches so far, in the tongues of so many, is a person to have night terrors over. I don’t know what to do about any of that. First I have to decide what to do about myself.
A change of jobs is in order, I think. Since even picking up a bow makes me start heaving like a drunk the morning after a sour party. I know well enough I ain’t the strong, mighty, fearless warrior I was when I first left here. A black eye and some split ribs, plus crawling home dressed in rags and cold and starved, has shown me what my pride really earned me. All wind and no storm, as I heard once… That was me. And I suppose I have to decide now where to find the storm to back up all that wind, where to find a storm that can change my life and blow away all this fear and doubt.
First thing, I’m going to write to my sister. I don’t know if I’ll actually get up the nerve to send the letter, since first I’m going to talk to one of her companions and test the waters. I’m going to invite that Holst Man to see me first, and trust in his shady and slimy nature to guide me as to what to do next.
After that, I’ve got to find somewhere to stay. Being back to stealing, to “borrowing” coin and food, seems the only choice I have now, that and sleeping in haystacks and doorsteps.
My life has come back around fully to where it began when I left home. I’ve even given up the foolish proper name Ceallian thought I should take, the one that my own Da’ gave me. I prefer the one the Wings knew me by. Coltsfoot. That’s who I am, despite who I became, and who I shall always remain as long as there’s breath within me.
The Hobbit lass finally made her way down the cobble road to Michel Delving as the sun began it’s lazy decline for the night. Her progress was slower than it had ever been before; her bare feet were stone-bruised and she tried to stay mostly to grass or packed earth. She had to find some shoes soon. Until her return to the Shire, she hadn’t had a bit of luck finding an unattended pair of boots on a doorstep in anything close to a small enough size.
Coltsfoot edged into the common room of the Bird and Baby. Thankfully, much like the village square outside, the room was quiet and sleepy and mostly empty. She supposed most of the Shire was gathering still in the Green Dragon over in Bywater to speculate about her strange presense. The regular sort of folks were here now; a few petty merchants who sold odds and ends in places like this around the Shire, the barkeep who eyed her once, then went back to wiping a greasy rag through mugs, and a player in the shadowed corner near the hearth.
The musician strummed a lute, his figure mostly dim and hard to discern. Coltsfoot edged a bit closer to see if she knew him since the tune was a bit familiar, carefully keeping the high back of the bench before the fire between them and her body facing the entrance. The Hobbit was perhaps slightly taller than she was, not too fat, and dressed fairly well for a farmer or dirt-seller. He had dark hair he wore back in a tail and his hands moved thoughtlessly on the strings of his instrument.
"Hey there, lil bit, come on o’er and hear ‘bout that duck." The Hobbit grinned.
Coltsfoot blinked, too worn down to be immediately infuriated at being called “lil bit.” Her temper was something she would have to constantly control now that she knew she wasn’t indestructable. The damned duck wasn’t just a figment of her imagination, overworked and exhausted as her poor mind was? She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and scowled around the room. She folded her arms and appraised the player with her one black eye.
The Hobbit said, "Oi' yer lookin' rough."
Coltsfoot wrinkled her nose. "An' yer lookin' stoopid. Like most o' tha other sort 'round here."
The Hobbit laughed and followed it up with a friendly wink. Coltsfoot watched his continuing, almost mindless work with the lute. He wasn’t bad at all and apparently had put some practice into his playing.
Coltsfoot raised a brow at the wink and glanced around the room again, measuring who was present and who might notice her there as well. This feller winked quite a bit. "Ya got somethin' in yer eye?"
The Hobbit said, for the moment ignoring her jab about the wink, "Kinna look stoopid, its a state of mind. Only emotions can be read on the body." He rubbed at his eye and then continued playing. "This'ens for you."
Coltsfoot smirked at this. "So. Yer one o' these idle fools?" She gestured to the common room, where only a handful of quiet Hobbits were bent over mugs of ale or games of dice and cards, whiling away a cool and rainy winter evening.
The Hobbit nodded down to his lute, referring to the song, "Its called 'The Brighter Side of Life."
Coltsfoot glared at him murderously. "Ya thin' yer smart?" She edged up on her sore tiptoes to get a better look at him over the back of the bench before quickly dropping down again.
The Hobbit decided to reply. "Idle? Eemmm, err, yup when I can be I will be as idle as possible, only a few systems I jus' kinna quite get ta stop without panicking.” He paused for a moment, answering her barbed question about his intelligence. “I know it friend. Dinna think such of yourself? Course ya do or ya wouldna asked."
Coltsfoot sighed, making sure the bench was very secure and sturdy between them. She shook her head. "Don' call me no frien' o' yers."
"Its why yer here eh? Ta learn somethin' new bout a duck."
Coltsfoot said, "Ya could say I got a bit o' curiousity 'bout a duck." She left out her want of peace and quiet and her weariness with being an object of curious inspection. She’d been feeling like a rare insect trapped in a jar, being studied with the cold, gem-like eyes of dozens of scholars.
"Well, I kinna very well call ya enemy. I’m Krestoff, and what should I call ya if not friend? Hmm?"
Coltsfoot kept one wary eye on the door, scanning both the bar and the stranger every few moments out of habit. "Enemy works jest fine. I'd shoo-... er.. gitcha if I had ta."
Krestoff said, "I’ll tell ya what." He smiled.
Coltsfoot returned what appeared to be an ever-present and cheery smile with a deadly scowl.
Krestoff said, "How about we change where were sittin'? People are more comfortable when they kin see the exit. You got yer back to the door and its makin ya nervous."
Coltsfoot blinked. This Hobbit was either more clever than she ever would have guessed, or just well-trained in the art of being shifty. She couldn’t’ help but wonder what he wanted as she sidestepped a bit away from the door with a nod.
"There ya are. Now are ya sure you wanna know ‘bout this duck? Its silly stuff I tell ya." He giggled.
Coltsfoot eyed the other Hobbit up and down and raised a brow. "Ya ain't as bad as some. I can say that. But yer still a dullard. I wanna know 'bout anythin' odd in tha Shire." She left it unsaid as to why, hoping that his nature would betray him to be a storyteller at heart. She learned more valuable information in the guise of tales and gossip than she had ever expected.
Krestoff said, "What? You changin' story like a younglin caught in the back of a pipeweed wagon. You said you don't know nothin' bout silly now you want to know it all." He smirked and covered his mouth.
Coltsfoot set her jaw and reached to her shoulder, then to her hip, for something that was not there. Her hand finally settled on her blade at her other hip and she arched a brow. Minding her volatile temper would be easier, she realized with an inward sigh, now that she was unarmed.
Krestoff watched the hand carefully.
Coltsfoot took a deep breath to try to still her thoughts. "Mind who ya offend. Ya idiot. Go on."
Krestoff said, nodding to the pitiful, bent, and dull dagger at the girl’s hip, "Now looky there. That's a nice letter opener if I ever did see one. Ok, ok duck." He put his hands in a forward motion by his head to focus himself.
Coltsfoot ground her teeth with an audible creak and narrowed her eyes. "A letter opener, my arse! Say yer peace."
Krestoff said, laying down his lute for the moment, "So this feller Jemsey, es big as an ox. A Bullroarer if'n I ever did see one. He was working at that counter right over dere. One day he’s sitting and I’m over in dat corner and the door to the inn opens right up. We both look over dere. Ya know the natural thing ta do. Nobody...least we dinna think so. We looked up and down in case it be a little tike of a 'obbit."
Coltsfoot glared at him from beneath her eyelashes. Her first thought was that this was a badly-veiled jab at her height, but she reminded herself… patience. "Aye? Got a point ta this? Ya dullard..."
"Sure enough I look a bit low and I see the darnest little thing." He stopped in response.
Coltsfoot scowled blackly but held her tongue with visible effort.
Krestoff said, "You gonna let me tell it or you wanna git up here?"
Coltsfoot bit her lower lip with a VERY clear measure of restraint before nodding for him to continue.
Krestoff looked over his cheekbones in a mock scold. "Alrighty then. I was looking down an I see this duck."
Coltsfoot folded her arms, her knuckles going white in restrained rage. Why was he wasting her time with this idiotic mess? She hadn’t thought to question herself as to why she was letting him waste her time, since she could easily turn on one heel and walk away. But.. honestly, he was the first person to be kind to her since she came back to the Shire. She wanted to try to be good.
Krestoff said, "Bugger walks right in an I have ta point em out ta Jemsey."
Coltsfoot closed her eyes as if she was praying for patience, unable to betray her amusement and strange fascination with this silly tale.
Krestoff continued, "That little thing walks right up ta the bar like he owned the place and looked up waitin fer Jemsey to respond."
Coltsfoot spared him an imperial glance, still maintaining something she hoped looked like disdain.
He said, "Jemsey looked down oer the bar at this little thing and it looked up with these big bright brown eyes. The duck suddenly came out with this nasal like voice and he said," Krestoff got a nasally sound to his voice, "’Got any duck food?’" He went back to a normal voice.
Coltsfoot groaned to herself, muttering, "Heard this un.."
Krestoff said, "Now Jemsey dinna know what ta think and just shook his head in disbelief. What? you hear this?"
Coltsfoot pinched the bridge of her nose between two tiny fingers. "Mayhap. When I was just a bairn."
He said, "I mean I know this is a small town and all but you heard bout the duck in the Bird and Baby? I dinna believe it." He rolled his eyes. "Ill finish it up ta see. Well dat Jemsey he said he dinna have any duck food and sent em out of the place."
Coltsfoot closed her own eyes in some kind of prayer for tolerance again and shrugged. "G'on."
"15 minutes later that door opened again. Jemsey looked over and saw that duck again. He was mad as a mother hobbit who done had a pie stolen from her sill. Duck walked up and asked for duck food again."
Coltsfoot raised a brow, forgetting for the slightest of moments to be surly, as a tiny smile curled the corners of her lips.
"Jemsey wasn't having it. It bloated his chest and told em to git out and if'n he came back he would nail es flippers to the stool. But 15 minutes later that duck walked in again. I thought the vein on Jemsey’s forehead was going ta pop."
Coltsfoot smirked, sympathizing entirely with this Jemsey.
"Duck walked up and Jemsey's fist tightned till his knuckles were white as yours were jus a minute ago. Big round eyes lookin' up he said 'got any nails?' Jemsey in shock just stopped and shook his head no."
Coltsfoot blinked and shook her head, muttering something like, "Weren't white..." She went silent and attentive.
"Duck looked up with what I think was a smile and asked one more time 'Got any duck food?'" He laughed quite pleasantly at his own joke.
Coltsfoot turned her face carefully away and snorted, trying to cover this with a cough.
"And now you know bout the duck and the Bird and Baby Inn." He smiled with satisfaction.
Coltsfoot groaned softly and rubbed her eyes, careful of the blackened one, with her tiny hands. "So... yer a joker."
"I'm a joker, I'm a lover, I'm about to smuuuhther..." He giggled. "Awww come on ya had ta like it. Its about a cute lil duck."
Coltsfoot glanced to him as if he'd gone completely mad. "Are ya drunk?"
"Naw, never that. I'm always sober on the second Tuesday of the week."
Coltsfoot wrinkled her nose. "Ya sure? Ya seem like most other Hobbits. Foolish. Second Tuesday? Makes no sense a'tall."
Krestoff grinned mischeiviously. "What appened to that eye?" He reaches out as if about to touch it.
Coltsfoot bared her teeth and swatted him away. "A bit o' tha sorta mistake I'd think yer sort would make." She turned away. "Now.. I ain't sure how ta bring this up ta my sister, nor ta her Kinsmen."
Krestoff pulled his hand back and held his hands up in a demonstration that they were empty. "Hey now, just lookin'. I aint yer sister or er kin. Tell me what happened." He squinted his eyes, watching for movement on Coltsfoot's face.
Coltsfoot raised a brow. "They's a few here what might have a bit ta say 'bout that. P'haps in another place. Not 'round so many nosey ears." She looked around the common room, nodding especially to where the barkeep had apparently been wiping out the same chipped mug for the entirety of Krestoff’s story and listening with almost no effort to conceal his curiousity. Coltsfoot turned to Krestoff as if asking him to challenge her on this.
"Alrighty there, you picken the place. I'll be there." He takes a drink and empties his own mug.
Coltsfoot rubbed her eyes thoughtfully, trying to think of a safe place. "Uh... ya traveled much 'round here?"
"Been all over."
Coltsfoot nodded shortly. "Then... Uh... Damn. Been so long since I been here..." She sighed. "Jus' not here. C'mon then."
The lass lead him as quickly as she could, tenderly hopping through the grass and cobbles, up the hill to Tuckborough. Three years ago, she’d taken advantage of the libraries at the Great Smials, where the quiet corners were mostly ignored by the keepers late at night. She’d spent many cold and black hours that may have been passed in a haystack dozing in a corner behind a stack of moldy books, always careful to creep away before the sun rose and the rooms began to be occupied again. It was the first quiet place she could think of where dozens of Hobbit eyes wouldn’t be focused on her. If they were lucky, only one or two keepers would even be there at this time in the evening, just after late supper, and like as not, they would be dozing themselves over cups of laced tea.
Coltsfoot minded that she slipped in the heavy door as quietly as she could. The warmth of the Smials was dry and dusty-smelling, but blessed in comparison to the slow freezing drizzle of the evening. She wrinkled her nose as she looked around and ducked almost invisibly to a corner stacked high with moldy tomes.
Krestoff looked around, beginning to feel a bit mysterious. He eyed Coltsfoot's bag.
Coltsfoot wiped her ever-running nose on her sleeve again and sighed as she found herself a nook near a table.
Krestoff rubbed his knees as he edged onto a bench and took up a few books, laying them across his lap.
Coltsfoot eyed the other Hobbit with incredible wariness and crept around him in a wide arc to take her little corner for a resting place.
Krestoff flipped through the books, apparently content to be quiet.
Coltsfoot sighed very softly. She whispered, "Ya ken read?"
Krestoff eyed the Hobbit lass out of the corner of his eye and continued paging through the books.
Coltsfoot folded her arms and tilted her head to the side expectantly. "Ya ken read?" she repeated slightly louder.
Krestoff whispered back "I kin."
"Who taught ya?"
"'Mi' brother. He's real smart and taught me all kinds of stuff. Taught me that think bout people being comfy when they kin see the door and what they do with their body when they feel certain things." He nodded. "Real smart."
Coltsfoot wrinkled her nose. It was really running now and the steady headache she’d developed in the Green Dragon was becoming almost unbearable now. She needed some kind of tonic from Cay, too, she reckoned. A fever was creeping up on her and muddying her thoughts. "Really? Mos' dunno anythin' past their figures an' what it takes ta figger out a name." She looked to the floor. "Not sure whatcha mean there."
"Mean where?"
Coltsfoot scratched her nose, keeping her eyes on the floor. "What ta do, when folks feel thin's." She glanced to the far wall.
"Oh...like he taught me when someone scratches their nose like that its cause they are nervous, but if they cover their mouth when they do it its cause they dinna want to say what they are about to or jus said. He studies people and animals and other stuff. To see what they do and how it relates to the stuff you think all the time." Krestoff looked down, suddenly nervous that he just said this aloud.
Coltsfoot narrowed her eyes at him. "Ya thin' he's smart, then?"
"I do." He nodded but continued to look down.
Coltsfoot folded her arms. "So what makes ya thin' yer so bright, then?"
"Everybody thinks they are smart, its not bout what you be thinking its about what you do with it. Dinna think you are smart?" He took a drink from an ever-present mug he apparently could summon at will.
Coltsfoot shrugged. "I'm most cle-..." She sighed. "Bad question." She ducked her head again.
"So how about that black eye? 'ave you had that think looked at?"
Coltsfoot rubbed her nose on her sleeve. Damn, this cold was going to lie her down if it got much worse! "Not much ta do wit' it. An' I don' wanna trouble no one wit' it. I been.. a lil... careless o' late." She sighed.
Krestoff straightened the book he was looking at on the table. He raised an eyebrow.
Coltsfoot glanced to him. "Once I was at tha top o' my field, ya know. Fer what I did fer a trade."
"Oh yeah? Watcha do?"
Coltsfoot stared at her toes. "I was a tracker, an' a scout. As far away as Moria."
Krestoff's eyes widened. "Moria? That's incredible."
Coltsfoot rubbed at her nose again with her sleeve. "Some may say as much."
"My brother and I used to splore all over." He looked at his toes.
Coltsfoot glanced at him with a smirk. "Yer a liar."
"I'm not. Really. We jus never went that far. We were sploring the Lone Lands when he got... well sick I guess."
Coltsfoot scrubbed at her face again with her sleeve. "Wha happened to him?"
"Well its kinda embarrasin'."
Coltsfoot glanceed to him with a not-entirely-pleasant smile. "Go on.."
"We're twins. He started getting weird. Jus' saying weird stuff and acting kinda like a kid with weird imagination."
Coltsfoot folded her arms and tucked her chin against her chest. "I dunno whatcha mean."
"We came back home to the Shire then. We both still go out sometimes but we try to keep em in. His daughter keeps em contained."
Coltsfoot shook her head slowly. "Now I know yer drunk. That made no sense. What tha bloody hell ya talkin about?"
"Dinna know how else to say it. Just like hes got a big imagination. If you're out with him and you both see the same thing he wont see it the same way you do." He groaned. "Its not important."
"Is very important! I dunno who is mad... you er him! If he even exists..."
"Ah well, what kin ya do." He shrugged it off, not responding.
"So.. ya thin' this is normal fer a fambly member?"
Krestoff ran his hands through the carpet. "No, I told ya he went a lil loopy. We came back and stopped splorin'."
Coltsfoot watched him warily. "A lil loopy? Are you a lil loopy too?"
Krestoff frowns and looked down. "Course not!" He picked at the threads of the carpet. "My brother says little bugs live in this stuff. They are so little the carpet is like a great big forest. Isn't that weird to think about? Days of travlin' and nothing but forest or hairs. I hear they got giants to the north. My brother and his daughter Kieve visited there."
Coltsfoot folded her arms very, very tightly. "Dontcha got yer own fambly ta go home ta?"
Krestoff tilted his head. "You drunk? Dinna just tell you about my brother?"
Coltsfoot shook her head. She was postitively muddy in the head from this sickness, whatever it was, and was losing track of the conversation. "Drink's fer dullards. I don' do that."
Krestoff raised his cup in a mock-toast. "Ha dullards."
Coltsfoot raised a brow. "Aye, butcha sound like yer half-mad yerself."
Krestoff giggled. She stepped back a bit.
Krestoff shook his head at Coltsfoot. "Yer jus a grumpy lil thing eh?"
"Aintcha abandonin' yer duties, ya know? By not bein' at tha farm an' whatnot?"
"At the farm?"
Coltsfoot shrugged, deciding to address his question. "Mayhap. Fer good reason. Though other perian don' listen ta me. Aye, aintcha got a farm, er a lil business, an' a wife, an' bairns, at home ta look after? Like alla ya fools seem ta do?"
“Well I gots a bussiness, no wife though. Not much a home neither. Problem is my brother and I do the bussiness together. Mi' sons started it up and we are consultants."
Coltsfoot folded her arms so tightly one could fairly hear ribs creaking. "What kinda business, then?"
"Ummm, well, its kinda complicated. You know how I told ya about telling what people are thinkin' or feeling but how they hold themselves? Its my brothers work really. What little I know he taught me. Mi' sons learned it from em a bit too. People hire us to find out what people think about things."
"P'haps." She glanced carefully away and then back to him. "Sons?"
"Like a mayor who wants to know if people like what he is doin' we find our for em."
"Ya'd hardly believe what I know..."
"Yep, got two sons. Twins jus' like mi' and my brother."
Coltsfoot glanced to him. "A widow, then?"
"Me? No... I dont think. She's still out there I'm sure. I just haddn't seen er."
Coltsfoot appeared for a moment genuinely surprised. "Ya lost track o' yer wife?"
"Umm..." He frowned.
Coltsfoot glanced to him. "That a yes?"
"I should be going." His lips tightened and pulled out sideways into a forced smile.
((Here I lost the chat log’s file. The story is still being built in the narrative form as well depending on what other folks do with Coltsfoot’s return, so I’ll add as I go after this. Sorry to leave you hanging! To sum up this chapter, Coltsfoot decided to make camp in Buckland, where she hoped she stood a chance of some anonymity and perhaps could hear a bit more about the travels of her Kinsmen. Krestoff, who is very kind, followed her at a short distance. As soon as Coltfoot got there, she fell asleep under a hedge. She drank a little stolen ale before dozing off, so Kres thought she was just drunk when she woke up and staggered off back towards Stock. In fact, she has the flu and is a very unhappy, very groggy little lass. Krestoff paid for her to get some rest at the Inn, and we called it a night there. I hope to add more to this soon, and I’m so glad to have Tiny Terror back on the rampage! RAWR!))
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