Cereidh ranges ahead, shoulders up towards her ears, trying to find them a dry bit of land for camp.
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Thorgrim inwardly groans as their point of destination is the elder city of Rivendell. He'd much prefer some seedy port of the Men of the West. Some inn with rough-hewn floorboards that wouldn't notice spilled wine or blood in a modest measure would have done more to mollify his spirits.
Still, Valar willing even the elves will have taverns for weary travelers, and that would be a fine thing indeed.
While he's saddened that some relics were clearly lost forever, Giles is only too happy to get back on the road...and finds himself drumming his fingers nervously, as he wonders how they'll make it back to Rivendell with so little gear remaining.
Despite--or inspired by?--his worries, Giles does his best to help the Company along on their journey.
As evening falls, the rain continues in a slow steady drizzle that soaks through cloaks and clothing. Hobwise manages to find a good enough spot to rest for the night. A small copse of trees that provide a bit of shelter from the breeze. But with no tents and blankets, even the good fire from Thorgrim, can't really keep the cold and wet away.
Things aren't help when Cereidh finally returns to camp with little to show for her hunting efforts but a single scrawny squirrel. So the evening passes slowly with hungry stomachs growling and little sleep.
The rain finally stops midway through the night and the skies clear. The moon shines above, stars glittering brightly between the lingering clouds. With the passing of the storm, the night seems to come alive as a pair of bats flit widely back and forth just beyond the trees. Mice can be heard rustling and scampering through the grasses and shrubs beyond the light of the fire. Somewhere an owl hoots.
A little later Giles hears the sound of footsteps slowly approaching the camp. Emerging from the darkness is a elderly looking man leaning on a heavy oak staff. His reddish brown beard and long hair is turning gray in places but most of it still matches the earthy color of the wide brimmed hat mounted haphazardly upon his head. His brown cloak rustles in the night breeze as he moves closer into the firelight.
"Greetings my young friend." He says in a voice filled with vigor for one of his obviously advanced years. His eyes sparkle happily with red and silver from the firelight and the moon overhead. "Might it be possible for an old man to share your fire?"
Giles is a bit surprised to see an older man, wandering by himself. Still, he doesn't look harmful.
"Of course! I'd be a poor soul indeed, to say no. Pull up a rock! I'm Giles Foxleaf, of Bree. This is Hobwise, Cereid, Thorgrim, Wulfgith, and Findegil. Pray, tell us who you are, and what has you out here by your lonesome.
"I'm afraid we have no food to offer, but I can share some pipeleaf, if you're inclined."
Cereidh straightens up and wonders if this chance meeting seems fateful and fortunate from more than fancy.
"Of the Greenwood," she says laconically.
Wulfgith gave a welcoming nod as she took her helm off to take a look at it. She wondered if any of the elves back in Rivendel would be able to help her fix the dent made when they ran out of the tunnel.
"If I might ask, what brings you out this way?" Wulfgith asked, though left it open as she wouldn't press if he didn't wish to speak.
Hobwise, who had hung on Amalina's every word during their adventuring days together, is quick to guess this might be the mythical wizard Radagast.
The hobbit stands upon approach of the old man, but not in an aggressive manner.
"Ho there, friend. Take my spot here, and you may borrow my blanket for a time, as it appears to have been the only one saved from our recent entanglements. Now then, what brings you to this cold corner of the west?"
A twinkle sparkles in the old man's eye and he accepts Giles' offer of a little something for his pipe. He pulls a long stemmed pipe from somewhere within his earth toned robes. Carefully gathering a pinch from the Breelander's offered pouch, he sniffs the dried leaf. Rubs it lightly in his figures and nods appreciatively.
"This is from the Shire, no doubt." He says with a smile. "I've a friend who swears by pipeweed grown by the hard working folk of that fair piece of the world."
Grabbing a thin brand from the fire, he takes a few moments to light his pipe and savor the flavor of the smoke. For a bit the pipe puffs and smokes like a blacksmiths forge. Finally he leans back with a relaxed sigh and warm smile. "I must admit, I've a few blends I've grown myself that I prefer, but this truly is some of the finest pipeweed I've encountered. But don't tell my friend I said so." He adds with a light-hearted wink. "He'll be incorrigible for years. He's practically a fanatic when it comes to the Shire and their smoke."
He waves a weather beaten hand at Hobwise. "I thank you for the offer, master hobbit. But it looks like you could use the warmth more than myself. And the sharing of a warm fire and tales is enough for me. "
He settles down to the ground, leaning against a well placed log, that none of you are entirely sure was there a moment ago. But then again it certainly must have been, for it is there now. More smoke billows from the pipe and the night takes on a warmer, friendlier feeling. The firelight flickers within the depths of his dark eyes as once again an owl hoots not far away.
"Oh go find something to eat you feathery fusspot." The old man mutters into the darkness before returning his attention back to the questioning looks of Wulfgith and Hobwise.
"Now as for what brings me here. Well, that is quite a question. Difficult to answer...or perhaps easy. My feet have brought me here. One in front of the other." He says shuffling his feet about with a smile. "But then I imagine your question is a bit less literal. So I'll say the light of your campfire drew my curiosity. For it's not something one expects to see out upon these lonesome lands. Not for many, many turning of the seasons have many welcoming fires burned across this land." He takes another puff of his pipe. His brow furrows in thought. "Now you might ask, what might I have been doing out in such a forsaken land as this? But I think first, I'll ask what has brought you to such a place and with no tents, food, or other gear useful for those who travel the wild places of the land?"
Cereidh straightens up but then stops and gives Thorgrim an expectant, almost challenging look. She suspects that lying to this old gentleman would be inadvisable ... but surely embellishing one of their adventures wouldn't constitute a lie.
Hobwise reclaims his spot, thankful to keep the blanket. Then, his own pipe in hand, he rekindles a bowl of his own leaf blend, quietly frowning at the exaggerated qualities of Longbottom, which has always been an act of overt marketing, in his opinion. It's nice to meet a connoisseur with similar tastes.
Then he produces the scabbard and knife he saved from the underground temple of elemental evil.
"This will answer your question to great extent." If you are who I think you are. "Recovered, from under the ancient tower, two days' travel south. You won't see the tower there now, but if can employ a team of dwarves, you may find what's left, and our gear as well.
"We were dispatched on an urgent errand the previous month by Lord Elrond, to uncover the snarling secrets of the townsfolk in this county. After vanquishing the fiend, our path led to the tower. Evil, in a form most severe, awaited us. We slew a pack of wargs, then an abomination form a prior age, before finally descending into the tower. I scouted the innermost chamber, discovering the lantern of lost souls and the corpse of a creature half man and half wolf. We destroyed the lamp, freed one of the souls, and fled the crumbling structure, taking this knife and the two scrolls held by Mister Giles there.
"So there you have it. Your turn." Hobwise feels more than a little smug, but he's earned it.
"But the skin of our teeth might I add." Wulfgith said as she pointed to the large dent in her helm. "We also grabbed a few items on our way out as Hobwise said, though he forgot the necklace I grabbed, though it doesn't seem much I guess." She added.
She looked to Swiftkiss as she continued "We lost most of our camping items, but luckily my trusty steed knew when to bolt." Then she looked to their guest once more. "Oh forgive me but I didn't catch your name... How might we address you?" She asked.
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Thorgrim's brow reflexively darkens in umbrage. The old man's tone implies that one might -need- excessive baggage to survive out of doors. To one who has called the road home, such an implication borders on insult.
But 'tis of no great import and the moment passes. To lecture at length on how one might find sufficient nutrition amongst the roots and groats of the world would hardly put them in a better light. Indeed the answering of the thing might only cement a low opinion.
He catches Cereidh's look and his tongue catches in his mouth. The harrowing tale of adventure and combat now stales in his throat and he finds no way to put a good spin on how they came to be in their current state.
Instead the hobbit tells a fine enough job of conveying the facts of the event. So too, the old man's demeaner does not seem to make the effort of spinning a tale of high adventure worth it. Would there be so much as a free ale as would accompany such a tale in an inn worthy of the name? Thorgrim thought not, and so spared his breath. The last thing they needed was the company of a vagabond worse off than themselves.
The old man listens intently to the hobbit's tale. Saying little but occasionally nodding thoughtfully and all the while puffing away on the pipe. With the mention of lost souls and unnatural beast men, his brows furrow further with thought and concentration. The quiet sounds of the wild country fill the night for several long moments following the tale and a few after comments from Wulfgith.
Finally, he take the pipe from his lips and carefully taps it against his boot to dump the bit of ash left in the bowl. He pulls a good sized pitch of something from his own pouch and proceeds to light it up. Within moments the little campsite is filled with a relaxing, pleasant aroma that seems to ease tensions and muscle pains felt for several days. Even the damp weather seems a bit less bothersome.
"Ahhh...well now that's a bit better after such a tale." He says inhaling deeply from the pipe. "What's that my dear? Oh yes...a name. Hmmmmm...I've had a few over my time, but I believe Radagast it the one you would find most familiar."
He nods his head toward Hobwise. "An...interesting tale indeed. One that I'm sure those who sent you forth from Rivendell will be eager to hear and learn of your success." Turning to address everyone around the fire. A somewhat sad look passes across his features and his voice is solemn and soft. "It is a brave and worthy thing you've done. It is unfortunate the world holds such creations of shadow and darkness. Too often shadow shrouds the wonder and beauty of the land and all of its inhabitants large and small."
The somber moment passes and smoke again billows from the pipe. "But let us not speak too much of dark things during the deep of the night in such a wild and lonely place as this. As chance would have it, I too am on my way to the home of Lord Elrond. It is not often I make this journey, but there is news to share and I would speak with the others of the council. Since fate has brought us here, I would suggest we travel together to Rivendell if that would be acceptable to all among your company."
Cereidh straightens up in surprise. "Of course. Agreeable company is always welcome on such a dark road. I wish that we were traveling in better comfort for all our sakes, but ... what we have, you are more than welcome to share."
"Well met Radagast, and as Cereidh said agreeable company is always welcome." Wulfgith agreed with a nod. "Hopefully you'll see us as agreeable company as well." Wulfgith gave a small chuckle at her joke.
The remainder of the night passes in easy conversation and much more relaxed state despite the less than ideal conditions. Radagast brews a tea from one of the seemingly endless number of pouches tucked within his robes that leaves each of you feeling much more rested and emotionally revitalized.
The following day dawns the promise of fine weather and easy travel. A promise that is fulfilled over the next few days until once again the valley of Rivendell and Elrond's house is before you.
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Despite the excellent tea, Thorgrim's mood is still clouded over. Not only is there no whiskey to stiffen the tea up with, but the last thing they need is another hanger-on more destitute than they.
The newcomer has not answered the question as to why they are out here -also- without kit, but the point seems moot so it thusly not worth airing.
He tells his complaining to belly to wait and have patience, for he has seen worse hardships than this, and simply promises himself a truly epic repast once Elrond's handsome halls are again attained.
The warm halls of Rivendell are a welcome sight indeed. A feast is prepared with meade, breads, cheese, dried fruits, and even a roast for those who prefer a bit of meat with their meal. The conversation is generally warm and friendly, but behind the good humor and celebration of a task completed there are signs of worry. Radagast, Gandalf and Lord Elrond remain in council for many hours, missing the feast altogether.
Messengers come and go. Those whom you encounter wear a tension around their eyes and are even more evasive in their answers to questions than even elven folk typically are.
But whatever troubles plague those who bear the mantles of power and responsibility, they are not yours to solve. For you and your companions have earned a period of rest and whatever darkness lurks upon the horizon, it will be dealt with following a warm bath, a good meal, and several nights sleeping in the soft confines of Elrond's comfortable rooms.
The journey to Rivendell does much to improve Hobwise' mood. Radagast is affable, if sometimes evasive, and he shares a common love of leaf and riddle-speak, and the two get along fine. And though he misses his pots terribly, the hobbit makes do with a spit for the odd game, and is adept and unearthing last season's root vegetables which have over-wintered in the frozen topsoil, and not yet begun to rot with the late spring thaw. He is happy. For the first time in... well, a long time.
The Knife gives him little trouble and upon the company's return to the Last Homely House, once the greetings and warm regards are exchanged, and once he has access to the Lord of the Imladris, he offers the blade and scabbard to Elrond for further study. "But I do want it back," Hobwise adds.
In the weeks that follow, Hobwise remains comfortably ensconced at Rivendell, indulging in its great casks of wine and ale, relaxing nightly in front of the great hearth with his pipe for hours, exchanging tales with anyone who might share the mood. He is especially keen on Gandalf, and is always prying for more tales of Mister Bilbo's famous exploits. "Tell me again about his escape from the elves," he asks repeatedly. Something about that story never quite added up squarely, as if some precious detail were intentionally omitted.
During the day he delights in Lindir's kitchens, learning from the elves that cook such fine meals, their secrets of preparation and seasoning. Yes, it was a long winter, but the depleted stores cause the staff to get creative, and Hobwise is happy to move nimbly from station to station, chatting them up on the odd chance they are receptive. In no time at all he has grown fat and his body stiffens at the thought of venturing forth once more. But his spirit is renewed, the scars to his memories fully healed.
Almost.
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Thorgrim broods deeply all the trek back. Though he does what he can to snare the odd winter hare, or to rend low a full squadron of trees to keep their hearth fires bright, he chaffs at being lead toward the elven court that can be their nearest source of salvation.
And so, unto the feast he falls like a hammer-blow. From the roast he carves a slice weighty enough to feed a small family, greedily devouring it and a brace of loaves, followed by a meade pitcher once full now barren.
The devastation is quickly done and in silence. Though platters have made the ultimate sacrifice for his satiety, the trencherman of no small consideration glares at the heavily-laden tables with considerable hunger still.
So it is an odd thing when he calls over a server and has a brief, hushed transaction of words. Giving one brief nod he rises, grabs a beaker of some golden beverage, and stalks off to some mission of his own crafting.
Cereidh is quiet and withdrawn on the way back to Rivendell, although not precisely sad - still and quiet like a frozen lake, currents in harmony under the surface. Half the time, she doesn't seem entirely aware of her mortal companions, more absorbed by the littler forms of life around them.
Upon rejoining Rivendell and being invited into the feasthall - Cereidh is quiet and thoughtful, feasting as much from the heat of her soup through her bowl as on the soup itself. She lifts her head and frowns after Thorgrim. And then, quietly, she gets up, and follows him.
The wait is nearly unbearable, but as the feast and evenings activities finally wind down and you wonder the corridors of Imladris the same maid greets you with warmth to announce your rooms have been prepared as you wish.
Stepping inside you find the once spartan chamber to be ablaze with candlelight. The yellow of the light is punctuate by the whites, yellows, and reds of the meadow flowers which also make the room smell of a warm spring day. A copper tub fit for two sits steaming in the center of the room while the feather soft bed has been turned down and a bit of sweet candy left next to a bottle of wine.
The page waits as you think through the missive a puzzled look upon his face at all of the opulence for one as typically adverse to such things as the mighty beorning. Yet, upon receiving the note, he simply bows and hurries off to find the elf woman for whose eyes it was meant.
"Curious. This is not work from anywhere in the north. From far in the south I would guess, although I've not much familiarity with those distant realms." He pulls out a soft cloth, frowning further at the blue steel weapon. "It is good you've brought this to me. There is something here...." His voice trails off, the concern evident. "It may take some time, but I will see what can be discovered about this blade. I only hope it will be a discovery helpful to our cause and not the enemies."
Wrapping the blade in the cloth he bids you good evening and returns to his conversations with the two wizards.
Opening the parchment you find a short phrase written in a strong, rough hand. Speak, friend, and enter.
"Mellon."
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No sooner has the door closed after the page but Thorgrim gratefully strips off his dirty and road-weary clothing. The rough smelling homespun make a shapeless pile on the floor as the large outlander steps gingerly into the steaming water.
Deep in his throat he makes a sound like a bear purring as the welcome heat of the bath seep into his myriad field of long or recently healed wounds, cuts, abrasions, lacerations, and muscle strains. Not normally one to often surrender to sublime joy, for at least a moment he relishes the feeling of his own flesh.
Just as his mind puts forth a motion for sleeping, a sound comes from the door....
"Eh? Melon? Ha!" comes the Beorning's booming voice, partially muffled by the long planks of the door. "Confound woman, the note did say 'speak' so I concede mentioning a random fruit is technically without flaw, but I was expecting something along the lines of 'Hello'.
Well, there was also a last instruction. So enter, if ye wish it."
Stepping inside you find the once spartan chamber to be ablaze with candlelight. The yellow of the light is punctuate by the whites, yellows, and reds of the meadow flowers which also make the room smell of a warm spring day. A copper tub fit for two sits steaming in the center of the room while the feather soft bed has been turned down and a bit of sweet candy left next to a bottle of wine.
Thorgrim lays in the tub at full relaxation. His visible bare chest and arms are thick and hard, yet cross-crossed with white scar-lines, bespeaking of a hard life and a road lined with angry steel at every turn.
He lifts up a wine flute and salutes you before taking a brief, throat-clearing sip. "I believe a bath was requested, milady?"
A playful smile dances across his face as he looks at you expectantly.
Upon returning Wulfgith greeted Elrond politely before she went off to the smiths. She brought her helm of course, to show and ask if any of them would be able to get the dent out from where the frozen rock had hit her upon the head. If the legends of elven works where true this would be no problem for them.
After that she went to see Elrond to give him the necklace she had found and ask if there was anything he could tell her about it, and tell him where they had found it and about their journey. All of it. This group was far different than the one she had before.
After resting her eyes everywhere in the room (stopping, however, at Thorgrim's shoulders), she settles on the end of the bed. "I am glad to see you in such a fine mood. You didn't seem much impressed to be traveling with a Wizard, and I feared that you would feel resentful at being cooped up here instead of back on your own road."
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Thorgrim stretches and sinks into further ease in the hot bath. "Bah! A pox on all wizards! What use are they? We were hungry, cold and tired, and what did he bring? Another mouth to the soup pot and another body around the fire. I would trade all the wizards in the world for a joint of beef and a hot fire any day!
I hear the tales of these great works done by them and their ilk, but for us on the bottom of the ladder, of what consequence is it? None that I know have ever received a wit of magicks for a boon worth anything, and only a few have ever met one. And we meet one, one of some worth, for the reputation I've gathered, and what does he do? Has a pipe full of weed. Ha! I've known respectable vagabonds that could reproduce such a trick but they are at least honest about their skullduggery!"
He takes a generous sip from his wineglass as if washing away the topic of wizards. "And I've no bile for this place. I'll be a-road again before too long so there's no need to deny this place a chance to be-spell me with its pleasures. Although...whether I take to the road alone or not may be an open question." He raises his eyebrows meaningfully.
"Aye, 'tis an invitation. Come, join me in this sumptuous pool." He scooches over as if making room in the wide, great, warm basin.
"A dark and harrowing experience it seems." He finally says with a heavy sigh. "I fear the shadow is stirring more and more here in the north."
When you hand him the necklace the ancient elf looks at it with some sense of puzzlement, but little concern.
"This is not of elf or dwarf make. Of that I am certain." He says holding the piece up into the bright spring sunlight. "Dunedain would be my guess. But from a time long ago when the sister realms once held sway over much of northwestern middle earth."
"An item of historical value for certain. I don't recognize the heraldry but I'm sure a little time spent researching in the library would reveal something." He says, handing the necklace back. "As for your rather battered helm, I'm sure Damron or one of his apprentices could fix it for you."
"Although it does give you the look of a hardened veteran." He adds with a good-natured grin while knuckle tapping the dent lightly. "It will take a bit of time, but I'm sure Damron can see to it before you set forth again."
The next several weeks are spent recovering and recuperating within the peaceful halls of Imladris. Over that time spring gives way to the warm days of summer. Amalina with Winter at her side is seen briefly hurrying through the halls. Bandages wrapped around her leg and shoulder. The usual dirt and mud of the road covering the two of them from head to toe. She waves and smiles at you warmly before saying something about needing to report on the ongoing skirmishes with the remnants of the 'Captain's Army' in the north.
Hobwise learns a few new recipes from Lindir. But his conversations with the cagey wizard never quite resolve the riddle of Bilbo's escape from the elves.
"Perhaps, you'll have a chance to speak with Master Bilbo himself." Gandalf says one evening as the two share a pipe on the porch. "He often visits Rivendell in the summer."
Another week or two passes. Wulfgith has her heirloom helm returned to her, polished and as good as new. Giles spends his days in the library, studying the gold ink scrolls discovered within the ancient tower. And Thorgrim and Cereidh spend much of their time relaxing and expanding their relationship behind closed doors.
Finally, on a bright summer's evening with the evening star shining bright in the sky, you find yourselves walking past the Hall of Fire when you hear a pair of voices raised in passionate debate or argument.
"“I tell you, they were there! The Old Took told stories of the archers company to me when I was a lad!” Says the first voice. Apparently that of the hobbit sitting upon a stool near the far hearth. He wears a supple shirt with gold buttons and a long stemmed pipe sits clenched in his teeth as smoke billows from the bowl. Several tomes sit upon his lap atop a rather worn and patched green cloak.
“That does not make it so, Master Hobbit,” follows the
even and calm reply of the elf, Lindir in his typical flowing robes of gold. “Did you not say that Gerontius Took was known to tell all
manner of wild stories?”
“That does not make them untrue, Lindir!” The Hobbit’s curly hair bounces as he crosses his arms, offering the Elf a dour glance. His eyes brighten a bit when he spots you lingering near the doorway.
"Ahha! You folk there! Come in, come in! You look like honest and bright people." The hobbit says leaping up from the stool and causing books to tumble to the floor, while the elf looks on with an amused grin as he leans over to help recover the scattered tomes. "Oh Bother! Lindir, you've got me in such a state." The two manage to restack the books while you walk across the hall. Finally the hobbit stands, straightens his jacket and then offers a sweeping bow with one hand sweeping across his wide waist and the other dipped into the pocket of his breeches. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service."
He beams a smile toward each of you. "I wondering if you stout folk might be interested in helping settle a point of contention between myself and the good Lindir here?"
Cereidh's eyes widen a little and she returns a shallow bow to the Master Hobbit. "Well. I am no expert and I could perhaps be accused of loyalty to the dignity of the elves ... but I am quite curious over what company of archers this is that you are discussing."
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"Phaw, if you mean that little dust-up in the cavern," Thorgrim states dismissively, "that only solidifies my opinion that all magic is not meant for us." He drains his glass and puts it on the sideboard, frowning at it. "Whatever made that ice-wisp down there used powers that are best left sleeping. And why must it always be that six men must be killed to keep a chamber frozen for all eternity? Why canst it not be that I could know a spell that would chill a drink for a prick on a finger, eh? HA! That would be a far more useful thing!"
Thorgrim chortles at his little joke for a spell, remembering all the trouble that could be avoided if a bit of warmth or cold could be conjured for the price of a drop of blood.
"But aye, I'm still here, at beck and call. 'Tis too early in the season to turn my boots homeward. The crop will only just be ready to put in the ground and the there will be no plants for to make spirits with anyway. Unless you count birch wine and I don't. The end of winter is always a dour, hungry time with all the best food eaten and the drink all drank. Aye, lass, aye, I'll be bidding here a bit. I'd wager some new horror will stalk someone else's cairn and I'll be thankful for the chance to crack skulls and boredom alike."
His idle musing begins to wind down and he now gazes at Cereidh with purpose. "Is that why you've come, lass? To talk of Lord Elrond and all the goings at his high court?"
The corner of his mouth rises in a playful smirk. "You know what I think? I think you'd like it my farmstead. O, that would cause such a stir, now wouldn't it? Me arm-in-arm with a beautiful elven temptress. Oh my and what would the bairns look like? They'd have my strength and your cunning and all the kings of the world would tremble in their boots when 'ere they'd come a walkin'. Oh my now that would be a rare, fine thing, wouldn't it?
So now it's on you, lass.
Where does your path take you?"
Thorgrim nodded genially at this new hobbit called Baggins that called to them. In his way he held his tongue at promising a favor until he had weighed the newcomer's measure.
As one born to the road, he had a way of recognizing another caught in the throes of wanderlust. As a rule hobbits did not exhibit this, save in the most extreme of circumstances. So he is passingly confused when his internal Editor declares this hobbit to be more, and better, traveled than himself.
Though confused by his internal scales, he resigns himself to give the hobbit a measure of honor, and listen to whatever odd matter of trivia he would bother with.
"Aye. I'm always up to hear a tale worth telling. And if it turns out to be true? Then all the better."
"Bless my buttons, Mister Bilbo!" Hobwise exclaims upon hearing the voice and setting eyes on his personal hero. He walks into the room and shakes Bilbo's hand vigorously. "So good to see you again! But I must admit, when Gandalf mentioned you visit Rivendell in the summer I was skeptical, but here you are!"
Hobwise packs his own pipe and lights it while continuing his introduction. "You may not remember me; we met for a time at my family vineyard in the Hill Country east of Tuckburrow. I was eager to finally get some time to chat with you then, and your stories have given me great courage on my own journeys. Would you guess, I've been to Dale, and fought beside Beorn! And of course these fine fellows and ladies."
After listening to Bilbo's proposal he adds, "Master Seneschal is known to me to be in the habit of surmising the truth, though I have no reason to doubt your story, and though a Took may tell tales well past twilight, so too may he be as good as his word with sword or bow in his hand, staring down the advance of orcs. Now, what be this point of contention?"
"But in the meantime I will check the library. See if I can find anything else about this necklace. Rope Giles into it as he must enjoy digging into the past." She chuckled. "Thank you again Lord Elrond."
Wulfgith watched the group being the talk with Bilbo. She had heard the stories but nothing more. "We're always willing to help." Wulfgith said with a slight nod. It wasn't far off with how much the others where jumping into this.
Little else can be found among the tomes. And while the necklace itself would have some value for its gold and Dunedain workmanship, to a scholar or collector of such items it would be worth much more.
"If?! If it be true? Hrrummph!" The hobbit exclaims flashing a pointed look at Thorgrim and a somewhat skeptical seeming Cereidh. But before he can say more, Hobwise steps up and introduces himself and adds a few words in support of the old Took as well. This bit of aide brings a welcome smile to the older hobbits face.
"Indeed! Indeed! I do believe I recall our meeting young Hobwise. A hobbit who will go places I remember saying to myself at the time. And it seems I was quite correct."
"Now as for this dispute, well, my rather misinformed friend here seems think that there weren't any hobbits who rallied to King Arvedui and the defense of King's Norbury in that dark year of 1974." He puffs on his pipe a few times, like an engine gathering up steam. "Well it just so happens that when the king's call went out, the Shire did its bit and sent a company of archers to aide the king. The Old Took told me the tale directly when I was just a lad. How more than a hundred hobbits marched off that year and died defending the poor king."
Lindir takes a breath to speak, but is forestalled by a hand from Bilbo. "The good Lindir doesn't believe the tale because it didn't happen to get written in any of the records here in Rivendell."
"Nor do any of the rangers who frequent these halls recall any stories of mighty hobbit archers." Adds Lindir with a warm grin.
Bilbo waves away the comment. "Scoundrels and scofflaws are most of the rangers." He says. "Can't be counted on to know the truth. Not like us hobbits who have long memories. Not so long as elves, I grant you, but long enough when it comes to our own achievements to history I would say."
"I know this tale well," states Hobwise, stepping proudly alongside Bilbo. "The Green Company, stout and sure archers among our folk, were led by one of the Tooks. They held the line against the invasion by the forces of Angmar and the Witch-King himself, displaying a courage that no elf or man should have ever forgotten. Having expended every arrow and slain countless orcs, the Green Company received little support from the King's army, and was wiped out almost to a hobbit, which is perhaps why it escaped the elven scribes. But that is a poor excuse for failing to document such valor. Your tomes are incomplete, Lindir, and should be thusly amended."
She pauses and looks at him, still, blank, and curious for a moment at his talk of his farmstead. Then she smiles indulgently. "Thorgim, you are brave and - reckless, and I like that. And I'm sure I'd like to visit your farmstead - that it is hale and beautiful and grows like the trees around it, and not haunted. We have walked the same lands, but you are mortal, and I am just playing at being mortal."
"But I think my path will take me to your farmstead. For a bit. I'd like to see it."
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"Thorgrim the Wise! Thorgrim the Powerful! Thorgrim the Magus who owns a tavern and every thursday pours out drafts from his never-empty tankard! Aye lass aye! That would be a finer little magic!"
At her compliment--and Thorgrim would not take it any other way--he nods regally as if he were at court dressed in fine silken robes, and not chest-deep in a fragrant and steaming tub.
He now knew what card he would like to play...but he did not want to play it just yet. There was a point to be made.
"Playing at mortality? Ha! Hahahaha! Lass...we are all of us playthings to powers beyond our ken. And when the blow comes swift and the blood runs red, I've never known the Eldar to recover once fair head is removed from lithe shoulders. So, when I say I would not let good go undone, or to let something sweet go un-tasted, because I wish to see my life be used in full measure before the last of life is gone, I would see you walk the same path.
You may be immune to the ravages of time, but if the two of us face death in some other Shadow-touched cavern, do you really want to find yourself...wondering?"
There. He's had his say. Time to play the last.
"So you would see my...farmstead? Well then the first thing you need to know is how to plough a field!" He laughs at this double-entendre, entering the endgame. "And I would not take you in your present, smelly state, which makes me think you might need someone to give you a good scrubbing!"
A grin grows full on his face and his hands go the side of the tub, preparing to rise.
Thorgrim had no great love of books, preferring to experience life directly. But he had been regaled enough nights, fueled by silver and ale, to have heard of any note-worthy companies worthy of the name. And a company of half-man archers was very directly not among them. He would have remembered so much as the mention, and might very well have started a tavern brawl at even the hint, so great would be the disbelief.
Thorgrim thought to hold his tongue...but that was not his way.
"Hobwise, surely you can not hold to this belief? Thine own ardor and wanderlust serve as proof to the rule that your kind, present company excluded, would sooner turn a blind eye to the troubles of the world than to take up arms and march to the war-call?
'Don't go looking for trouble and none will find you.' Isn't that a favorite hobbit saying? Do you mean to tell me that not one, not two, but a full hundred of your kinsmen were gripped by martial ardor and marching to the battledrum?
And archers at that! Are not your kind more inclined to by more deadly with rock and sling than with the warbow? Were I to search every bungalow in the shire, would I even be able to find a hundred bows?"
Perhaps if he were drunk he'd be more inclined to go along with the tale. But this early and sober?
"Think to the Recent Unpleasantness and that thing with the Five Armies. If hobbits were wont to go to war, would not at least a score have taken up the call and toed the ranks? But was there even a single hobbit there when it seemed that all the races of the earth were to battle?"
Hobwise would not let Thorgrim's sleight go unanswered.
"Hobbits, as a rule, do not seek out wars to fight on another's behalf. If you can't win your own war, don't start it. But I suppose the Men of Beorn have little else to occupy their unsubtle natures than to go pick a fight with anyone foolish enough to engage them, mostly impoverished raiders and desperate types from the far east. No doubt a harem of underfed females has succumbed to your might! The better to boast about, should anyone stumble into a tavern where a Man of Beorn be drinking and telling tales. Is that what your misplaced indignation is really about?
"Step carefully into the arena where your enemy is an armed hobbit; there is hardly a more naturally skilled adversary in Middle Earth. I was a winemaker and a party host. Then I ventured into the wilds. In this company, Thorgrim, I dare say you alone could best me in a scrap, and I would make it interesting. You think there are not ten hobbits in all the Shire who could take to the field and resist a force of orcs? I say there are ten thousand! Every hobbit of fighting age, given a sword, a bow, and a day of training, is the match of an orc. Give us a good reason, such as the Enemy at our doorstep, and we are a fearsome lot indeed. Give us a Took at the lead, and we are as deadly a force as you will meet.
"Lindir, will you be so kind and indulge those who are ignorant of history with a telling of the Battle of Greenfields?
"And to your question, Thorgrim - yes, there was one hobbit at the Battle of Five Armies. I dare say an army unto himself. Mister Bilbo Baggins."
Content to leave that field of ambiguous disagreement, her sharp black eyebrows raise sharply at his crude joke and dimples start to appear as she suppresses a smile. "Well now, my lord warrior, that's quite the assumption! That I've never ploughed a field. You may have taught the hearty lasses of your home lands a thing or two, but if elven maids are locked up safe in their silver towers, Greenwood woods-women are not, mortal or no!"
Cereidh, for the moment, keeps well out of Thorgrim and Hobwise's spat with an increasingly flat expression.
Wulfgith looked from Thorgrim to Hobwise, and back again before she looked at Cereidh, with a nod she agreed to take up the Elf from Mirkwood's idea. Keep well out of it for the moment. After all the last time she tried to keep the peace between the two didn't go well. Maybe they where like some of those in the Mark, just needed to fight it out.
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"Ah ha! Indeed I was, my good Hobwise. It is only too bad you were not there as well, we surely would have sent those goblins packing even before the eagles arrived." Bilbo burst's out, following the other hobbit's impassioned words. "And I would add no truer words have been said about the stoutness and bravery of hobbit kind."
The debate attracts more folk to the Hall of Fire of until several dozen elves and others are packed into the room listening as Thorgrim and Hobwise bandy words back and forth. Lindir follows the conversation back and forth with a somewhat bemused look upon his face, most especially as the two hobbits rally together to defend the honor of all their kin following the Beorning's opening cannonade.
"What you say may be true my friend." The elf says in his rather imperious tone. "And certainly, I would never doubt the desire and ability of Shire-folk to defend their homes or be true to their kin. And I sincerely hope, you are never called to do so in your days." Lindir adds with a shadow of sadness crossing his features as if he has been forced into such a situation all too many times. But the sadness is replaced quick enough with that same quick grin as he continues. "All I'm saying is that there doesn't appear to be any solid proof, aside from a few hobbit-stories told by a rather old Took known for his....fits of exaggeration. Without something more definitive you must admit, we can never truly know for certain."
"Bah! If it isn't in writing or isn't in your library then it didn't happen!" Blusters Bilbo. "Rubbish. Poppycock and rubbish to that. A hobbit's word is as good as proof, I say. But if its something more tangible you need, then we shall have to see about finding it." He looks over at Hobwise, pipe smoldering in his hand while he brandishes a smile in the hobbit's direction. "Won't we now my good hobbit!"
All the while Cereidh, Wulfgith and Giles take a less boisterous approach. Choosing instead to remain quiet during much of the heated debate.
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"Oh aye," Thorgrim concurs with the elven scholar. "Hobwise, never did I say I doubted the -ability- of the half-folk to make war. That instinct runs deep in the very metal that makes all free folk. I simply say that the weaponry of the story--bows, for a company of archers--is as foreign to the shire as a peaceable stroll is to the Mirkwood.
So too, for whatever the ability of your people to defend their own homes, IF it were possible for them to answer the call to defend another's land...wouldn't they have done it again? Possibly many times? But are we really to believe that the Hobbits, for all the days in time immemorable, have never bothered to venture out for martial purpose...save once?
It's not like Hobbits are regularly raided by orcs, which Beornins -are-.
But as far as the harem of females? Well, not all of them were underfed." He chortles, apropos of nothing.
"But harken? Proof you say? And how would such a thing be found, if not even the best gathered scholars through the ages have not had such a thing?"