Oatbarton(#8785Rto)
You see a small village surrounded by oat fields. There is light pouring out into the night from a few windows in the smials. Looking through the windows, you see a few hobbit women cleaning dishes. From a small house, which for some reason is set apart from the others, you hear a slow, haunting melody played in a deep register of a string instrument you cannot identify. It is difficult to see, though there are a few large lanterns hanging from the doorway of the Oaten Pipe tavern.
Obvious exits:
 Proudfoot Smial leads to Proudfoot Smial: Sitting Room.
 Oaten Pipe leads to Oaten Pipe.
 Oatbarton School leads to The Oatbarton School.
 North leads to Greenfields Road.
 South leads to North Farthing Crossroads.
 West leads to Bindbale Wood.

Night in the little village of Oatbaron brings with it all the usual assets of an Oatbaron night. People begin sidling, or staggering if necessary, out of the taverns, bidding each other farewells, and heading back to their houses and their holes. A few regulars, of course, stick around, but by and by large the traffic is away from the centre of the village, not towards it.

As a result, the short, fat hobbit on a stout grey pony riding up the Greenfields Road is going rather upstream. Toregrin Took, and his modest store of luggage and supplies, make their merry way up into the village, a pipe clenched between his teeth, a brown Anthony Eden hat stuck jauntily onto his skull at a slight angle, little puffs of smoke popping from between his teeth as he rides.

Night brings with it also reprieve from the day, from the summer sun's warm rays, from the noise and the bustle. Things are quieter at night -- gentler, more peaceful.

And those that don't belong are less conspicuous.

A grey-cloaked figure of unusual height in this area pads softly along the road from the north, approaching the village's center -- and pausing just on the edge thereof as he watches a hobbit stumble past on his way home.

A smile flickers in eyes of silver-grey.

As his pony clops about towards the Oaten Pipe, Toregrin dares to strike up a little hum, bobbing his steed nimbly around the inebriated members of the populace with immense good cheer. A bit of a crowd just outside the door requires Toregrin to turn about in a slight loop, approaching the inn from the north, and as he rides he inevitably sees the tall man, glancing over at him and glaring slightly, but paying no further heed.

But as soon as he has looked away from the Ranger he pauses and looks back, checking his pony to a halt. Toregrin backs the pony up, almost staring at the gentleman sufficently tall that he is higher on foot than the hobbit on ponyback. His jaw goes somewhat slack, and his pipe falls out of it, landing harmlessly on his lap.

"Good heavens!" he declares.

"Indeed," the tall fellow agrees, casting his eyes upward toward the cloudless sky. Stars glimmer brightly as they make their rounds across the heavens, and he peers at them for a long moment before levelling his gaze -- a merry gaze, a cheerful gaze -- back on the hobbit-on-ponyback.

"They are fine heavens. I wouldn't trade them for all the world. Do you regard them, much?"

The unconvential reply catches the hobbit almost as off-guard as unconventional height did, and for a few seconds his mouth just opens and closes aimlessly, occasionally spitting a few half-coherent and meaningless words at nothing in particular. His pony steps backwards a bit, and Toregrin doesn't seem to notice.

"You giants think you're so clever... with your..." Toregrin manages to squeeze out an entire phrase but his momentum soon utterly diminishes, and he at last looks up into the night sky, craning his head way up, teetering on the saddle and looking rather silly.

There is soft laughter, but one would be hard put to think it comes from Halbarad. His eyes glimmer with the starlight, and his lips are innocently set.

"Stars?" he finishes with another glance upward. "Heavens? No, friend -- they're yours as well. I've not come to take them."

"See that you don't!" Toregrin proclaims, jabbing an accusative finger towards the giant. "We're decent hard-working folk, here-abouts... although I'm not from this part so I shouldn't speak... and we don't need the likes of -you- taking our..." he moves as though to point up, but, as though suddenly realising how stupid that would look, turns it into an overdramatic grabbing of the pipe on his lap instead, "...our dignity and way of life!"

Toregrin's eyes burn with what, for a hobbit, passes for anger, and though he shows enough discretion to back his pony juuuust a bit away from the Ranger, his voice is as heated as ever. "And we're tough and we pay attention, so if you think you can just sneak up in the dark like this and grab yourself a little snack, you have another thing coming, my enormous friend~!"

"Oh dear," replies Halbarad -- and in the fact of that tirade, it is a reply that underwhelms. He takes a step back -- a single step, a short step.

"I dare say," he continues most solemnly, "I would never have suggested otherwise. In fact, I've never met so tough and hard-working and attentive a fellow as yourself, my good hobbit."

His eyes, silver-grey, glimmer yet with bemusement. "I shouldn't even imagine trying to sneak about in these parts, but tell me -- can a fellow find a smoke around here? My pipe is woefully empty."

"An empty pipe? I'd be happy to help you out, sir, in exchange for a few stories of the - Outside."

The cheery voice, eager and helpful (and more than a little hopeful) belongs to one rather small hobbit, clearly no full-grown member of his kin, but carrying a pipe and a pouch that looks - most promising! His almost-golden curls tumble nearly into his green eyes, and he looks up at Halbarad with excited curiousity.

"I can offer you a share of the finest weed from the Southfarthing, if you like, in trade for a few tales! Perhaps we can strike a bargain?"

Baltobras walks briskly, his stick tapping along the walkway as he heads toward the Oaten Pipe. He stops though, at the sight of the tall man and the young Hobbit lad speaking together, shaking his head in wonder.

Toregrin glares at the very, very tall man from atop his pony. With a deliberate, calculated shift of his arm, he jams his pipe between his lips and, very slowly, very deliberately, puffs out one single ring of smoke, expanding and lifting up into the air like some bizarre halo.

As the young lad offers the Man succour, however, Toregrin turns with visible alarm towards the smaller hobbit, his jaw dropping again, although since he's holding his pipe no further harm comes of it. "Are you mad?" he declares, voice dripping shock and horror. "You want to hear his horrific ballads of death and destruction?"

"An empty pipe," the man confirms, and his voice is touched with sorrow as he draws the long pipe from his belt and taps it upsidedown on his hand to demonstrate the extremity of the situation.

But a dark brow arches.

"Southfarthing weed for a few tales of--" Halbarad's eyes flicker to the grumpy one "--death and destruction? For that, I should ask a whole barrell. For a pipe-full, I can give you one."

"Oh! Whatever the tells of the outside bring. Hopefully there IS something in them besides death and destruction! Don't your folk have any cheery tales, not even one?"

Yet even as he speaks, the diminutive hobbit opens his pouch, taking out plenty of leaf and offering it with a generous hand and a warm smile.

"And shouldn't we have proper introductions first? What do they call you? My name's Peregrin Took, but you can call me Pippin; everyone else does."

Toregrin's dire warnings and the wonder of Baltobras go unheeded for the time being, even though Pippin has to tilt his head back rather far, shading his eyes, to get a good view of the Big Person in question.

"Well, now here is a strange meeting, indeed..."

The muttered words are just past his lips when he recognizes the two other Hobbits and makes his way toward them, a bit wary but also with the determination to stand friend to them in a strange situation.

"How now, Master Toregrin and young master Pip! What wind brings you hither? Is it tales from Outside? Well, but tales from Outside are best told Inside, if you take my meaning." He gazes up at the tall Ranger. "And greetings!" says he, though there is a bit of a tremor in his voice. "Baltobras Brandybuck is my name. Who may you be, Sir?"

"That's all you lot have, right?" Toregrin declares to the gigantic Ranger, glaring again and turning his pony about towards the gap between Pippin and Halbarad, as though to keep an eye on both the Ranger and the Thain-to-be at once. Taking on a mockingly deep voice, Toregrin booms "oh, I and a bunch of my goblin friends went down and snuck in through windows and did terrible things. Hoom hoom! More smoke please!" He waves his hands about at his side as though he were an exceptionally fat man walking in an exaggerated manner.

"Does he -look- cheery?" Toregrin asks Pippin, looking towards the young Took with yet another one of his varied expressions of horror. "He's too big to be cheery. Always hitting his head on things and so forth." Baltobras gets a rather more assured look, and Toregrin nods his head towards the third Took in Oatbaron. "Good evening!" he calls.

Halbarad, naturally, watches from above -- and he watches with a glimmer of rich amusement in his eyes even as he holds out his pipe to accept the handful of weed.

"I dare say we do have something more than that," he replies with all solemnity to bely the twinkle in his eye. "I have a cheery tale, in fact, right under my hat."

He does not have a hat.

"And if Master Toregrin--" he glances toward the blustering hobbit, "--will point out the lintel so I don't bruise my head, Hal of the Wilds would be happy to tell it."

"Hal of the Wilds! What an interesting name!"

Pippin seems quite intrigued by this reply, and positively beams at the prospect of a cheery tale, hat or no hat. Promptly he fills his own pipe with a rather light amount of weed, nodding eagerly.

"I'll point out the lintel if he won't! Can't have you hitting your head, now, can we? I can imagine that must smart terribly, and if you hit it hard enough and fell - well, it's rather an awfully long way to fall, isn't it? At least I don't have so far to go, but you - " He shakes his head, turning toward the Oaten Pipe, still keeping an eye turned toward the Big Person.

Baltobras notes the big stranger's amusement, and the young fellow's prattling brings a slow smile to his face. "Hal of the Wild, eh?" says he. "I would stand you to more than a fill of good Southfarthing, if ye wish," says the Hobbit. "There's a rare brown Porter made here, if you fancy it, and I've certainly an ear for a tale or a song...."

Toregrin just looks aghast atop his pony a little bit, but in the end he heaves a sigh and, extending Hal a parting glare, turns about and rides a bit away, towards Baltobras, at which point he leans out of his saddle a bit and whispers down towards his fellow hobbit.

"We'd best keep an eye on him," he declares to Baltobras in a low, oh-so-seekrit voice. "Doubt ol' Paladin would ever let us back into Tuckborough if we got his son et, right? Maybe if he knows we have our eyes on him, he won't try anything."

"Porter?"

Hal cocks a brow at Baltobras's suggestion, and his eyes flicker toward the inn. "A rare brown, you say? You needn't tug my leg, then -- a story it is. Lead the way, young hobbit."

He motions to Pippen to lead on, and pretends not to hear -- or does not hear -- Toregrin's oh-so-seekrit voice. "And don't forget the lintel."

Balto nods to Toregrin, his face serious, but with a twinkle in his green eyes. "Right!" he whispers, for Toregrin's benefit, then follows the Ranger to the Inn.

"Careful, then - watch your head just there!"

Pippin issues this warning en route through the door, so that one cannot be quite certain of where it is, and so swiftly is he inside that there is no chance to ask for a repetition of the information.

Oaten Pipe(#9596Rt)
This large but cozy room serves as the common area for the Oaten Pipe Inn. It is constructed almost entirely of a deep, richly-colored wood - the walls and ceilings are made of thin strips of the thickly-lacquered wood, and the ceiling is composed of larger square panels. A long, hobbit-height bar curves out into the room, and is lined with a long row of short wooden stools. A kindly looking gentlehobbit stands behind the bar to assist customers. <OOC: +inspect bar>
At one end of the room, there is a fireplace just large enough to keep the room comfortable in the wintertime. A handful of tables are positioned in the room, but the main seating is obviously intended to be the barstools. The room is lit by a couple of small windows in the daytime, but most of the light actually comes from large beeswax candles, which are situated above eye-level, hanging in sconces from the beams which stand upright to support the ceiling. All in all, the place is exquisite, and extremely clean. Table code is in effect here. Type thelp for table commands.

Contents
Pippin
Fat Henrietta(#15336aM)
Grilo(#7151M)
Obvious exits:
 Out leads to Oatbarton.

Baltobras goes immediately to the bar and addresses Henrietta, asking after a larger chair to accommodate the newcomer, Hal."And, Henrietta, please see if you can find a tall canikin of Porter for him also, and bring some regular jacks of Porter for Master Toregrin and me."

He looks over at Pippin and calls to him. "Master Pip, would you take a drop of something?"

At the call from Baltobras, Pippin looks back from selecting a group of seats, brightening and nodding.

"Oh! Yes, please - raspberry punch, if you don't mind."

He turns back to those entering, motioning eagerly to a group of chairs he has identified and now stands over, hand on the back of one in a rather possessive manner.

"Here we are, then! Come on, best seats in the house!"

Halbarad follows the young hobbit through the door and ducks at the lintel -- whether from the fair warning, or from his own observation, one cannot tell.

And he remains somewhat ducked as he passes into the common room, to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling. And there he waits a moment, casting a pointed glance at the chairs comandeered by Pippin.

"Are they sturdy things?" he asks with a quirked brow.

The door to the Oaten Pipe swings inwards as a hobbit lass traipses in. A smile gleaming on her face, the hobbit removes her cloak and sets it aside in a large basket she had been carrying. Humming a flitty tune, she heads to an empty table, and sits, opening her mouth to greet the patrons when she noticed some... new... faces. Mouth closed shut now, she sits and watches the exchange, waiting for a more appropriate time to speak up.

"We'll be leavin' for Overhill after dinner, so you'd better get yourself somethin' to eat beforehand." A stout elderly hobbit (smelling strongly of horses) and a tween (clutching a travelling valise and her light cape) -- quite an odd pair, really -- enter the Pipe. Being the lass she is, Peridot Bunce nods, half-listening, at her elder's advice, while her eyes search the room. Another new place with plenty of fresh sights. And some familiar ones, too!

"Why, Pippin! And Mr Brandybuck, and Mr Took--" she bounces towards them, separating from the older hobbit who now occupies a seat at the bar. But she stops short at spotting their companions: some rather overgrown folks looking quite out of place here in this hobbit-sized inn.

"Hopefully," ducking after, and fortunately for him having a few less inches than the rather tall Man, is a cloaked figure. Hood still up, the forest green partially concealing armor beneath. No further comments are made, though at the hint of the other big person's voice, he might be alluding to the size of Halbarad's rear.

Baltobras takes a proffered much larger chair from Henrietta and scoots it over to the others gathered near Pippin. "Ah, here is a chair that you can use without fear of beakage," says he. "And I have ordered a tall canikin of Porter that will soon be here."

Balto grins at the Ranger. "That is, as soon as Henrietta can get it full!"

"Oh! I suppose so - but then - I wonder whether there's anything bigger? I think Mr. Brandybuck was asking after something for you - we do occasionally have larger furniture about, you know, for the wandering - erm - guest. And here it is!" replies Pippin, who seems content enough to hop into one of the seats himself, settling back quite comfortably in the chair. As Miss Bunce enters, he looks up, breaking into a smile.

"Miss Bunce! How nice to see you again - won't you join us? We're about to hear a tale from Outside!"

The appearance of another Big Person does not escape his attention, however, and he begins craning his neck for a better view of the cloaked figure.

As Giant Number Two enters. Mr Took Number Three follows, Toregrin having tied up his pony and slipping into the tavern behind the also gigantic new arrival. His Anthony Eden is now straightened on his head, and he bears down a long, smooth, black walking stick, which he zips through the air, up near the cloaked 'Man''s shoulder. "Clear off, hobbit coming through!" he declares with rather excess assertiveness as Toregrin waddles into the pub.

Still, Toregrin sticks to the wall, clenching his stick as firmly as he can in his right hand, glancing between the giants, sidling towards the gang of Tooks and a Bunce that is rapidly assembling. As he walks, he tries to shove a few empty chairs out of the way, as though keeping his escape path clear.

"I thank you friend," Hal says softly as he accepts the chair frm Balto and -- turning it around, so he straddles the thing and leans lightly on the back -- he adds, "I hate to impose -- but might you have another? It seems my friend has found us."

His friend? The other tall person, clearly, and he casts a glance aside to that one as he enters.

And then? He says nothing else.

A little start is given from "Giant Number Two" as the cane comes near his shoulder, and he twitches aside from it before he's able to calm. Thereafter, however, is given a melodious little laugh as he attempts to clear his slender, but far from hobbit-sized, bulk from the door. "My apologies."

Balto retreats again to the bar and finds Henrietta in a nervous frenzy. He takes over pulling the canikins of Porter for the two Rangers and the thirsty Hobbits while Hen is sent running for another large chair. She comes back with it just as Baltobras finishes his pouring and comes forward with a large tray.

"There!" says he. "Henrietta will set the place for your friend, and I become the Landlord for long enough to serve out the orders. Porter for our two Tall Friends..." He serves up the large tankards. "And Porter for the smaller..." he sets these down too. "And Raspberry Punch for Young master Pippin!"

Neither fear nor suspicion taints Peridot's face as she blinks and takes in the two Big Folk. After a second of inspection, she glances at Pippin, delight sparking in her eyes at his words.

"A tale from the Outside? Really? How fantastic! I'm glad I found you before it all started-- but hold on for a moment, please..." She disappears into the fray and tries to pin Henrietta down to put in her order. Once that matter of utmost importance is finished, she returns and plunks down beside Pippin.

Approaching with perhaps a little more timidness than the Man, the other tall person smiles beneath his hood towards the hobbit that sets down a chair. "Thank you," he says quietly for a moment, taking in the small room at a glance before settling down his lank frame into the chair.

Little ears hidden in curls perk up with the mention of a story. "Forgive me for saying so, but, I'd like to listen in, if I may." The lass speaks up, voice trying to carry over the din. A smattering of apprehension dots her face, but curiousity seems to be winning over. "I do like listening to stories... wherever there origins."

Settled into his chair now, and with a large tankard in hand -- a tankard from which he takes a long sip and then sighs with satisfaction -- Hal regards the gathered hobbits with a long and slow look.

"I've promised them a tale from the Outside," he says with bland cheer to his companion. "In exchange for some Southfarthing leaf. A fair trade, do you think?"

And to the others, a wan smile. "Forgive my friend -- Whistler is a quiet sort."

As the crowd of hobbits grows around the two Big Folk, Toregrin's expression of alarm grows more acute, and he sits down with both hands firmly gripping his black walking stick like a broadsword. "I ran into one of those really, really tall people in Bree, you know," he says to nobody in particularly. "She was hideous, too. Her face looked like it had gone through a plough." He nods.

Waving behind him, Toregrin gestures to summon a barmaid, though his gaze fixes on the Big People. "I drove her off, though. After I had a word with her, she left like a dog with her tail between her legs! Anybody tries to injure a hobbit on my watch and I'll do them up a treat, let me tell you!"

"Thank you!" Accepting the raspberry punch from Baltobras, Pippin nods to Peridot, his ears perking up at Lilybud's interest. At once he motions her enthusiastically on over, all the while listening to Hal's conversation with obvious interest. . .though at Toregrin's speech, he arches both eyebrows slightly.

"I could share in the story," agrees the one called Whistler, accepting one of the offered tankards into one hand. An apologetic smile to the hobbits, and he rests the drink upon his knee. For the moment. A short pause and he looks back to Halbarad.

"If you choose one I know, Hal." A peculiar accent, this one, and his Westron wouldn't seem to be impeccable.

Peridot waves to the lass at the bar along with Pippin. "Do come join us, then. You'll be in good company over here as a lover of stories." But she hushes promptly to listen to the Big Folk and nestles around in her chair with the anxiety of a hobbit lad waiting for dessert. This night is turning out to be quite something! And even better-- the first course of her dinner, a hearty plate of mushrooms, is set before her!

With a nod to Peridot and Lilybud, Baltobras goes back to Henrietta one last time and is shooed away, assured that /she/ can handle everything now. His eyes twinkle merrily and he slips into a chair, a drink at his elbow and a pipe appearing from his weskit pocket, along with a pouch of Southern Star.

"Then friends, be welcome, and let's hear yout tale!" says he.

Peridot's dinner seems to inspire Pippin, who motions Henrietta over - it's astonishing what a pair of green eyes can do, really - and whispers something to her, slipping her some coins along with apparently intent instructions of some sort. This done, he turns his attention back to the talk at hand, diverted only momentarily when a basket of fried cheese is whisked beneath his nose.

"I'll choose one you do, friend," Hal agrees, leaning forward on the back of his chair and resting his chin on his hands. Silver-grey eyes skim the hobbits about them -- the young ones, the girly ones, the blustery ones -- and he tilts his head.

"Happened not long ago," he begins, "That my friend here and I were travelling in the forest when we came upon the biggest, grandest, /ugliest/ -- it was pretty ugly, wasn't it? -- fort we had /ever/ seen."

He pauses, and takes a long sip from his tankard.

"Absolutely ugly," says the 'Man' that Halbarad had called Whistler, leaning forward and adding a bit of a dramatic tone to his flutelike voice. "As tall as...as three of us. A crown of bones along her head and huge, bulging eyes." Really, though the hobbits wouldn't know it, this is probably actually a fair description.

Toregrin watches the story, and smirks. "Right," he murmurs under his breath, crossing his arms over his extremely ample chest and leaning back in the chair, tilting it back onto its rear two legs with the practiced ease of the experienced drinker.

Pippin's bright green eyes widen, and he leans forward eagerly, still munching a piece of fried cheese, attention rapt upon the storytellers.

"Aye," Hal agrees as his friend describes the -- well, the thing with bulging eyes. "The thing that lived in it was huge. Three times as big as /me/," he taps his chest, "And three times as ugly, too."

He winks, and takes another drink.

"But the stories said she had /treasure/ in that house of hers -- gold and jewels and all sorts of shiney things. So we--"

His voice drops, and he leans in closer, "We crept forward. Closer, and closer, and we could /hear/ her snuffling inside."

As her imagination goes wild with the goose-bump-raising tale (better than any story she'd ever read out of her books!), Peridot's fork, forgotten in her hand and halfway to her mouth, slips from her grasp and lands on the plate -- though silently, cushioned by mushrooms. A few precious ones land on the table, also abandoned in light of the story.

Balto's green eyes shine in the candlelight as he fills his pipe and lights it, drawing a puff and sending a smoke ring into the upper reaches of the common room.

Toregrin watches the story proceed very levelly, with the quite calm, scornful expression of a hobbit who doesn't believe it in the least, drumming his walking stick on his lap with a rather rhythmic thwap of wood against fat thighs.

The hooded one sniffs once, or snuffles maybe, though whether or not it's extremely convincing is up in the air. Hard to imitate someone who has a cold when you never get sick. "Sniffling and snuffling... We knew it would...would...not do well to both go inside. So I stayed back, my bow in hand. Hal crept up as quietly as he could, to brave the beast's lair..."

Pippin has (almost) stopped paying attention to his fried cheese, a piece of which sits untasted between small, nimble fingers as the young hobbit listens, wide-eyed, to the unfolding of the tale.

"What did you both do then?" he squeaks curiously.

"I hardly believe it myself, miss," Hal agrees with Lilybud, and he nods significantly. The tankard sits forgotten in his hand for a moment as he continues.

"Stayed back? My friend's too modest. He stole her attention with a whistle like a little bird -- show them, Whistler -- while I snuck inside and searched for the treasure."

With a good-natured chuckle, Whistler obliges. Pressing his thin lips together beneath the hood, he makes a bird call. A high, keen twittering melody. One could almost say that he's better at sounding like a bird than speaking.

At once Pippin beams, looking positively enchanted by the birdcall. Bright eyes light up in the little face, and the young hobbit looks on eagerly for more of the story.

Peridot jolts straight in her chair at the bird call and claps with a laugh of astonishment. "Oh, fantastic!"

Baltobras' eyes grow wider as the tale becomes more suspenseful. At the bird call, he smiles in open admiration. He takes one more fill of his pipeweed, then passes the pouch to Hal. "For you and your comrade!" he whispers. "This is good!"

"Don't encourage them!" Toregrin says in some alarm to Baltobras, turning to his fellow Took with enough force that his chair torques on the floor and one of the legs twists precariously, though it remains in place. "Good heavens, am I the only one here with any sense of reason?" He shakes his head, in bewilderment, at the other hobbits.

Hal sits back and watches with approval as the other big person shows off, and sips again from the tankard. A big tankard it may be, for a big man, but it's nearly finished.

"Well, I looked, and I looked, and I didn't find much -- lots of bones and broken things. But I did find--"

He glances around and lowers his voice conspiratorally, "A magic spoon." A significant nod follows the claim -- but the tale is interrupted as he straightens up and accepts the pouch from Balto. "Thank you, good sir," says he as he takes a big pinch and stuffs his pipe before passing the bag to Whistler.

"My my! It's no stretch of imagination why you've earned such a name, if you don't mind me saying so. Could probably call a fox out of a chicken coop, if you had half a mind to do so." Lilybud nods to herself, legs swinging in expectation. She shoots a glance at Toregrin. "Now now, be nice to our guests. It's a lovely tale, through and through."

At the squeal of wood against flooring, the hooded one twitches, sitting up straighter and head swinging towards Toregrin for a moment. Slumping back again he seems almost apologetic, from what one could make out of his shadowed features. "No harm is meant, sir."

A pause is given as he looks back to Hal now, relaxing a hair and giving a chuckle at Lilybud, attention shifting around the rest of the faces. "Someone once told me...if I whistled too much, the chickens would think I was one," he admits with a visible grin. "As for the spoon...you must let me see it at a time, Hal."

Balto blows another smoke ring and his eyes twinkle again.

"This magical spoon?" he asks, "What powers did it possess?"

"A magic spoon?"

Pippin's eyes widen further, if that is possible. . .then narrow suspiciously.

"How do you know it was magic? Do you have it with you?"

"Who's telling this tale?" Hal asks, narrowing his eyes at Balto firts, and then at Pippin, as he bends over to reach into his boot. "You or me? I haven't got there yet -- I'm still stuck in the ugly monster's house with my friend making birdcalls outside to keep her from eating me up!"

And so he is.

Clearing his throat, he glances around for a light for his pipe -- and not finding one, he holds it unlit and continues around it.

"Well, there I was, and what do you know but the ugly monster snuffled about and then hollered, 'I smell a man's smell!' And before I knew it, she was standing in the doorway, and I was stuck."

Peridot takes a hasty forkful of mushrooms. It's as though she's right there with the two Big Folk-- one distracting the giant thing that wore bones for a crown and the other rifling through its belongings meanwhile. And suddenly, glimmering a dingy pile of bones... a spoon!

The thought of such an ordinary object being magical -- she lets off a giggle that quickly dies. The Big Folk had been caught!

Toregrin sits forward in his chair, as though the idea of the two Big Folk potentially enduring horrible deaths is by far the most interesting thing he's heard so far today. His eyes open and he actually starts to pay some attentin.

The little Lily sits forward as well, mumbling a bit to herself. "Who would've thought something as mundane as a spoon being magical? That's like saying an ordinary ring is magical." She shrugs though, gasping as she hears of the Big one being trapped. "I'm sure you must've thought of something cunning to get out of that jam, yes?"

Another little whistle from the aptly named Whistler, considerably shorter than the first. "I could not even see in... No Hal, just the huge, warty back of the beast. She was standing there, club in one massive fist--a fist big enough to lift me right off the ground! Even from where I was you could smell her, but of course...Hal was in much more trouble."

Baltobras quietly slips from his chair and bespeaks Henrietta, who shortly (and quietly) comes forward with a tray laden with two more large tankards of Porter, and several smaller ones, and another Raspberry Punch for Master Pip. She makes as little noise as possible as she moves about, bestowing the drinks where they best belong.

Pippin's gasps softly, but he offers no further question or comment, gratefully accepting the fresh Raspberry Punch to replace his empty mug. Silently he continues to listen to the story, wide-eyed with wonder.

"And she was angry, too," Hal adds to his friend's description as he accepts a new drink from kind Henrietta. "Right angry. She cried: 'Where's my spoooooooooon!'" and he imitates her cry, eerily drawing out the ooooooooooooooo.

He pauses for a sip, still holding his unlit pipe -- but it is a small sip, just enough to whet his lips. "And me? I saw my life flash before my eyes -- she was going to /eat/ me, I knew. So I raised the spoon over my head and I threw it as hard as I could and it hit her -- smack! -- between the eyes!"

"The sound she made! I cannot even think of how to do it," states Whistler enthusiastically, though he declines the tankard--his first hasn't been touched, but he starts on it now. "A horrible shriek as it hit her in the face. Like pure sunlight, I could see her clearly, every wart on her back. As I could, then, I shot off an arrow--right into her rear. Thwip!" Of course, what else would a magic spoon be good for against a troll?

Noting the distress of the fire-free Ranger, Balto shifts a candle from his side of the table to a spot close to Hal's elbow, lightly tapping his shoulder to make sure he knows it is there.

Toregrin frowns, slightly, looking rather disappointed and sitting back in his chair again. Glumly, he glances around at the other hobbits, swishing his stick through the air, quite depressed that the people he is currently listening to are not, in fact, dead.

"I'll take a Long Cleeve Snowball," Toregrin adds to good, fat Henrietta as she passes, putting his stick out to her leg to slow her down so he can get his order in. He does not, however, immediately retract the stick. "Actually, make it a double." He pauses. "And keep them coming." Reaching into his pocket, he takes a fistful of small change and gives it to her without counting it.

Thwip! -- Again Peridot hops in her seat and clutches the edge of the table. Surely now the thing would turn on the Big Folk and gobble them up ... but wait. They were still alive and telling the story now, unscathed. She clasps the drink between both small hands and takes a sip, eyes not moving from the storytellers. The she hobbit frowns. "I suppose you had little choice in the matter. Either throw the spoon or be eaten... but it seems now all you've done is made her angry." She tilts her head again, eyebrows raising. "The situation just keeps getting worse!"

Hal cants his head appreciatively to Balto as he lifts the candle and lights his pipe. Tankard is discarded then -- half-empty -- and he takes a puff, allowing the suspense to grow.

A ring of smoke floats toward the ceiling.

"She was angry," he confirms, loweing his voice. "But that's the best way to have such an ugly critter. She was angry because of the spoon, she was angry because of the arrow, and she couldn't decide which one of us to eat! So while she was standing there trying to decide which had made her more angry, I slipped past and--"

His lips twist in a dry smile, "I'd wager she's still standing there confused today, wouldn't you, Whist?"

"Likely, I think the spoon confused her," chuckles Whistler in response, dipping his hooded head. Another sip is taken from his own tankard and he pauses for a time. "Turned around too fast, even in the archway--and smack! Of course, with beasts like that, it takes much time for them to know they hit their head. I think I saw her dribbling drool."

Mingled excitement and skepticism dance in Pippin's eyes as he watches Hal, his green-eyed gaze curious and eager.

"So you escaped because of the arrow and the magic spoon? How very clever! But do you have any proof that your story is true, without the spoon, or must we take you on your word?"

He seems quite ready to do the latter, if proof is not forthcoming.

A hobbit-fist-sized glass is set down in front of Toregrin, with a clear liquid and some suspended icecubes in it. The fat hobbit lifts it in his right hand, looking to Pippin and merely shaking his head at the young hobbit's enthusiasm. In contrast to his earlier anger, Toregrin now just seems depressed, wearing the classic where-did-it-all-go-wrong look of a man about to drink far more than is considered socially acceptable at his age.

Lifting the glass, Toregrin downs the liquid in one go just as another is set beside him. He does not reach for his second glass, however, merely watching the story sombrely.

Balto takes a long puff of his pipe and lets the smoke drift toward the ceiling again. He notes Toregrin's restlessness, but is not swayed by it. He smiles as Master Pippin makes his excited query, but is silent himself, wrapped in the pleasant spell of the tale.

"My my, to think there are such dim beasts..." Head tilts to the other side. "Still, stranger things have happened. It's a shame you lost your magic spoon though..."

"Well," Hal says with another puff on his pipe, and he exchanges a glance with his companion. "What proof've we got for the young master, friend? I wish I'd kept the spoon. It felt as magic as any spoon I've ever had -- saved my life, too."

Breath is slowly eased out of Peridot as the story wraps up. Although her eyebrows arch slightly at the ending-- it wasn't exactly what she was expecting.

"Oh, Pippin," she says good-naturedly. "It 'twas just a story, wasn't it? To be honest, I'm not quite confident that it happened either...a crown of bones! What creature would wear such a thing? But the tale was amazing, proof or otherwise." She nods shyly to the Big Folk over the brim of her drink.

"As magic as any spoon," agrees the accent-bearing Whistler, grinning beneath his hood and sipping the tankard of Porters again. "And a creature that wears a crown of bones... You should hope never to meet, little miss. I will be having terrible dreams for years, I believe." A wink at Hal.

"Well, I don't think you can say it isn't true. There are such things out there; there ARE."

Pippin is insistent to Peridot on this point, and nods agreeably to the storytellers, looking quite pleased. Approvingly he begins to applaud.

"An excellent story - and see, not full of death and destruction!" he adds, glancing to Toregrin.

"Just like you asked, master hobbit," Hal agrees gamely as he draws again on his pipe and puffs another ring of smoke toward the ceiling. "And I think you owe me a pouch of Southfarthing leaf -- or wasn't that the deal?"

"Aye aye, it was very good." The lass gives a short clap. "Thank you for such a delightful story. It was very good, very good indeed." The lass stifles a yawn. "Oh dear me, excuse me."

"With all respect, Master Peregrin," Toregrin says to Pippin in a tone almost completely devoid of respect, "the story derove its dramatic impact from the possibility of death and destruction, and the lack of actual viscera in no way changes that fact." He nods, smiling a little bit after he uses the word 'viscera', and grabs his second drink to polish it off.

"Besides, such things can't exist or some hobbit would have seen one, and neither you nor I nor anybody else has or ever shall." Toregrin nods, thumping the table with his fist resolutely.

A long pause from Whistler, who appears to have been watching Toregrin again. His head tilting to one side, attention once again returns to Halbarad, and he poses a rather simple question; "What is viscera?"

"Insides," says Baltobras. "Viscera are the insides of a creature."

He takes a pull from his tankard of Porter.

Pippin casts Toregrin a look, and seems about to say more, but his attention is drawn back to Halbarad's question, and he laughs merrily.

"I believe I asked for a couple of tales in exchange for the whole pouch! But that was the bargain we struck, and let it not be said that a hobbit drove a bargain and went back on it, or was ungenerous to a guest!"

He draws out from his knapsack a purse of pipeweed and passes it to Hal. The aroma is very fine indeed - this must be a share of the best pipeweed from the Southfarthing that money can buy. . . .

"Oh," answers the hooded elf simply as the word is at least in part, explained to him. Musingly he repeats it over a few times, nodding a little to himself. "Viscera...viscera. Right. Nonetheless, I declare to you it is true! Just hope that you never find how true it is."

"Insides? Is it? I'd never known," Hal notes idly, politely, as he acceps the pouch from Pippin and opens it to take a hearty sniff. He smiles, then, and tucks it away into his cloak; it disappears ever so quickly.

"It goes to a good cause, my young friend, he assures, and adds -- tapping his pipe gently on the table:

"More than one tale? Was that it? Well, then -- I'm in your debt. Next time we cross paths, you shall have another tale. But you've heard enough of my croaking. Let's have a song from a fairer voice than mine.

Lilybud stifles another yawn. "That is a hope I can certainly keep. She shivers a little. "Something so... outlandish, if you don't mind me saying so, in the Shire would be a very scary sight indeed." Stretching a bit, the lass gets up, basket in tow. "I thank you again, sirs, for such a wonderful tale. I must be going. It's been a long day. I hope you enjoy the evening." With a quick curtsey and a whoosh as she puts on her cloak, Lilybud sends a final wave before heading out the door.

Peri shakes her head in puzzlement at the exchange -- viscera, who'd want to hear a story about that? -- and instead smiles bashfully at the Big Folk. "Thank you for the tale. Oh! Oh! Mr Brandybuck, you must sing something."

Delight warms Pippin's features: a song? As Henrietta replaces the empty fried cheese basket with a hearty bowl of hot, creamy mushroom soup, the young Took's attention is on Whistler, perhaps in hopes that Hal's friend will sing. The prospect of any song, in any event, seems to interest Pippin immeasurably, and he listens eagerly as he begins silent work on the soup.

Balto smiles as the Ranger and Peridot call for a song. "Ive one if you like," says he. "But you'll have to excuse it a bit, it's not really /proper./ Just a bit of gossip from the Southfarthing put into rhyme, but the pipeweed put it into my head just now."

"We should tell them about Face sometime," says the hooded elf with a small laugh, scooting to sit up more erect within his chair. One hand reaches up, slipping beneath hood and helmet to scratch at where an ear would likely be. "A song would be wonderful."

"Yeah! Song! Hoooray!" Toregrin isn't drunk, just surly. He glares at Hal and Whistler for a nonce, before looking back to Baltobras and smiling, rather politely. "I'm sorry, Mr Brandybuck. You are rather talented musically, it would be nice to cleanse my ears of..." he gestures towards the Big Folk vaguely.

Whistler's last comments get Toregrin to spin around, perhaps having misheard them. "Yes. Tell us about your collection of faces. How can you be so evil and tall?" Glare.

"I am evil?" asks the hooded one curiously. For a moment he pauses then lifts up a slender hand, drawing back the hood from his visage. The helmet still covers his head, though whisps of dark red-brown hair can be seen. Fairer of feature than the man, with slanted grey eyes and no hint of beard on his chin.

"Face?" Hal ponders that as he draws slowly on his pipe. "Aye -- now there's a tale with viscera," he agres solemnly.

And falls silent, then, tipping his pipe toward Balto--

--but Toregrin's comment draws a frown from him, and his hand sneaks out to rest a hand on Whistler's arm. "Patience, friend," he says softly.

A withering glare is cast in Toregrin's direction, and Pippin clears his throat.

"I think it would be rather nice to have both singers perform. . .our guest and Mr. Brandy. . .buck. . . ."

His words trail off as Whistler draws back his hood, revealing fair features that resemble no evil creature from any of Pippin's imaginings, and the bright green eyes widen afresh.

Whistler only tilts his head at Halbarad's words, no malice on his features, though perhaps curiosity. Nary a word spoken, however, he does give a little nod of acquiescence.

Toregrin's glare towards Whistler does not abate in the least. He's made up his mind. "And I bet that's one of them. You can't trick me. I'm too smart." Toregrin nods, whacking his stick on the table as he does so, and then thrusting the end into the ground, like a rather bad, fat, and increasingly inebriated knight showing off his prowess with the sword.

Baltobras looks on in wonder. "One of the Fair Folk here in the Shire!" he mutters in awe. But he clears his throat and begins to sing in a clear tenor voice. The tune is lively and as he sings, Balto hopes his song will distract the folk enough to avoid bloodshed:

In a Smial by a tree near Pincup
Lived a Shirriff proud and free
And with him his only daughter
A lass named Laurel Lea

Now the Shirriff loved his daughter
As a father ought to do
And he made up his mind to find her
A lad who was brave and true

But Laurel Lee she scoffed at him
And ran through the woods on her own
"I want no suitor to woo me
I would rather be free and alone!"

Now the Shirriff, he wouldn't listen
He thought he knew what to do
"I'll go and find that Southfarthing lad Who made eyes at her at the party we had And she'll fall for him and he'll call me 'Dad' And they'll have lots of little'uns too!"

So the Shirriff saddled his pony
And he rode away from his home
But no lad from the Southfarthing found he 'Twas no matter how far he might roam

For sweet Laurel Lee had a secret
She was keeping from her old Dad
She was roaming the woodland and meeting Alone with the Southfarthing lad!

And when the old Shirriff came homeward All tired and sore and alone
He found Laurel Lea and her sweetheart
Had made the household their own

Now the word is they wed in the meantime And though it's not proper it's true
That the Southfarthing lad and sweet Laurel Lea Have two pretty daughters - or is it now three? And they live with the Shirriff, quite happily In the Smial near Pincup too!

Wisely, Peridot keeps silent and stays an observer. She watches Whistler pull back the hood and her breath catches. Never before had she seen such a handsome, noble face! It is somehow marred, however, by Toregrin's cane whacking the table and causing her to leap -- thrice tonight! -- with fright.

Hal leans forward on the back of his chair, his lips pressed in a thin line -- and then forced to a smile, it seems. He listens to the song with his head tilted politely, and he does not interrupt--

--but his eyes, deep and grey, remain fixed on the ornery Toregrin.

And when the song has finished, he tips his tankard back and finishes it off. "Thank you, Master Brandybuck," says he softly as he pushes himself up from his chair. "But I think we've outstayed our welcome."

"I like it," says Whistler as he also goes to rise, leaving the now empty tankard on the chair. And making careful not to smack his head on the ceiling as he stands, helmeted though it is. "A truly beautiful song."

Disappointment falls over Pippin's face. He looks bitterly discouraged by this turn in the conversation, and looks to Toregrin with a deeply fretful gaze.

"Are you certain?" he tries. "Some of us, at least, are very much enjoying your company!"

"Oh, don't mind me!" Toregrin declares at this, rather quickly. "I'll just ride off and let you all get et!"

"Please!" laughs the elf (or very pretty Man) as he looks to Toregrin with a mild grin. "You would taste terrible, I imagine. I would much rather have quail with poached pears."

"Big Folk do not eat hobbits - at least, not all of them do!" declares Pippin firmly. "And besides, how could they eat us all at once?"

At Whistler's words, he smiles broadly, as if his point were proven.

"Mmm," Hal agrees. "Quail with poached pears."

But he does not move to sit down again, but rather peers from Pippin to Toregrin to the door -- and gives his head a quiet shake. "No -- the night grows late, and we must be on our way. But perhaps..."

"Now Mr Took, we found out in Bree that Big Folk do not eat hobbits!" Peridot says, with firm conviction. She looks back to the two tall ones. "And-- must you leave? We really were having fun... wasn't Mr Brandybuck's song nice? How about another drink? Or ... I think I have mushrooms left over..." Her words tumble out as she tries to save the evening.

Baltobras finishes his song and hearing Whistler, he says to him. "Thank you! From one of the Fair Folk, that is high praise indeed!" At Toregrin's words, his eyes snap around and he looks daggers, but he laughs again at the Elf's retort, then smiles. "I don't know if there's another song lined up, but I would like to hear one from a throat other than my own." he says.

Lingering half-bent near Hal, it would look as though Whistler might indeed consider staying. What elf can resist song, after all? Though either way, he is hesitating. Odd place to be all alone. Upon the ranger's 'perhaps' he looks on expectantly, bending a knee so he doesn't havve to bow along spine and hips.

"They're very big," Toregrin answers Pippin, pointing to Whistler and Hal and jabbing his finger in their direction fiercely. "And they could make jerky out of us and take us on the road so they could..." he looks back to the Man and the 'Man', "mug babies or whatever it is they do!"

Looking between Peridot, and Baltobras, and Pippin, Toregrin's expression turns into one of shock as much as anger. "How can you be on -their- side?" he asks, voice growing increasingly shrill. "Even for Big Folk they're big, and that means dark magic and evil things, that's what I say!"

His 'perhaps' hangs in the air, and finally the Ranger lowers himself once more to his seat. "Perhaps you should show him some evil and dark magic, Whist," he says gamely, puffing again on his pipe.

"Sing us a song, hm?"

"Yes, yes, a song, please!" calls Pippin with delight, ignoring Toregrin's admonitions and dark words.

Hesitating either way, almost like a fox unsure whether to flee or take a closer look, Whistler goes to lower himself back into his own seat. With some relief, hobbit buildings weren't made to accomodate elves.

"Very well," he says with a pleasant smile, looking over the gathered little people. "What would you like to hear a song of?"

Toregrin pffts, quite literally, at the mention of another song, and puts away another glass, slamming it down next to the four empty glasses already on his table. He belches, slightly, but either the liquor isn't strong or Toregrin is just a good drunk, as he is stable enough to glare quite happily at the big people.

Hal leans forward on his chairback, pipe in the corner of his mouth, and he falls silent.

And remains silent.

And blows smoke rings, until the elf has finished and it's time to go.

Peridot settles back into her chair in relief. They weren't leaving-- and even offering another song! "Do you have a song about flowers?" she says hopefully. The innocent question is punctuated with Toregrin's burp and she glances at him in a bit of shock.

"About anything!" urges Pippin brightly, stirring his rapidly disappearing mushroom soup. "Whatever you like - something pleasant, of course!"

Baltobras sits down, pleased with himself for the nonce, and picks up his lately refilled mug of porter, replacing his pipe from the table to his weskit, and prepares to listen to the Elf's song.

"Flowers it is," says the young elf, his grey eyes glittering merrily. He seems to hesitate though, as though thinking. Then he begins to sing, in his rather melodious voice, though at some points the words falter with his lack of practice in the Westron tongue. It is said that elf song is magical, though Whistler is no Noldo, perhaps it is stirring in a bright sort of way:

Away! Away! Away!
The snows do pass,
And Bruinen roars,
Once more the songbirds call!
Winter has fled away!

Toregrin is quiet and surly and doesn't pay much attention.

Balto sits wrapped in the music, listening and smiling, his drink forgotten.

Pippin's mouth opens in a silent O of delight as he listens, waiting for the song to end and the singer to take a bow before applauding.

Peridot smiles dreamily as the song floats through the room. She leans on the table, chin cupped in her hands, as she listens.

Whistler fumbles for a moment over the words, before finding his tune again. A graceful recovery, perhaps thanks to the tune of the song. He knows the music, even if not the words.

Away! Away! Away!
Cold winds begone,
And leaves return,
Fresh on the breeze of spring!
Winter has flown away!

"Cold, winter..." Toregrin murmurs, playing with an empty glass as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. "Must be good hobbit hunting when it's snowy, all the tracks."

Baltobras gives Toregrin another dagger look then turns back to the beauty of the song.

And with finality, the elf's flute-like voice brings the song to the end:

"Away! Away! Away!
Snowdrop and golden star,
Anor's light now comes,
Together we gather to sing,
To greet spring's first day!

Letting the last notes die off he grins faintly and shrugs, though gives no explanation as to the song. Rather self-explanatory.