The Farthings and Beyond - Shire Free RP

[Dungeon Delver]

Jorgy Amongst the Bumblebears
The Westfarthing, On the Outskirts of Hobbiton
(Private)

Today had been a very good day. There had been many very good days for Jorgy, all in a row. Today, in fact, marked the eighth good day in a row, a current record for him. A good day was not as easy to come by as one might think. You had to get up early, have a great big breakfast, feel good, do some writing or some painting, then canter about to work and share a good second breakfast with your fellow librarians (if you were a librarian like Jorgy of course), in the middle of work, a sizeable lunch, shared with friends at the pub, then back to work before letting out for afternoon tea and supper back at one’s own home. It was difficult to manage, but when all things lined up like that it was worth it’s weight in gold, even th0ugh technically it weighed nothing and gold, to Jorgy, was rather useless. It was evening now, and Jorgy decided to go on an evening constitutional. His belly was full of roast chicken with all the trimmings, with Yorkshire pudding, glazed carrots, a savory potato salad with dill and bacon, and roasted cabbage. It was quite delicious and, what’s more, Jorgy had made it all himself. He’d been practicing for quite some time, trying each recipe on their own several times until he was satisfied that they were perfect. Tonight, he made them all together, making a true feast for himself and Jorgyferret. He was stuffed, so stuffed that he was afraid he might explode and throw mashed potatoes all over the walls if he ate another bite.

Mrs. Pumpkinberry would receive a handwritten invitation (he’d been practicing his calligraphy at the library with Eris Loamfoot) in the coming days, asking her to join him for a special midsummer feast. He was going to invite several people, Eris, Cressilda Boffin, and Sybil Cotton. It was going to a grand get together, the first that he would host. He was bubbly with excitement, a bounce in his step as he walked. He offered to bring Jorgyferret along with him, but his stuffed companion elected to stay behind and bask in the window.

Hobbiton in the evening was a beautiful place. The whole place glowed with a warm golden light, the only gold that Jorgy had any use for. The greens of the trees and the hedges mixed with the deep blue and purple of the sky. The air was cool with a soft westerly breeze, shaking the trees and creating a soft music that eased the heart. He could hear the conversations of hobbits here and there as they finished their own evening meals; he could hear laughter, hoots, and hollers from the inns, songs being sung. It felt good. He waved to several of the people he knew in town, and they waved enthusiastically back. It had taken a bit of time, but Jorgy had truly begun to feel as though he was accepted as part of the community. The good gentlehobbits accepted his oddities and eccentricities and made him one of them. It gave him a light feeling in his heart. Belonging had been one of the things he’d searched for most since he’d woken up by that fire with barely a memory of who and what he was.

Soon, though, his walk took him out of Hobbiton and the sights and sounds of the town soon passed from a low murmur then to silence. The sounds of the wilderness took over, crickets and cicadas and katydids. Evening birds too, made song in the trees while the wind whispered a jolly tune that tickled his ears. Jorgy laughed and skipped along the path, feeling his tummy less and less heavy as he went along. He began to hum along with the wind, making up a tune as he went. It was not a very melodic, or even a very good one, but it made him smile. He began to whistle, trying to match the wind in pitch but soon found that wind had a much wider range than he. He’d only taken up whistle in the last few months, having tried endlessly to make a sound from his lips that didn’t sound like an accidently flatulence. He laughed. “Alright, wind. You win this round!” he said, a wide grin on his face. He walked on and on, feeling lighter but soon began to feel his legs tire. How long had he been walking now? Surely it had not been that long? He looked back, the sights and lights of Hobbit were barely visible, a haze of color between a set of oak topped hills. The forests were beginning to crowd him, looming with great majestic green leaves and trunks of the deepest brown.

He yawned. He was not tired, not really, but he could do with a nice rest. His little legs would be quite grateful to him if they were given even a few moments respite before making the return journey back to home and hearth (and a good soak in his copper tub). A large tree with a trunk at least twice as wide as Jorgy presented itself and made a tempting looking resting spot. The grass was a deep green, and it almost bounced under his feet as he came near. There was all manner of wildflowers about the tree as well, a dozen or more, most that Jorgy could not identify. He would have to ask Mrs. Pumpkinberry tomorrow about them. She had a book of wildflowers with pictures and names that he could peruse. His lids began to get heavy as he sank down, his back to the trunk of the great tree, a great sleepiness overtook him. It was as if a great, warm blanket had just been pulled over him, the pillow cool and crisp to the touch. He’d never been tucked in, not that he remembered, but he had the vaguest notions of it happening in the back of his memory, the faces of his parents just out of reach.

“Excuse me, sir,” a voice appeared next to him on the left, tiny, round, and high pitched.

“Do you mind not sitting on the flowers?” another voice said, just as tiny, round, and high pitched, but coming from his left.

He looked about, blinking his eyes owlishly. There was no one there. Something buzzed about his ear, a soft buzzing like that of a… bee? He turned and looked toward the buzzing, but what he saw was unlike any bee he’d ever set eyes upon. It was small and round, with the same black and yellow coloring as any bee, but the face, and the legs looked, well they looked like bears. But they were bees. But they were bears too. Bees, and bears. Bears and bees. Surely, he was dreaming. This was all a fabrication of his tired mind, making fanciful tales for him to laugh about as he awoke. A bear and a bee, what would his imagination come up with next?

“Sir? You’re sitting on some flowers there, if you don’t mind—” the little beebear, or bumblebear said again.

Jorgy squinted. This wasn’t a dream. “I— what?” he sat up suddenly, surprised and a little shocked. “What in the name of breakfast?”

“Oh? You, you can hear us?” asked the little bee bear thing on his left. “I didn’t know that you could.”

“I can hear you,” Jorgy responded, still surprised at what was happening. “I’ve, well I’ve never seen anything like you is all.”

The little bees giggled and buzzed around so that they were facing Jorgy. “We’re bumblebears,” the one on the right said. “I’m Bearnadette, and this is my sister, Bearnice.”

Jorgy knew he shouldn’t laugh, but his smile was wide. What a marvelous thing! Bumblebears!

“Well, it’s very nice to meet both of you, my name is Jorgy, Jorgy Underash, at your service.”

There was a small amount of buzzing that Jorgy didn’t catch, some sort of language he wasn’t quite privy to, then, “It’s very nice to meet you Jorgy.”

The young hobbit then realized that he was still, apparently, sitting on some flowers and they were waiting for him to shift and move so that they were no longer squished beneath him. Hastily, he did so, bouncing onto a patch of springy grass by the tree. The little bumblebears buzzed happily and did what might have been called a curtsey.

“Thank you, kind sir. The flowers here are very delicate, very fragile,” said Bearnadette, holding a tiny flower in her paw as she buzzed around him. “They are very beautiful and rare, I’m not sure what hobbits call them, but we call them bloodroot.”

Jorgy took a hard look at the flowers, small things with white petals around a yellow center. It looked like something in Mrs. Pumpkinberry’s book. What had it said? Something about a tiny flower that had a red sap in its stem or something. “I think you might be right. I remember seeing that in a book. They are quite lovely, and so tiny. I hope you forgive me for accidently sitting on them.”

“Nothing to forgive,” said Bearnice buzzing happily and landing on Jorgy’s shoulder.

“I’ve never met a bumblebear,” said Jorgy after a moment, examining all the varieties of wildflowers around the base of the tree. “Where do you live?”

“Oh!” Bearnice buzzed off his shoulder and floated around the base of the oak, “We live here in this tree, up in the higher branches. Our hive is near the top, much bigger than a regular bumblebee hive. We usually only venture out at evening, when the light is red and golden, soft and warm to the touch. We’ve never met a hobbit before though, most of the time you folk are so busy going hither and thither and to and fro. We’ve always wandered what made you so busy all the time. You don’t have hives, but you move around like you’re bees. We’ve certainly never gotten to talk to one. We thought hobbits didn’t understand us.”

Jorgy bowed his head and made a flourish with his hands, the same kind of he’d seen other hobbits do to one another. “It’s the very greatest pleasure to meet you then, Bearnadette and Bearnice. I may not be like most hobbits, but I hope I represent them well. We are a busy lot, I do admit. But I’ve met some people that are even busier than us. We like to sit and watch the world around every now and then. Mrs. Pumpkinberry and I have a special time that we just have tea and watch the wind carry about the leaves.”

“Oh!” said Bearnadette, perking up. “I love watching the way the wind moves the leaves about. The smells and the tales they tell are just so fantastic.”

“The smells?” asked Jorgy. “Whatever do you mean by that? I’ve never heard of leaves having a smell.”

“Oh they do!” insisted Bearnadette, with Bearnice buzzing to her side and nodding vigorously. “Every leaf has a slightly different smell, just like every flower, every bumblebear, and every hobbit!” They both giggled, it was an infectious giggle that even caught Jorgy. He wondered what he smelled like to a bumblebear, he hoped it didn’t smell like a compost heap; he smelled Eris Loamfoot’s compost heap once and it brought tears to his eyes with the pungency.

“Do you like honey?” asked Bearnice suddenly, looking very serious all of the sudden. Jorgy’s laughter faded when he saw her tiny face. Clearly bumblebears took their honey seriously. It made sense though, bees and bears were both animals that were serious about their honey, both the making and the consuming.

“Oh, I love honey,” Jorgy answered earnestly. The little bumblebears both relaxed. The idea that a hobbit, or anyone really, could not like honey was unfathomable to Jorgy. Honey was one of the best things in this world. Honey, golden and warm and delightful, was part of what made being a hobbit so wonderful. Jorgy was fully convinced that no other race in Middle-earth, not men nor elves nor dwarves could love honey quite so much as a hobbit. “I especially love it with toast or in tea. Oh! Do you like tea?”

“We’ve never had tea,” said Bearnice.

“Indeed,” agreed Bearnadette, “but we’ve heard about it, leaves and flowers and such.”

“Is it good?” asked Bearnice.

It was Jorgy’s turn to giggle. “I think tea is very good. We hobbits even have a whole meal around it, every day too! You know what,” he asked after a moment’s introspection, “I think I should like to invite you both to my home tomorrow for tea. I think we should have an amazing time. It’s customary to invite friends over for tea in Hobbiton and I think you two are going to be good friends.”

“Oh goodness,” said Bearnadette, her little face flushing with excitement. “I think that would be lovely. We’ve never been to Hobbiton before.” The two bumblebears buzzed at each other momentarily, speaking in that language that Jorgy could not quite understand. “We accept your gracious invitation.”

“We shall have a wonderful time!” said Bearnice, giggling and buzzing about in circles. “We shall talk of all sorts of flowers and leaves and honey!”

Jorgy beamed with pride. “A grand time indeed!” He was going to have tea with bumblebears. Who else in all the Shire could say the same?

[Dungeon Delver]

Jorgy Amongst the Bumblebears
Jorgy’s Home, the Next Day
(Private)

Making tea was a peaceful process; a routine that, once Jorgy learned it, brought him a great measure of peace and tranquility. Humans, elves, dwarves, and the lot all had tea, or something like it, but none of them quite had the same reverence for tea. Hobbits alone knew the true and proper way tea ought be made and served. The kettle was on the stove with flames from beneath occasionally slipping over the side and climbing the cast iron. There were thick slices of toast in the oven, ready for the marmalade he’d spread over them. Soft cheese, gouda for this occasion, was sliced and seated next to the crackers. Jorgy watched the kettle as steam rose.

He was excited. He was nervous. He had never had such unique guests that would be coming today. He’d had many guests over for tea once he learned out to make it. Mrs. Pumpkinberry and her granddaughter Eris, his neighbors, the Brandybucks, newly moved from Buckleberry, the Boffins, and his newest dear friend, Elanor Fogscrest, but never before had he entertained such illustrious and amazing guests as bumblebears. How does one greet a bumblebear? His chance meeting with them the day before had not given him much information about their society or customs and culture. Would it just be Bearnadette and Bearnice coming, or would there be more? How many cups of tea would a bumblebear be able to drink? Ought he to make separate cups for his guests or, given their size, should he make the one for them to share? Would serving marmalade and honey feel insulting to bumblebears, who spend their days making honey?

Suddenly, like the flash of a lightning bolt, Jorgy realized something. He’d never given the bumblebears his address! He smacked his forehead. “Oh you wooly head ninny! How can you invite someone to your home and not even tell them where you live!? Oh, you silly sod!” His shoulders slumped with disappointment. He thought for a moment about finding the tree and hoping they might still be buzzing about the place but quickly decided that was foolhardy. The kettle began to whistle, bringing him back to the here and now.

He lifted the kettle off the fire and set it aside, opening the lid, an explosion of steam came from the top, billowing like rainclouds. He took out a tin, a tin he had decided on yesterday, and sprinkled a generous amount of tea leaves into the kettle to steep. He inhaled the smell of the leaves deeply and felt himself drift off in the direction the smells originated from, far to the east of here. The air was suddenly full of jasmine.

There was a knock at the window. Jorgy turned round to see none other than Bearnadette and Bearnice looking at him through his round windows. Elation flooded his limbs as he bounded over to the window, unlatched it, and let in his guests. They buzzed in, moving in wobbly patterns that likely only made sense to them.

“Hello, Mr. Jorgy! It’s very nice to see you again!” it was Bearnice, her voice was a little silkier and higher pitched than her sister (Jorgy knew enough about bees to know that each hive was like one giant family and assumed bumblebears were alike).

“Hello, Bearnice and Bearnadette! I’m so very delighted that you made it. When I realized I hadn’t given you my address I was afraid that perhaps our visit would have be postponed.”

The bumblebears settled on the table and laughed, a joyous sound that filled his dining room with light. “We followed your smell,” Bearnadette said with a very chipper disposition. “And even if you had given your address, well, we’re not exactly the reading type.” All three chuckled.

“I do hope my smell is not a bad one, I try to remember to bathe as often as I can and use a very good soap.” Jorgy said, suddenly very self-conscious about his “smell.”

“Oh no!” Bearnice said, her voice sounding as though she understood Jorgy’s sudden embarrassment. “You have a wonderful, delightful smell. You smell like potatoes and ginger with a hint of petrichor. It’s a very delightful smell, really.”

“All creatures have different smells,” said Bearnadette, joining her sister at the edge of the dining room table, looking up at Jorgy as he sat down in his chair. “Everyone, every elf, hobbit, dwarf, and man all have a smell that is very special to them. Most people can’t distinguish between each other, but we bumblebears have very good senses of smell, as good as bears and bees even. We could have smelled your special scent over a mile away.”

“I bet that really helps when you get lost in the woods at night,” Jorgy said with a laugh.

“Oh, it does!” Bearnice said, nodding sagely. “Not that we bumblebears often get lost in the woods at night.”

“That reminds me then, the tea ought to be steeped well by now.” Jorgy stood up, bowed to his guests then beckoned them to follow him into the kitchen. “Would you like to come see it?”

There was a frenetic buzzing as both his tiny guests’ wings worked into a flurry, they perched on his shoulder, one to each side and watched with rapt fascination as Jorgy poured the tea from the kettle to two delicate teacups with a floral pattern. He bent to the oven and took out the toast, burned just slightly. The bread was warm and crispy. He beamed. It was perfect. He carried all the accoutrements to the table on a tray matching the floral patterns on the teacups. It had been a birthday gift from Eris, a very useful one.

“A cup for us to share?” asked Bearnadette?

“I didn’t know how much to make for you,” confessed Jorgy, “If you’d each like a separate cup I can pour another.”

“Heavens no!” said Bearnice, buzzing at his ear, “We sisters share everything in hive, we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jorgy nodded, satisfied. “Well then, that’s as close to perfect as we can get.”

“Speaking of perfect,” said Bernice, buzzing from his shoulder down to the jar of honey he’d brought with the teacups. “I think I know exactly where this honey was made.” She sniffed, Bearnadette moving to her side and doing the same. “It smells like it comes from the Southfarthing, the deep Southfarthing, nigh to the edge of the Shire itself.”

Jorgy’s jaw dropped then, after he recovered himself, smiled and clapped. “Yes! Indeed, there’s a merchant that comes to the Market every so often with an assortment of honey all the way from the Southfarthing. It’s my very favorite. He draws little bears on the jar labels.”

Bearnadette nodded sagely, dipping a tiny paw into the honey, and tasting it. “You have very good tastes, Mr. Jorgy. Honey made from daffodils is very good honey indeed.”

Jorgy blinked. “You can even tell what sort of flower the honey comes from?”

His guests looked smug and self-assured. “We wouldn’t be very good bumblebears if we couldn’t tell which honey came from which flower.”

Jorgy nodded, agreeing with the logic. “So,” he took a spoonful of the daffodil honey and mixed it into his tea before taking a small but satisfying sip. “What flowers make the best honey? In your most expert opinions.”

Both the bumblebears began to talk at once, their buzzy, airy voices bouncing in and out of hearing range as they dipped from the language that Jorgy heard and comprehended to their own bumblebear language that he was utterly flummoxed. He caught a few words here and there, but it was so cacophonous that he gave up trying to understand them and simply stared at them, eyes as wide as saucers until they stopped, realizing that he hadn’t understood a single word in either of their speeches. It was Bearnadette that started again, giving a nod to Bearnice as she did so. She took a deep breath, tasted the honey with a tiny, delicate paw and nodded approvingly. “Daffodils make decent honey, but the best kind of honey is made from clovers and soybeans.”

“Or apples or blackberries,” interjected Bearnice, intend on having her say. “Anything fruity and sweet invariable will make a delectable honey.”

“She’s not wrong,” started Bearnadette again, “though even plants like mint, basil, lavender, or sunflowers will make a very good honey.”

Jorgy, still, did not say a word, unaware that he could have sparked something quite so contentious. Though, now that he thought about it, there were dozens of things that could send any number of hobbits into a similar frenzy: who really makes the best pipeweed, who makes the best ale, or which of Lavinia Dewfoot’s pies were the best. Passion. Perhaps it was something that made bumblebears and hobbits more alike than he’d thought at first. After a moment (in which he sipped his tea at least three times), he smiled. “So, what both of you are saying, is that there are many flowers to make the best honey?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” Bearnadette allowed. “Though in my opinion the plants of the herb garden are the best places to look.”

“Different schools of thought,” said Bearnice a little haughtily as she dabbed a paw into the honey. She flew up to the rim of the teacup and took the tiniest of sips. “Though, I can say I’ve never tasted anything like this before. Is all tea like this? Sister, come up here, you must try it. It really does taste as delightful as it smells.”

The argument of a moment ago completely forgotten (also something akin to hobbits), Bearnadette buzzed her way to the teacup’s edge and took a dainty sip. “Oh my!” she exclaimed before taking another deep sip (deep for a tiny bumblebear that is). “Oh this is delightful, the flavor is quite mellow but full-bodied. I do love the taste and smell of jasmine. I’ve not gotten to taste it in so long. Not since, Bearnice, when did those elves pass through?”

“The ones in the wagon?” her sister asked.

“Yes, was it a few years ago now?”

“Hmmm,” Bearnice said, tapping her nose thoughtfully with a sticky paw, “Was it that long ago already? Time does fly.” They both snickered. “I think so. Was that the last time we found jasmine? Oh dear me!”

Jorgy puffed out his chest and beamed. “This tea was made by a very special friend of mine, an elf all the way for Rivendell, an elleth, they’re called. Her name is Lilótea, she has a garden in the elf city where she grows all kinds of things. She passes through the Shire now and then. The last time she was here, she made this tea and taught me how to make scones.”

Both bumblebears looked at Jorgy with a new appreciation. “You know an elf?!” they cried in unison, their voices creating a hum and a buzz that Jorgy felt in his bones.

“I do!” Jorgy said, his pride near to bursting. “I met her when I went to Rivendell last year, she made a special kind of drink that impressed me, then I performed in the Hall of Fire, and she thought it was wonderful and we started a friendship.”

Neither of his bumblebear guests knew what the Hall of Fire was, but they still looked at him with reverence and awe. Jorgy, too, still had trouble believing that he was friends with an elf, and that she visited him in his own home!

“I like the way elves smell,” said Bearnadette, “they really have a smell all their own that no other race has, no other place either, it’s almost like they’re not really from here.”

“Oh?” asked Jorgy, “what do elves smell like?”

Neither of the bumblebears spoke for a moment, each of them in the midst of deep thought. The smell of elves was clearly a complex idea. “They smell like,” started Bearnadette before she put a paw to her chin in thought, “like starlight, if starlight had a smell, they smell like light but not bright light, soft light, like stars.”

“They smell like water,” continued Bearnice, “like cold water, water so close to ice it’s already forming crystals, but not quite. They smell like deep water, water that’s so deep that it’s never been seen by the light.”

Jorgy blinked. “Well,” he said at last, “that’s quite a smell. I’ve never smelled anything like that before.”

The bumblebears giggled. “They are very strange things, elves, as mysterious and ethereal as orchids and amaranth flowers,” said Bearnadette.

“Ah! Amaranth flowers! I have a friend that insists she found one in a grand adventure!” Jorgy said, perking up.

“That is a story tell!” said Bearnadette, buzzily drinking at her tea. “I should love to hear it.”

Jorgy took a bite of toast and marmalade. “I shall see if Emmie is willing to tell her tale. You will love it, it’s full of adventure with ghosts and secret passages and hidden fairy fortresses.”

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Bearnadette, “it sounds like an amazing tale! I’ve never seen an amaranth flower before, I don’t think any bumblebear has, in fact.”

“What do bumblebears do for fun?” Jorgy asked, moving the conversation along.

“We love playing hide and seek,” said Bearnice, looking up from her tea with a tiny little mustache. “We also love watching the birds fly and listen to their singing or watch the ducks in their ponds making their little noises.” She positively beamed.

“Oh! I love watching the ducks!” Jorgy said, “We shall have to do that together sometime. I imagine it would be quite fun to watch them with you.”

Bearnice buzzed her little wings and flew in a figure eight. “Oh that would just be lovely!”

“Have you met many hobbits? Aside from me, I mean.”

The two bumblebears looked at each other and sighed, their buzzing dropped an octave, something less joyous and happy. “Sometimes children climb our tree and try to get at our honey, or to try and capture one of us.” Bearnadette said. “Other times we have to relocate because the loggers and woodwards cut our trees down.”

A pall of sadness passed over the little tea party, Jorgy felt a sense of shame wash over him. Even though it was not him that had caused the bumblebears any harm, he felt responsible for the misfortunes they had suffered. “What if,” he said after a moment’s deep thought. “What if I were to help in some way?”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Mr. Jorgy?” asked Bearnadette, who came to rest on his shoulder, her stick paws leaving tiny marks on his shirt.

“What if I put of a fence or something? A sign maybe?”

“Hmmmmm,” said Bearnice, buzzing up to Jorgy’s opposite shoulder. “I’m not sure, fences are odd, they aren’t really part of nature. Would it really help keep our tree safe?”

Jorgy nodded vigorously. “A hobbit knows what a fence means. If I make one around your tree and make a sign ‘Leave the Bees Be’ then I bet all the hobbit children and such will let you alone.”

“Oh Mr. Jorgy that would be wonderful!” the bumblebears buzzed happily.

The rest of the afternoon passed wonderfully, bumblebears telling stories of flowers and how to make honey and Jorgy told them of his many misadventures, from finding the perfect maple leaf to magical moon rabbits and even cleaning Mrs. Pumpkinberry’s old grandfather clock and finding a treasure trove of family history. Overall, it was a glorious afternoon for all involved.

[Dungeon Delver]

Jorgy Amongst the Bumblebears
Back at the Bumblebear Tree, an Afternoon a Few Days Later
(Private)

The art of whistling (and it was an art mind you) was one that often eluded poor, young Jorgy Underash. No matter how hard he tried and how much he practiced, he could not carry a tune. Marigold Baggins, his erstwhile supervisor at the library and attempted whistle tutor, suggested that perhaps he practice singing or reciting poetry. Today, however, Jorgy Underash felt like he was a master whistler. He was doing so well, in fact, as he verily bounced along the road, that he thought he might enter the Midsommar Whistle Contest. It was time someone unseat Remi Cotton, the seven-time Shirewide champion. Today, Jorgy felt like he could do anything. It was good that he was feeling like that because today he had quite a lot of work to accomplish. He’d promised his little bumblebear companions that he would build a fence to protect their tree and hive. Their sad tale so moved Jorgy that he felt it was necessary to act. If he had not tried to do something, he would not have been Jorgy, and if he was not Jorgy, then who was he?

He set out that afternoon, having eaten quite hearty breakfasts and a good lunch, Jorgy was quite fueled up, aquiver with energy and anticipation. He’d studied his own fence (which he had not built) for at least half an hour to understand exactly how he was going to make this new fence. It was more complicated that he expected, but his determination overrode his nerves. He went to the Market at bought the wood, a handful of nails, and a hammer. He already had a good shovel, a spade really but it was a very good spade.

He tried smelling the air, the way his bumblebear friends did. He’d been amazed at all the smells they described at tea. He never imagined things could have such delicate and unimaginable smells. Starlight? Cold water? Fresh books? Spring snow? He never thought those things had smells, and yet Bearnadette and Bearnice told him that not only did those smells exist, but dozens and dozens more existed, waiting to be smelled and enjoyed. He himself smelled like potatoes and ginger. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that when they told him, but when he thought about, he very much thought it appropriate, given how much he loved planting potatoes.

There was a familiar buzzing sound as he arrived at the tree. “Hello Mr. Jorgy!” Bearnadette came buzzing up and nuzzled his cheek. “It’s good to see you again.” She buzzed around him excitedly and giggled. “Bearnice will be down shortly, everyone in the hive is excited to meet you and see you work. Even the queen wanted to send you her warm regards.”

Jorgy was dumbfounded but smiled as widely as his cheeks would allow. Warm regards from a queen, how many hobbits could say they’ve been given that? Not many, he’d wager. He puffed out his chest without realizing it. But that also meant that he was going to be watched today by more bumblebears than anyone in history. A tiny peach pit of worry found its way into his stomach. What if he messed up? What if his fence was badly constructed? What if the paint smeared or he accidently kicked it over?

“Oh, Mr. Jorgy,” said Bearnice, buzzily appearing behind her twin sister, “you needn’t be worried. You should be confident. We’re all here to cheer you on, not to judge you.” There was a great buzzing above them, agreeing with her as she booped Jorgy’s nose. He looked up and awed as he saw dozens of little yellow faced bumblebears, similar but unique from his little friends down below. “You’re a hero really.”

“Oh, well I don’t know about that. I’m just doing what I can to help.”

“And that’s what a hero does. It has been decided, Mr. Jorgy. The queen bear herself said so.”

“I daren’t contradict the queen,” considered Jorgy, rubbing his chin. It would have been the height of ungentlehobbitly behavior to do such, and Jorgy was a gentlehobbit.

He began to dig holes for the posts, marking each spot about six inches apart, all the way around the tree. It was easier than he expected. The soil here, right under the tree was very easy to work. All the hard work tilling his garden had given him garden muscles and as every hobbit knows, garden muscles are useful everywhere. He had to mark the holes out a little further than he wanted, but he had to account for the growth of the tree. It was a large tree to be sure, but tree, unlike hobbits, continued to grow and grow and grow. If he built the fence too close, the tree would accidently eat the fence and probably give it indigestion. Bearnadette and Bearnice were helpful too, they pointed out good places for him to dig, places where flowers wouldn’t be harmed or damaged. There were so many flowers about, different shapes and colors and such. Paying special attention to them, Jorgy had never realized that flowers could look so different from one another. They were all beautiful and wonder. The bumblebears said that each flower, like each hobbit, had a unique smell, each and every one of them. The very idea made Jorgy’s little brain expand. Every single flower. All of them. How could there be that many smells in all the universe? Was there an infinite number of smells? There had to have been, for each flower to be unique. There were more flowers than people in this world and every person had their own smell. It boggled the mind.

He dug and dug until the entire tree was encircled, then, once that part was done, stuck all the posts he’d bought at the Market around the tree. He wasn’t sure how, but the number of holes matched the number of posts without him ever counting once, a feat he knew he would likely never replicate. Bearnadette and Bearnice both helped him pile dirt back into the holes and pack it tight. He was working up quite a sweat by then, but the fence was coming along nicely. It was even starting to look like a fence! Jorgy continued to smile. His energy was getting sapped, but the cheers from above and the helpful words of encouragement from his bumblebear companions gave him the energy he needed to keep going. This fence was going to be the most fence that anyone had ever fenced. It would be the most fence in the history of fence. With the pickets all set, it was time to set the rails across them. Jorgy had not quite counted on how level they had to be, but again, his companions were there to help, using tiny paws to help mark exactly where he should nail to make things even. A few of them were off a little, but the trio agreed that a little imperfection gave the fence character. Jorgy liked that thought. So often he felt like his work needed to be perfect to be acceptable to others.

It was evening by the time they were done. Jorgy, by then, was quite exhausted. Bearnadette and Bearnice, though, were so boundlessly energetic that often they began to talk in their indeterminable bumblebear language that not even Jorgy could understand, buzzing around in patterns that only made sense to a bumblebear. He sat on the grass; legs splayed out in different directions. The air was cool on his skin, a soft breeze out of the north. It smelled like pine and petrichor. It was going to rain soon. There were no storm clouds in the sky, but the smell didn’t lie and Jorgy knew, from having spoken to a storm before, that they can appear whenever they want without clouds having already been there.

“I hope the storm won’t wash away all our work,” he said with a laugh.

“Oh no,” said Bearnadette very seriously, “the smell in the petrichor suggests it will be a light rain, not much thunder or lightning.”

“You can smell that?” Jorgy asked, surprised though he knew he shouldn’t be.

“Of course!” Bearnice said, beaming and buzzing. “Bad storms smell very strong, lighting and thunder can overwhelm the petrichor, if you pay close attention to it.”

“I suppose that’s quite serious business for you,” admitted Jorgy.

“It can be,” agreed Bearnice. “Sometimes the rain is very helpful, oft times it is, but a few storms can be very dangerous, they can knock over the trees or the hives, or wash away some of the smells we know so that we get lost.”

“Well,” said Jorgy, earnestness in his voice, “if you ever do get lost, come to my place and I’ll make sure you get home safely.”

“Oh Jorgy!” both the bumblebears said in unison. He beamed as they both kissed his cheeks.

“Oh!” cried Bearnice as if she suddenly remembered something. “Oh! I nearly forgot! Your payment!”

“Payment?” asked Jorgy, bemused.

“Yes!” Bearnadette said, buzzing back and forth. “You deserve something for all your hard work.”

“The queen bear insisted,” said Bearnice, buzzing with her sister.

Jorgy nodded, if the queen said it, it would be the rudest of rude things to refuse.

“A jar of rare, bumblebear honey. Normally we save it for ourselves, or perhaps with friendly birds or bears, but we petition the queen to give you a whole jar of it.”

Jorgy’s eyes opened wide. “A whole jar of… of bumblebear honey?” surely the entirety of his possessions could not add up to the value of such a gift. A tear formed in his eye as he smiled and nodded. “Oh, you two! Thank you! Thank you so much! I could never repay such a gift as that. I will accept on the condition that you come at least once a week and have tea with me, tea with bumblebear honey.”

They giggled. “We agree,” they said in unison, buzzing excitedly.

A very large bumblebear appeared then, larger than both Bearnadette and Bearnice together. Jorgy immediately stood up and bowed. He was in the presence of a bumblebear queen bear, one bowed in their presence.

“Thank you for your kindness and generosity, Mr. Jorgy Underash.” Her voice was solemn and regal, it buzzed at a lower frequency than his friends, a sign of bumblebear royalty? “You are a friend of my children, and so you are a friend to me, to all bumblebears everywhere. It is my pleasure to present you with a jar of honey as well as a new title,” she buzzed then, something that Jorgy could not hope to understand, “it means, bumblebear friend. All bears, bumblebees, and bumblebears will know you now by your smell and know of your deeds to aid us.”

“I shall take your gifts with humility and gratefulness,” said Jorgy, at a loss for words. There were men who were called elf-friend that was very special, but none of them were called bumblebear friend, not even the king of Rohan or Gondor.

A dozen more bumblebears appeared, all similar but unique, carrying a clay jar between them, filled with something shimmering like golden starlight. He could smell the honey; it was so sweet he thought he might burst into tears.

“Thank you, queen bumblebear, I shall treasure this gift and remember the joy each time I smell it. Farewell now though, it is getting late, and if I’m to make a good cup of evening tea I had better hurry home.”

Bearnice, Bearnadette, and the queen all laughed before bowing and melting back into the evening light, buzzing as they went.

Jorgy skipped home and whistled the jauntiest of tunes, a jar of bumblebear honey under his arm.

-FIN-

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
Somewhere in the Woods of Buckleberry
(Private)

Once they were far enough away from her home that she wouldn’t wake anyone, Emmie gave her imaginary friend the go ahead to play them some lively marching music to put a spring in their step. It was spring after all. Humphrey, a beaver of considerable talent and mischief, was a master of that certain instrument that often drove people up the hills and through the chimneys: the bagpipes. He took a deep, exaggerated breath and soon the drone could be heard echoing off every rock, root, and hole in the vicinity. Emmie didn’t mind. She’d grown to like the sound of bagpipes when Humphrey showed her how serious he was about playing them. According to him, if one was to play something as silly looking and sounding as the bagpipes, they must do so with the utmost seriousness. He said that, and then of course burst into a fit of giggles.

This morning, the bagpipes felt right. Old and ridiculous, but solemn and full of spirit. The music of her imaginary beaver friend did indeed put a spring her step. About five minutes into their march, Emmie found a stick that looked remarkably like a sword, so much like a sort that, in fact, she held it to the sky, named it Olwen, one of the elvish words for stick, and swung it about at all the enemies she was sure she’d face eventually.

Sword and bagpipes in hand, Emmie and Humphrey made good time. The marching music sped them along through Buckleberry, still in that stage between awakening and awoken. A few gardeners were out already, getting to their gardens before the heat of the day drove them back inside, the milkman with his herd of goats tied to a cart full of jars of milk, and Mrs. Bramblebuck, the somewhat sour old lady that lived on the edge of town. Emmie waved to them all, waving her stick blade with reckless abandon. Each of them waved back to her, asking her where she was off to on such a beautiful morning. Except Mrs. Bramblebuck, who admonished her to be careful of that stick and not to go traipsing off into the woods as alone as she was. Emmie wanted to tell her that she was safe with Humphrey, but adults acted funny when she talked about her beaver friend, and she didn’t want this adventure spoiled before they even made it out of town. Instead, she nodded and promised to be careful.

Emmie and Humphrey picked up the pace once they left Mrs. Bramblebuck’s periphery, from a gentle stroll to something like a trot. They hopped a few fences (Humphrey admiring the craftsmanship of the wood) and snuck through a few yards. The way to the magical Amaranth flower would never be through pathways taken every single day, otherwise anyone could find it. They had to be creative in the way they took. Bounding through yards, hopping fences, and sneaking amongst goats seemed the most natural way to make up a new path. She was bleated at more than once and each time a goat noticed her; she took a bow. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Thumbling.” she would say to each of them, or “Have a pleasant day Mrs. Darcy.”

“What do you suppose makes Mrs. Bramblebuck so sour?” Ermengarde asked Humphrey as they rested by a stream a little later, a partially eaten sandwich in her lap. She dipped her toes in and out of the cool water, watching the way the water rippled and bubbled.

“Not sure,” said Humphrey, carrying a bundle of sticks with him to the water’s edge. He dipped his tail in, testing the water, then curled into a little ball and jumped it, making a huge splash. “Maybe she’s lonely,” he said after he’d come up for air.

Emmie giggled and wiped the water from her face. “She should have an imaginary friend like me. I bet she’d be much happier if she had someone to talk to.”

Humphrey gnawed on a stick, smacking his lips satisfactorily. “I think you’re right Emmie. Everyone is happier with a friend, particularly a beaver friend. Am I right?” Without waiting for an answer, Humphrey submerged in the water again.

“Everyone’s happier with a friend,” she mumbled, echoing his words. How true they were, too. Emmie was a happy hobbit lass, always willing to lend a helping hand or to partake in some special project of her cartographer father, but she was happiest when it was just her and Humphrey. They had a very special friendship that she was quite certain no one could ever replace. “Mrs. Bramblebuck should definitely have an imaginary friend.” she decided. Emmie wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do with such a statement, but simply saying it aloud made her feel better. Even if she was a fuddy duddy at times, Mrs. Bramblebuck should have a friend. Perhaps the spirits of the wood would hear Emmie’s declaration and send someone the old hobbit’s way. That was how she met Humphrey after all.

“Which way, then?” Humphrey asked, reappearing from beneath the silky bubbling water. Behind him was the beginnings of a fortress of sticks and grass and wood, the start of a beaver fortress.

“Hmmmm,” said Emmie, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I think we should cross the stream and try and make our way to the Elf Lord’s Hollow, from there we can decide whether to try Old Bilbo’s Road or into the Dark Unchanted Forest.”

The imaginary beaver grinned ear to ear. “Shall I give us some travelling music?”

[Raythri]

Buckland and Beyond
(Southerly Buckland)

A symphony of trills, whistles and wing whispers roused a slumbering little form. It was curled under a cloak at the foot of a tree. Gold spilled across the peaks and valleys of the softly shifting cloak which rose and fell, steadily… serenely. A shy mist shimmered along and found rest upon the heap of hobbit cloak. How sweetly the Shire mornings stirred awake.

The cloak’s occupant suddenly sat bolt upright and fumbled its way free, startling finches from tree branches above. Dawnlight danced across the deep brown eyes of the freshly wakened and winking hobbit. He stretched and scratched absently at his crown of curls. “Good morning, morning... though you stole me away from such a wonderful dream.” Del smiled lazily. He laced his fingers behind his head, laid against the tree trunk and for some time simply soaked up the freedom of this fresh day.

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
The Elf Lord’s Hollow
(Private)

The Elf Lord’s Hollow was Emmie’s home away from home. While other hobbit children and tweens played tree houses, she played in any entire underground castle. Okay, it wasn’t really an underground castle, but it was a huge space compared to some minuscule, trivial tree house. Emmie and Humphrey had found it about six months ago, a bend in a dried-up stream bed that was so overgrown on one side with trees and bushes that it was provided with four sides of cover. The only thing missing had been a roof. Her father wondered where the blanket with the autumn leaves on it had gone but Emmie thought it made a delightful covering. When she was young (er), she built the best blanket and pillow forts in all of Buckleberry; now that she was older, it was time to put her skills to a more practical use. They decided on the name “Elf Lord’s Hollow” because there were some vines and branches that snaked along the old bank amongst the grass that looked like it had been transplanted from one of their picture books, one of those about elf princesses and towers and evil wizards and old hags. It was a perfect place for a hobbit lass and her beaver companion to hang out too. Amongst the bushes and trees that formed a barrier between Emmie and the mundane world of chores and schoolwork was a blueberry bush, a loganberry bush (Emmie’s personal favorite), and most importantly, an apple tree with the reddest, sweetest, ruby apples that ever existed in all the world. If this spot was not meant for an elven lord, then elven lords didn’t exist. That was the only conclusion anyone could come up with if they came across it. Emmie had made the place her own though. It was her home away from home after all. She decorated with a mish mash of styles that could only come from the mind of an adventurous hobbit, maps and charts pinned to the trunk of an ash tree, stray bits of parchment fluttering about detailing some of her more precocious and dangerous adventures (she was working on the adventure Humphrey tricked her into going into a badger’s den looking for the sword of the last king of Arnor) that her mother, and father and all of the Shire, would not approve of.

Humphrey immediately plopped onto his favorite spot, a tree stump that from noon to tea was in the direct, warm summer sunlight. He closed his eyes and basked. He’d helped build a lot of this place too, being an engineering genius. He’d perfectly designed his little throne to be the maximum of comfort and luxury one could find in the wilds of the woods.

A cool breeze blew past Emmie as she settled down in front of her map, blowing a dozen different kinds of leaves all hither and thither. She hardly noticed, however, being quite intent on the map in front of her. It was not a complete map, no map ever really could in her opinion, but it was the best map of the woods around Buckleberry that anyone had ever had in the last century or more. How did she know this? Well because it was her map of course. Emmie had been exploring the woods for nearly a full year now, going through gullies and up trees and down into ditches. She even knew where the source of the Eluipad Spring was, hidden amongst the ancient hills of the Buckland. No other cartographer, not even her father, knew that part yet. She wanted to keep it secret though. Emmie was quite sure it was an elven spring, and she didn’t want to upset any of the elves that might frequent the stream’s origin; plus having a secret that only she and Humphrey knew made her heart feel full and special.

“So, fearless leader,” said the beaver, his eyes closed toward the sun. “What pathway shall we take to the Amaranth flower?”

Emmie rubbed her chin and scowled at the map. “There’s several paths we could take,” she began, “but all of them are clearly marked on this map and if it’s on a marked map, the paths might not lead us to the flower.”

“But those paths are only on your map, you’re the one that found them all and named them,” countered Humphrey.

“Yes, I found them and I’ll be using them. If I already know where they lead, then they aren’t new paths.” She pursed her lips. Was it time to forge a new path? She had a new name all planned out for when the time came: the Beaver’s Causeway.

“What if you walked the paths blindfolded?” Humphrey offered.

Emmie blinked. “Blindfolded?”

“Yeah,” the beaver said, sitting straight his little throne. “What if you went blindfolded. You wouldn’t know where you were going and thus technically could be said to be traveling a new path.”

“Hmmmm,” mused Emmie. It was not a bad plan, it was just the kind of ingenuity that finding the Amaranth flower would take, but would it still work?

“You could walk backward too,” said Humphrey, a giggle in the back of his throat.

Emmie’s serious face cracked into a grin, the image of her traipsing through the forest backward and blindfolded danced like a comic pantomime. “Would you help keep me on track?”

“On my castorine honor!” He hopped off his tree stump and made and elaborate bow, the same that a knight-errant might make to a noble lady. “It would be my privilege to help guide you on your quest, my lady.”

“Humphrey!” she said with a laugh, “I’m being serious though.”

The beaver nodded, his face a serious mask. “I assure you, Ermengarde Brandybuck, when a beaver promises by their castorine honor, it is quite a serious thing. You are the princess in search of nature’s purity, and I shall be your knight in beaver pelt. It might not be the same as the stories we read, but I assure you, I would protect you with nothing less than my life.”

“Oh you dear little goof,” Emmie said, “I shan’t think it will come to that.”

“Nevertheless!” Humphrey said, his arms behind his back and his chest puffed out. “I reswear here in the Elf Lord’s Hollow my undying loyalty to you.”

Emmie scooped up the beaver and kissed his nose. He sniffed and huffed. “I’m trying to be noble, Emmie!”

“Come now, you silly goose,” she said, “there’s room for silly and serious in all our adventures. We’re not Gondorians after all.”

“The great dam in the sky be thanked for that!” he chortled. “But, my lady, that still leaves the question of which path to take, even after you’re blindfolded and backwards.”

“That one!” Emmie turned her face away from the map and pointed at a random spot. “That’s the path we’ll take.”

Humphrey waddled closer to the map to see and nodded. “Well, then it’s going to be and adventure for sure. Best pack a few of those golden red apples and loganberries in case.”

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
Out Along the Beaver’s Causeway
(Private)

Being blindfolded was a wild experience. She could still make out some lights but the shapes of those lights, the colors, and the hue, were all muddled and blurred. Her hearing was sharpened, she could hear the sounds of bumblebees buzzing about flowers, she could hear songbirds serenading each other from opposite trees, she could hear the crunch of dirt under her feet. Ahead of her, her imaginary best friend led her over bends and dips and holes and fallen tree branches. Occasionally he missed calling out a branch here and there and Emmie would be surprised by a smack in the back of the head. Walking backwards, too, helped disorient her. The Beaver’s Causeway was still relatively new to her, but she knew the basics of the winding path. She called it the Beaver’s Causeway because it followed the track of the dried-up stream bed for several hundred yards. She could imagine that when the stream was in full force, the banks teamed with squeaking beavers all collaborating on the biggest dam the Shire had ever seen. It made her sad that she couldn’t see that anywhere but her mind. She made a mental note to work with Humphrey to paint a picture.

She did lose track of time as she traipsed backward through the Buckleberry Wood; it was difficult to keep track of her bearings (such as they were), her balance, as well as the amount of time she was wondering. It was disorienting, but at the same time it was very freeing. She inhaled the sweet woody air and felt alive! Underneath the blindfold, she was beaming, her eyes bright and sparkling. She and Humphrey had been on several adventures together, one could say that they were and even more adventure duo that Frodo and Sam, but there was something about this adventure, this quest, that felt different. The Quest for the Amaranth Flower felt more substantial, more serious. It was a very grown-up adventure, one that required both maturity and thoughtfulness as well as youth and ingenuity. At seven years old, she was at the perfect age. Bilbo was only a bit older than her when he went on his adventure, and he went all the way around the world and back. She knew that the Amaranth flower could be found within the borders of the Shire though, no need to fly on the back of an eagle to the Lonely Mountain (although that was something she wanted to do very badly since she first heard about it).

“Duck, there’s a branch incoming!” cried Humphrey ahead of her.

Emmie ducked and felt the just the barest tingle of a leaf on her head as she passed under the branch. It tickled and she laughed.

“By the time we get there, you’ll have a whole crown of leaves!” Humphrey said. “A proper nature princess you’ll look.”

Emmie automatically assumed what in books had been called the “princess posture”: back straight, face smooth and emotionless, neck tilted upward so the head pointed toward the ceiling, and hands placed gently on top of one another just under her chest. “Very good,” she said in the most received pronunciation she could muster. “Shall we have tea before long? I am getting ever so tired of walking over leaves and dirt.” She couldn’t keep the face required for some a snooty attitude though and soon both she and Humphrey collapsed into giggles.

“You know,” she said resuming her normal Buckleberry accent, “I’ve always wondered why elven princesses didn’t have more leaf crowns. Sure, a flower crown is magnificent and colorful, but what would they were in autumn, or in winter? In winter they probably made icicle crowns every day, but in autumn they should wear leaf crowns, the reds, oranges, and browns would make a fantastically colorful crown. Leaves might not be a sturdy as flowers and stems, but elves could do basically anything, right? If Emmie ever met an elf princess, that was something she would suggest.

“I think you look fantastic in yours,” Humphrey said, “a real, royal, hobbit princess. I think the Amaranth flower will take that into account.”

The was a sound ahead of them. Both hobbit lass and beaver stopped in their tracks. The air suddenly felt very close. The sound of bugs and birds became muted as the sound of something crashing about in the forest grew louder and louder. It was moving in their direction. Not in a linear, straightforward way, but Emmie and Humphrey both knew that it was only a matter of time before their paths crossed.

The imaginary beaver sniffed the air and slapped his tail nervously on the ground.

“What is it?” Emmie asked, pulling the blindfold off and turning around to crouch by her friend.

“I’m not sure,” said the beaver, pensively.

“Let’s get a closer look.” She whispered. Before Humphrey could protest, she was already moving into the bushes along the path, closer to the where the sounds were coming from.

There was some snuffling, some growling, some grumbling. Emmie ducked down and made herself as small as she could. She was lucky she was still seven years old, any older and she’d be much too big to hide in a bush. Humphrey appeared beside her a moment later, his face a mixture of fear and annoyance. She placed a finger to her lip and pointed toward the sounds. A tree shuddered and groaned not two dozen paces off. That’s when something big appeared, something so big that it might as well as been the size of a mountain.

It was a great direbear!

“Oh dear,” mumbled Emmie.

[Raythri]

Buckland & Beyond
(Southerly Buckland)

The world was wondrously soft and glowed like sun kissed honey. Slender grasses swayed, dew sparkled like jewels in the early morning light. Del’s gaze lifted to the glimmering ceiling of green. “Are they talking about me?” he wondered of the leaves that shivered thousands of little secrets amongst themselves. And what if they were? He’d never know. He knew not of the languages of the wild world. He had been incredibly sheltered from it, confined and cultivated to be an upstanding specimen of hobbitkind, being the only male born into his family for some time.

Del shuddered at the thought of his cultivation. He pushed away thoughts of home. If he didn’t, the urge to return would grow despite feeling like a penned animal there. He closed his eyes and allowed the lull of birdsongs and leaf whispers to wash over him. The hobbit lifted his face to the sun which caressed him gently. Its warmth spilled into his tarnished heart and shone the shadow away. Del smiled once again. As a matter of fact, he was suddenly so cozy in the arms of the wilderness that thoughts drifted back to the wonders he’d been wakened from. His smile slowly dwindled. His head nodded ever so slightly to the right.

Before long, Del had left the world of the awakened behind. He did not hear the birdsongs suddenly hush. Nor did he hear the tree branches creak with concern. Nor did he hear the stealthy swish, swish, swish, sound easing its way through the grasses toward him.

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
Out Along the Beaver’s Causeway, in the Buckland Woods
(Private)

“When confronted with a bear, it is important, mark me, very important that you do not panic. I repeat, do not panic. Even the biggest of bears that might wander the Shire are not interested in eating hobbits; so, you shouldn’t go making yourself something that requires a bear’s attention. If you can, stay away, move slowly, and make just enough noise that the bear knows your there but doesn’t see you as a threat. No sudden movements. Say it with me now: No. Sudden. Movements.”

The under-forester marched back and forth with a very serious look on his face, his dark brown eyes darting back and forth between hobbit children and their parents, all of whom looked enraptured and terrified in equal measures. He was a showman and no mistake, of all the under-foresters that Buckleberry employed, he was the one most suited to talk to the public. Every month or so they had a field day in which they invited the public, those whose donations kept the Buckleberry Forestry Department alive and well. He didn’t even notice the tiny young girl with green in her hair and an imaginary beaver at her side as he pontificated, prognosticated, and persuaded, waving his hands to draw attention the way he learned in community theater. He went on with his talk, detailing all the potential pitfalls of a walk through the forest and how to avoid them. He talked about all the work the forestry department did, selling the department as a necessary and vital part of the community. He seemed to talk on and on, but the young girl with green in her hair and an imaginary beaver at her side only had ears for bears. She already knew how to avoid falling into ditches, how to avoid getting lost, or worst of all, running out of food before the picnic.

Emmie and Humphrey went home and began to experiment in the kitchen. If they could make a bear deterrent and store it in a jar, the greatest danger they might face would be neutralized. It took all afternoon and the kitchen had to be vacated three times, but they made their concoction of peppers and garlic paste.

In the present, Emmie sat frozen in place, her fingers resting on the tightly closed clay jar. When should she throw it? She knew by the time the bear noticed her (was it her or was that bear somehow growing larger and larger the more she looked at it?) it would be too late, but what if the bear didn’t notice her at all? Should she draw attention to herself then? She was in a pickle and no mistake. Humphrey was bouncing from one foot to the other, covering his mouth. He looked as afraid as Emmie felt. She took his paw and squeezed it. Whatever happened, they had to be brave.

“What if you tossed it now?” Humphrey asked in the secret language they developed.

“Now?” Emmie asked.

“Yes, while the bear is scrounging for honey. He’s distracted.”

Wait, the bear was looking for honey? She turned from beaver to bear and watched as the bear tried to climb a nearby tree and paw at a beehive hanging pristinely over a precarious branch. She watched the bear. Had she been wrong about it being a direbear? She’d read about them in a book by Finnbarr Galedeep, probably a Northfarthing hobbit, but it hadn’t had many pictures. It was as big as a direbear might be, maybe, but she’d read that direbears often were closer to carnivorous than other bears. But this bear was going for honey. Would a direbear go for honey? She squinted. The more she looked, the smaller this bear seemed now. It wasn’t quite the size of a mountain after all, though a mountain climbing a tree would be quite funny to look at. His fur was brown and grey, but she couldn’t see any bony bits at his elbows, the way the book said there’d be. Maybe this wasn’t a direbear at all.

She felt herself relax a little. She kept very still nonetheless, and Humphrey pressed in a close to her as he could. She could still feel how afraid her little beaver companion was. She squeezed his paw. The bear above them was able to knock the hive off its branch and was shimmying down the tree, eager to get to that sweet golden treasure. The sounds of a very satisfied bear filled the woods then. Emmie was now certain this was not a direbear, just a regular old brown bear, eager to munch on honey and berries. She relaxed her grip on the bear deterrent jar and breathed a sigh of relief. They weren’t sitting in a berry bush now, and the bear was already moving off in search of more sweets to munch. Emmie’s tummy growled. She froze, but the bear didn’t seem to notice, so intent on finding more honey. They stayed quite still and quiet for several more minutes until the ursine sounds died away and once again the most prevalent sound of the forest was the songs of birds and buzzing of bugs.

“Well, we dodged quite a situation,” said Humphrey, “I was worried for your safety.”

“You were worried for me?” Emmie said with a widening grin. “Well thank you, my good and faithful knight. Come on now we don’t have any time to lose! The next clearing we find will be our luncheon spot!”

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
A Clearing Along the Beaver’s Causeway, the Buckland Woods
(Private)

“I thought we were goners for sure!” Humphrey said, munching on a twig with the voraciousness of a hobbit child. “That was the biggest bear I’ve ever seen!”

“Oh really? How many bears have you seen before?”

“Well,” said the beaver, pausing thoughtfully, “counting that direbear—”

“That wasn’t a direbear.”

“Counting that big and scary enough to be a direbear bear, one.”

“One?”

“One.”

“So, even if that bear was the size of me, that would have been the biggest bear you’ve ever seen.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think that…” Emmie trailed off, her face a mask of perplexion. Sometimes, it was easier to just not argue with a beaver.

Emmie laid back against the soft grass, her arms behind her head, and watched the sun crawl across the sky. The clearing was pristine, with greens so green it would make Bag End jealous and blues so blue one wondered what they did before the color existed. It was like something out of a fairy tale. If Emmie ever needed another base, something beside the Elf Lord’s Hollow, this place was perfect. The grass was so spongy she felt like every step she took she could almost leap into the trees. The air was calm here, there was a breeze but instead of exciting, it relaxed and calmed, moving the air just enough to keep things fresh. The smell of beech, ash, oak, and rowan trees filled the air. Every time Emmie inhaled, she wanted to hug Humphrey as tightly as her little hobbit arms could bear. A family of dragonflies were dancing under the eaves of the trees, within the shadows, but just out enough for her to see their wings flittering back and forth.

“Do you think the first hobbits that found this place felt the same?” she asked dreamily.

“I think they must have,” answered her companion. “Else, they would have never stopped in Buckland and settled.”

“Do you think anyone but us knows about this spot?”

“I think you and I are the only one’s that have been here in quite some time, not a singular trace of a hobbit hole anywhere to be seen. I hope someone else knows though, it would be a shame for something so lovely to be secret.”

“You think it’s lovely, even if there’s no stream to build on?”

Humphrey giggled. “Oh, a beaver can build anywhere, we love streams, I bet I could build the best tree house the world has ever seen here.”

“I’ll take that bet!” Emmie laughed. “I think a tree house here would be amazing. A multiple level house too, like the elves live in. We could start close to the ground and work all the way up to the top of the tree, like a tower where we could see a hundred leagues in any direction.”

“I think that sounds amazing,” said Humphrey, closing his eyes. “I can see it now too. We’ll need to go to the library so I can look at some pictures of elven houses of course, for reference.”

“We could invite all sorts of princes and wizards for tea!” Emmie squealed, bouncing up and running in a circle, her green hair flowing and bouncing behind her.

“Should we invite Mrs. Bramblebuck?” Humphrey asked.

Emmie bounced on the grass and began to pick blades to weave together. “I feel bad for Mrs. Bramblebuck. She seems so unhappy and lonely. Surely she has friends in Buckleberry?”

Humphrey, in his signature waddle, moved across the clearing and sat next to his friend. “Maybe she’s like you. You have me, but not a lot of hobbit friends. She might have had an imaginary friend when she was younger.”

“Do you think you’d leave me, Humphrey?” Emmie asked, suddenly feeling a strong pang of loneliness.

The beaver chuckled and shook his head. “I’m your best friend for life Emmie; you’ll never be rid of me.”

She hugged him fiercely, he squeaked in protest before hugging her in return. “I’m quite glad I have you as a friend. I think I would be quite sad without you. Adventures are meant to be shared.”

“And we’ll have a hundred hundred more adventures together. I promise.”

“Me too!”

Emmie produced an apple with such hues of red and gold that it seemed unreal. She took a bite from the apple, juice squirting down her chin in sticky rivulets. She passed it to Humphrey who took a bit just as big. It was their way of sealing a promise to one another. An apple shared is a promise kept.

“Well, we shouldn’t think of too many adventures until we’ve completed this one,” Humphrey said, wiping juice from his lips with the back of a forepaw. “If we wait too long, I’m quite certain an army of badgers and hares will appear in those trees.”

“You really must tell me about your journeys before you came to the Shire,” Emmie remarked, looking at the trees and imaging a cadre of hares all armed to defend their homes with a wild battle cry.

“One of these days, Emmie. I promise I will sit you by the fire and tell you all about the places and people I’ve met. But we have a much more pressing issue at hand now. Which way?”

Emmie sniffed the air. Something deep inside her little hobbit soul told her that the place that smelled best was the way to go when there was no clear path. “When in doubt, always follow your nose. This way!” She pointed with her stick sword toward an ash tree with dandelions all about its base. It led deeper into the forest, darker than dark shades of green dominated the shadows, but a pleasant smell pervaded the area.

“To the Amaranth Flower!”

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
Nearing the Wondrous, Wayward Waterfall, the Buckland Woods
(Private)

The way through the forest got a little more difficult after the clearing, the further Emmie and Humphrey went into the forest the more the path seemed to come and go. More often than before, they had found themselves following a false trail and had to retrace their steps back to a place they recognized. This particular part of the Buckland Woods had not been properly explored, by either her or anyone else in Buckland history. She felt a twinge of excitement growing up inside her belly along with some anxiety. She was truly exploring and adventuring now! However, with that came the realization that she was moving into untrodden places, places that hobbits, elves, dwarves, and men had not gone. She was going into a place within the Shire that hobbits might not be welcomed, where the trees and birds and beasts were truly wild. Not the kind of wild most hobbits imagine, the occasional rampaging goose or sneaky fox, the kind of wild she and her imaginary friend were stepping into was the true definition. Feral, fearful, hidden, all those words and more could describe the world they were walking, the pathways they followed had never before been trodden by hobbit feet, they were formed by bobcats and foxes, ferrets and wolves. The trees seemed to grow closer together, their branches looming and casting dozens of crisscrossing shadows, the world in which Emmie walked was dappled with greens darker and greener than anything Emmie had ever seen before. She wanted to capture that color and use it in a painting, the most glorious green she’d ever seen. Even though this part of the wood was scary, it was also wondrous, all the things that she was seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling, even tasting were amazing and new, she was the first to see and smell and taste and feel and hear. It was a great responsibility, but Ermengarde Brandybuck was ready for that responsibility. She was mapping the twists and turns of the trails and pathways in her mind, already anticipating the map she was going to draw of the area, going where no hobbit had gone before!

The pair where quiet for some time, each concentrating on moving forward through the brush. Humphrey had found a dozen sticks he said were the perfect kind to build with and thus hampered himself from walking in a straight direction. If he picked up anymore, Emmie observed, he would not be able to see through forest through his trees. She smiled at her cleverness. She’s heard that phrase before and while she didn’t quite understand what it meant, had a feeling what Humphrey was doing was a somehow related to the saying. Emmie herself had too many things going on in her mind to voice them aloud, if she tried, they might all come spilling out at once and end up making as much sense as an otter in a pickle farm. Thoughts of every kind assailed Emmie, from excitement to worry, from tiredness to anxious wakefulness. She was still very much enjoying herself, even in this new and unexplored country, but her thoughts drifted, as seven-year-old hobbit lass’s thoughts are wont to do. The apples had been quite delicious, filling her belly with the most delicious sweetness that anyone could have asked for. She held the last one in her hand. She and Humphrey had come to the same conclusion that it might serve as a gift to any animal or spirit.

They walked, backtracked, stumbled, avoided low hanging tree branches, and tip-toed around badger dens until they heard the low musical tone of flowing water. Humphrey, the most beaver to ever beaver, nearly dropped all his sticks in his hurry to find the stream. The sound of him crashing through the trees could probably be heard for miles around in any direction, upsetting the quiet balance within this unknown part of the woods. Emmie followed after him but took a moment to note that the silence of the area was quite, in fact, quiet. Had she heard anything like bugs or birds, or even wind? It was something she’d ask Humphrey about once she caught up to him and let him have a dip in the water.

When she did find him, he was standing on the banks, all his sticks but one, held loosely in his paws, forgotten along the trek here. She didn’t understand what he was doing. She had expected him to be splashing around and making such a commotion, instead he was watching the water with a sort of reverence.

“Have you ever seen water like this?” he asked, almost in a dream.

Emmie looked at him for a moment, her face a mask of concern for her friend, then looked at the water. It was clear as crystal, one could almost mistake it for empty air as it rushed past them if not for the way the light reflected on it, the way it rippled against the bank and round the moss-covered stones that stood like solitary guardians in the midst of the stream, if not for the swishing and bubbling music, if not for the world it held within it. There were hints here and there of blueness, but Emmie couldn’t tell if that was from her own imagination, or it was in fact from the water. Like her imaginary friend, she stood almost transfixed by the stream. Indeed, she’d never seen any water like this. This little stream was the purest form of stream she’d ever seen, the most perfect example. She felt guilty just being able to see what she was seeing, as if by her very sight of the stream somehow took something away from it. It was forever etched in her mind, this vision, had she committed some wrong by seeing this stream? Her little hobbit heart was suddenly filled with worry. She loved the sight of this stream, its wavy streaks of azure that flittering effortlessly across the ground and sang of faraway fairie landscapes. She didn’t want to think she’d done something wrong by just seeing it. She felt a tiny paw touch her hand. Humphrey had moved closer to her and clung to her as they watched the stream, his face said he was thinking similar thoughts to his friend.

“I don’t think so,” Emmie said, her voice strangely groggy. “I don’t think we did anything bad by seeing it. I think we did a good thing. We saw how pretty it is, saw how amazing it is, but didn’t want to disturb or bother it. I don’t think seeing it is such a bad thing. I think I shall paint this, and give it to the woods as a thank you.”

Humphrey sounded equally groggy, as if waking from a walking dream. “I think that’s a good idea. This stream is too pretty, too marvelous even for a beaver of such skill as me to build something on it. It would be a crime to try and build a beaver fortress here. If you’re going to paint a picture, then I shall make a monument, a model…”

They didn’t say anything for some time, each still enraptured by the otherworldly beauty of the stream. An unceremonious tummy grumble from Emmie broke the spell as they both began to snicker and giggle. The stream continued to babble and bubble as they sat on its bank, cerulean crystal as it meandered through the verdant forest. A cool breeze came out of the north and eased the sweat off their brow.

“I wonder how made this place,” Emmie said absently, hugging her legs to her chest. “Do you think it was the elves? Or maybe it was that man from the Old Forest? Tom Bandersnatch or something or other?”

“No,” Humphrey said, rocking back and forth on his rump, “I don’t the elves did much when it came to making the land, they just get credit for making it look prettier with their proximity.”

“Nature spirits then? Back in the oldest of the old days?”

“I think you’re close to it there; they probably had a few beavers helping too, beaver spirits most definitely.”

“Are there such things as beaver spirits?” Emmie asked, bemused.

Humphrey stood up and nodded solemnly, “Oh aye, Emmie. Back in the earliest of early days, each of the great powers had a dozen or so spirits, mostly beaver, to help them in their work. Nothing in this world, from mountains to hidden streams like this, could have been made if not for the old beaver spirits’ eye for beauty. They say the first beaver, the mother beaver, was called Nature, because of all the spirits’ work.”

Emmie was skeptical, but Humphrey believed it with such innocence and earnestness that she believed with him. Beaver spirits helped shape the world. “Well, I think they outdid themselves here. I’ve never seen such a magical and perfect stream.”

“Me neither,” Humphrey agreed. “I wonder where it leads.”

“We should try to follow it back to it’s source,” the young hobbit suggested. “I have a feeling in my tummy that it’s a place that’s very important.”

“Agreed,” nodded the beaver, extending his paw so that Emmie could pull herself up.

They walked along the stream bank for several minutes, the sound of the stream going more and more wild and rambunctious as they went until finally, before the both of them, there flows a miraculously wonderful looking waterfall, white capped with blue more fitting for the sky than the water. Each of them opened their mouths in awe. Waterfalls were a rare, rare thing in the Shire, and Emmie and Humphrey stumbled upon on that looked like it was painted and pulled right from the pages of a fairytale.

“I think our path lies behind that waterfall,” murmured Humphrey, Emmie nodded in agreement. The Amaranth Flower was close.

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
The Wondrous, Wayward Waterfall, the Buckland Woods
(Private)

“Ready?”

“Ready.’

“On three. One… Two…”

“Three!”

Hobbit and beaver jumped through the waterfall, each squealing in delight and shock (the water was somewhere between frozen and frigid) as they passed under the waterfall’s curtain and into the cavern behind them. Neither of them looked before they leapt, however, believing that (like all spirited and adventurous people) behind every waterfall anywhere in the world was a cavern; it was an unwritten rule adventures from the newly awakened elves to tiny hobbit children all held fast to, what good was a waterfall if there was not some sort of secret tunnel or cavern behind it? Surely nature would not allow such banality, right? While it’s not actually the case everywhere, Emmie and Humphrey were quite fortunate that there was indeed a tunnel. The air was cool and wet, a break for the summer heat outside. Emmie shivered involuntarily from the change in temperature. She touched her hair and saw some of the green was washing out.

Oh no! She thought. Oh no, oh no! Ermengarde Brandybuck without green hair was… well who was she? She looked over at Humphrey, eyes wide with fear and trepidation. Humphrey saw and seemed to understand. He took her hand in his paw and squeezed.

“Your hair looks even better when it’s a dozen different shades of a dozen colors.” He took his paw away and rubbed his fur, having held the hand that was coated in green. There blossomed a streak of green in the beaver’s fur that looks so ridiculous that they both laughed, Emmie forgetting her worry in an instant. “Now we match!”

“You silly old beaver!” Emmie giggled, mussing Humphrey’s fur.

“Old? Old?!” Humphrey suddenly looked so offended that Emmie’s face fell. An instant later an infectious smile cracked on the beaver’s face, and he howled in laughter. “I’ll have you know I am a beaver in the prime of my life.”

She poked him and they clasped paw and hand. The tunnel before the was dark but there was a light somewhere ahead, a bluish light that made the tunnel look like it was carved from a giant blue gem. The light and the water sparkled. Surely, they were getting closer to the flower, the magic in the air was palpable. The roar of the waterfall fell away as they climbed deeper and deeper into the tunnel. No matter how far down they went though, the light remained steady, it neither dimmed nor brightened. Their eyes adjusted as they went, and their ears sharpened. Each step took them closer, closer to what though? Emmie and Humphrey were certain they were on the right path, neither of them questioned that. No matter how far they walked, after a few minutes of stumbling and wobbling about, they knew they were going the right way. Each of them, hobbit and beaver, were powered by the belief in adventure.

They walked and walked and walked, and for a change of pace, they walked a little more. How long had they been walking?! Each time they turned back, just to gauge how far they’d walked, the waterfall seemed like it was just around the corner and the source of the mystical blue light, in turn, seemed just a few feet away. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, tiny pitter-patters of feet, paws, and tail grounded Emmie, making sure she didn’t accidently float off following the trails of light that wandered about them. There was magic here, a kind of magic that she couldn’t define, couldn’t categorize. It wasn’t hobbit magic or elven magic or human magic, maybe it was beaver magic, or something much older?

Neither hobbit nor beaver could tell how long or how far they’d walked, but all of the sudden the tunnel opened up into a massive chamber with a pool of water as pristine and clear as the stream outside, the cave walls shimmered as the light danced across them, patterns from the ripples of the pool created a cascade of colors across the wall, the entire spectrum of colors could be seen in a single instant. Emmie and Humphrey, hand in paw, stared up at the lights, hypnotized.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Emmie mumbled, her eyes darting back and forth.

“Me neither,” admitted Humphrey, his eyes bouncing from water to stone. “It’s so beautiful.”

It was a moment later that they realized where the light that filled the cavern and the tunnel came from. In the ceiling, near the top, was a hole, green foliage, vines and roots, dripped down from the forest above them, the light of the afternoon sun drifting down with them, mingling with the water and exploding with cerulean effervescence. In the midst of the pool, there was a tiny eyot, barren except for a single flower, caught in a golden sunbeam: the Amaranth Flower.

Welcome travelers Ermengarde Brandybuck and Humphrey Waters, I’m glad you found your way here. I’ve been waiting for you.

[Raythri]

Buckland and Beyond

A low growl flooded into the wisps and shimmers of what would have been Del’s dreams. The hobbit’s eyes popped open. Breath froze. Heart stopped. Looming close to his partly reclined body was a massive dog with matted grey fur. Its yellowed fangs were slick with saliva and shimmering in the sunlight.

Del’s dark eyes darted left, right, then back to the beast. For that’s what it was. Beast. The creature seemed something more menacing than a mere dog. This was a beast hungry for flesh, blood, and bone. And the little hobbit body was well stocked with all of those things.

Hobbit inhaled ever so slowly.

Beast growled.

Hobbit slowly inched his arms down to his sides.

Beast stepped closer.

Hobbit shifted under his blanket of cloak.

Beast snarled.

Hobbit grit his teeth and sat up straight.

Beast flashed its fangs and lunged.

Del screeched as the mouth full of rabid daggers bore down. But before the daggers could draw blood the hobbit thrust his cloak forward into the face of the beast. Del spun and scrambled awkwardly up into the tree. When as high as he could go, he hugged the tree trunk for dear life and dared look down upon the beast. It shook free of the cloak and proceeded to murder it.

The once serene morning was full of snarls, growls, and the sound of tearing cloth. And when the beast spied the tree caught hobbit, it barked thunderously and bounded against the tree trunk, claws ripping and jaws snapping all the while.

‘Perhaps,’ Del thought, ‘that a long, comfortable life in a pen is not so bad. Not when compared to spending what little was left of his life trapped in a tree. Or becoming the breakfast of a hangry beast.

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
The Amaranth Flower’s Pool, the Buckland Woods
(Private)

It was difficult for the flower to tell how long it had sat in its pool. Time was a construct of young minds, minds with things to do and places to be, hurried creatures with a limit scope of reality and their place within it. The Amaranth Flower had sat on its island, within the pool, and down the tunnel for as long as it could remember, and it could remember so much. It remembered the age of stars, when there was naught but twinkling starlight that filtered down from a velvet black sky, so soft and precious like the purrs of a kitten. It remembered the quendi and the music of their voices. It remembered the sun, the bright, molten gold that soared across the sky and her partner the silky silver moon that dashed about like a firefly. It remembered men and dwarves and the tumults and the way the world changed over and over again. It remembered the coming of the halflings and their quiet, easy way of life. Yet those changes never reached the still, quiet pool beneath the waterfall. The Amaranth Flower had been alone for so long, so much time. It remained steadfast though, this mythical flower. It had been given a task from the Green Girdled Lady and it was going to fulfill that task.

Only the purest and most innocent of creatures could find their way to it. Though rumors and stories abounded about the flower and where it could be found, and once found what it could do, none had ever seen the flower in living color. Many a quendi or noble-hearted man thought to search for it, following the beckoning of dreams, but as they came near, the flower judged them unworthy and thus hid. Quests had been undertaken, missions from far away rulers, wizard-kings, or wealthy landowners were given out, but each knight-errant or wandering troubadour missed the mark.

Then this little hobbit child and her imaginary beaver companion heard the stories. The Amaranth Flower watched them, followed them as they marched about the woods and interacted with the world around them. The flower had originally been made without emotions or sentimental attachments, so focused on the task it had been given by its god that it could not afford such things, but over the countless days and years and ages, the flower learned to hope. This hobbit child and her imaginary friend, they were made of something different. No elves had ever come close, even the purest hearted storyteller or sweet librarian. The closer this duo came, the more the Amaranth Flower hoped. It opened the way, under the waterfall, as it looked into their hearts and saw this young girl, Ermengarde Brandybuck, though she loved the name Emmie much more, and Humphrey Waters, a beaver of no substantial substance but had more heart than even the heartiest Númenórean. They embodied joy and simplicity, silliness and comradery, heart and soul. The Amaranth Flower opened the way beneath the waterfall and allowed the pair to walk down. Their voices filled the cavern with music, even though the only voice that echoed on concrete reality was the voice of the young hobbit, her beaver friend’s voice echoed, but only in the minds of the Amaranth Flower and Emmie herself.

Yes, yes. These two would do just fine.

-- * -- * -- * --

Both Emmie and Humphrey looked to the flower, sitting regal and aloof on its shimmering island, then to each other as if to confirm that what they both just heard was. in fact, real. Of course, the term real was quite relative, given the circumstances. Emmie looked to Humphrey. She knew he wasn’t really there, not in a way that was physically tangible. She could see him, hear him, touch him, smell him, but she was aware on an unconscious level that all these things were sensitive in her own mind. However, that was not to say Humphrey wasn’t real. He was, without a singular doubt, real. She could see him, hear him, touch him, smell him. Just because others couldn’t did not mean that he was not real. Just because he existed largely within the confines of Emmie’s imagination did not deter his reality. He was real, he was her best friend, and that was all that there was to say. She would defend her beaver buddy to anyone and everyone. Her mother and father and siblings might not understand, but they knew well enough to respect Emmie. As her father was wont to say, “There are more things in heaven and earth that exist in our philosophy.” Emmie had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but she assumed it was just a fancy way of saying “imaginary beavers are real”.

She took Humphrey’s paw and looked out across the pond, a tiny ripple passed under the water, a drop of crystal blue water from above the only thing that made a sound in that ethereal cavern. She couldn’t quite believe it. She could believe it of course and had believed that they would find the object of their noble quest, but to see it there on that sunlight bespeckled island made it more real that perhaps Emmie was ready for.

“Uh, hello?” she said, the sound bouncing back and forth along dark cavern walls.

I’ve been watching your quest. I am proud that you made it to the end.

As much as Emmie knew this was the end, she could not help but feel slightly crestfallen. Coming to the end of an adventure, even one so small scale as the Quest for the Amaranth Flower, was full of mixed feelings. She and Humphrey were elated that they’d found the magical flower, but at the same time there was a bittersweetness to their discovery because now they had found it, there was no coming back to the moments before they found it. Anticipation had faded and now relief and exaltation took its place.

“Are you the Amaranth Flower?” she asked.

Indeed, I am.

The voice was strange but soothing. It was neither a man nor a woman but had elements of both. Emmie thought she could recognize the voice, but the realization was just out of reach. It put her at ease. Humphrey appeared much the same, his whiskers and nose twitched but more testing the air than agitation. He felt safe, and therefore so did Emmie.

“It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Emmie, well Ermengarde. You can’t see him probably, but Humphrey says hello too. He’s very pleased to make your acquaintance.” She looked to her friend who nodded his approval.

I can indeed see your friend, a very handsome beaver with a set of bagpipes strapped to his side.

Emmie blinked, at a loss for words. “It must be lonely down here, all by yourself,” she said after a moment’s silence. “Do you have any friends?”

It can be lonely, but I can see far beyond my little cave. I can watch as the seasons change and the animals migrate and trees grow.

“How long have you been down here?”

Oh, for quite some time. Before the quendi and the atani, before the holbytlan.

“I bet that means you have lots of stories,” Emmie said hopefully, looking to Humphrey.

More than lots in fact. But tell me Emmie Brandybuck and Humphrey Waters, what brings you here to find me?

“Well,” Emmie said, sitting on the bank of the pool without putting her feet in the water for fear of offending the great Amaranth Flower. “We, Humphrey and I, we read stories about how you might grant a wish?”

If the air could convey a knowing smile, Emmie could feel it around her. The air grew a bit warmer and the water shimmered a bit.

I can indeed. For the most noble of mind and worthy of heart. Do you think that you are that?

Emmie frowned and looked at her fingers. She remembered playing more than a few silly pranks on her siblings and parents. Would a noble or worthy person be so silly? Weren’t nobles serious and somber? She looked to her imaginary friend, who took her by the hand in his paw and squeezed, nodding.

“Well,” she said after a time, her voice cracking, “I’ve played a few pranks and been a bit too silly sometimes. I tend to bother my da when he’s trying to work on his maps, but only because I want to see what he’s doing. He’s a cartography, that means he makes maps, and I think it’s what I want to do too. I’m not always on time with my chores. I daydream and play with Humphrey when I should be pulling weeds or doing my school work.”

My dear child, is that not what you are meant to do, as a youngling? Is not exploration and imagination a part of learning?

Emmie pursed her lips. “I suppose? But doesn’t that mean I’m not noble?”

The laughter from the Amaranth Flower was musical, like a bubbling brook. Noble doesn’t mean stuffy and boring, little one, it means you do your best to make the world better, especially for others. Do you think you do that?

Emmie looked to Humphrey. “I think you are very noble, Emmie. You’re the noblest hobbit I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

Emmie swallowed and took a deep breath. If Humphrey thought she was noble…

“I think I am…” her voice felt very small in that cave, like a mouse scurry across a floor.

I think so too, Ermengarde Brandybuck. You and Humphrey both. So what is it that you’d wish for?

The young hobbit girl looked to her best friend, wordlessly asking for his permission. He knew what she’d ask for. He smiled, his two front teeth sparkling as he nodded. Emmie smiled and took his paw in her hand, squeezing tightly.

“I wish that…”

[Dungeon Delver]

The Amaranth Flower
Buckleberry
(Private)

The light of the late afternoon sun was warm and inviting, the Buckland Woods shimmered. Bumblebees, fat and furry, buzzed about the myriad flowers, weaving intricate dances in the air, floating amidst pollen that drifted lazily, suspended in sunbeams. The hobbits of Buckleberry were winding down, the workday was over at last and the inviting smells of the inns and taverns. The smells of fresh stew, hops, honey, and cake drifted through the air, borne on the wind to the doorsteps of every eager hobbit. Half a dozen tunes were being whistled at any given moment, most at a half octave too high or too low, but still the air was fill with merriment.

Emmie and Humphrey came from the woods, skipping and bounding. They had more energy now that they were leaving the Buckland Woods than when they went it. Emmie’s purple-blue eyes glittered with excitement. Her smile was wide, and her laughter was light. Humphrey was in the middle of telling the story of how he once tricked a troupe of squirrels out of their nuts by building a bridge over a lake that collapsed. She’d heard this story a dozen times now, but it was still funny. She giggled and threw her hands out as wide as she could. Humphrey took up his bagpipes and began to play the most flamboyant marching tune he could think of. He took several of the whistled tunes from the hobbits they passed and incorporated them into his music. It was a chaotic mishmash but Emmie and Humphrey both loved it. By the time he was done, the beaver was out of breath.

“So, are you happy with your wish?” he asked once he regained his equilibrium.

Emmie beamed and nodded. “Oh yes. There were dozens of things I could have asked for, but I think this was the best thing. After all, if I wished anything else, there would be one less adventure, right? And we can’t have that.”

Humphrey nodded sagely, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “You have the right of it there, Emmie, you have the right of it. I have a feeling with the wish you made, there will be dozens and dozens more adventures, and not just our own.”

“Do you want to go by and see how our wish turned out?” Emmie asked, taking Humphrey’s paw in her hand.

“After you, fearless leader!” He grinned.

They made their way through the winding lanes and rolling hills to Mrs. Bramblebuck’s house. It had seemed drab when they were there that morning, the colors had not felt full or vibrant, the garden didn’t beam with light and life. But now, now! The door was the same shade of green, but now it seemed to come alive as they watched. The garden looked fuller and with more colors than Emmie could imagine, the flowers bloomed with a special kind of life. From within the house, too, there came a sound that they had not dreamed of hearing earlier that morning: the sound of laughter and merriment!

They crept closer, moving carefully along the garden’s limit. They could hear voices, or a voice, Emmie wasn’t quite sure. Humphrey crept through a row of pansies and made his way to the window, his brown eyes peeking through. Mrs. Bramblebuck was there, in the kitchen. He beckoned Emmie over with the flick of a paw. She joined him and watched as Mrs. Bramblebuck started dancing as she made her tea, doing a sort of jig back and forth. She danced like she had a partner, but Emmie couldn’t quite see anyone. Humphrey, though, had no trouble seeing the badger very clearly, its snout a vibrant contrast of black and white with the most perfectly round pair of pince-nez that anyone had ever seen. There was a top hat on the table, one that clearly belonged to a fancy dan.

“Oh I haven’t danced like that in ages!” Mrs. Bramblebuck said breathlessly, collapsing back in her chair. She poured two cups of tea and added copious amounts of sugar to one of them. Badgers, it turns out, had sweet tooths that rivaled even the greediest hobbit child. Emmie and Humphrey laughed.

The conversation between imaginary badger and elderly hobbit lady continued for quite some time, the subject never staying still as time went on. Satisfied, Emmie and Humphrey crawled away and resumed their journey home. Emmie’s wish, of course, had been that Mrs. Bramblebuck had a friend as dear and true as Humphrey was to Emmie. She could have wished for a million more adventures, an apple tree that never ran out of apples, green hair, or the knowledge of all the secret pathways in the Shire, but in the end, there was only one wish she knew she and Humphrey could make. It was Emmie’s goal in life to make the world better for everyone. Sometimes she could help by making a pie and delivering it with her mother, sometimes it was cleaning out her father’s study so he could focus on his map making, other times it was finding a magical flower and wishing that someone who looked lonely had a friend that would never leave them and fill their life with happiness and joy. Emmie and Humphrey would have many, many more adventures, of that the young hobbit was quite sure, and now Mrs. Bramblebuck could find and have adventures of her own, even if those adventures were reading books and gardening and dancing whilst making tea.

Emmie smiled and hugged Humphrey as tightly as she could.

“I’m quite glad I have such a good friend as you, Humphrey,” she said.

“And I’m the luckiest beaver in the world to have such a friend as you Emmie,” he agreed.

“So what shall we do tomorrow?”

“I think we should go back to that grove we found and have a picnic and an official naming ceremony.”

“That sounds delightful!”

-FIN-

[Dungeon Delver]

Eris
12 Winter Beech, Hobbiton Village
(Private One-Shot)

She set the box down on the table, a great plume of dust spouted into the air, getting caught in the afternoon light, it shone like a dragon’s fiery breath. Eris coughed as the dust landed all around her and swatted futile as the dust continued to orbit her. She turned from the table, wiping her brow, and looked at the remainder of the boxes to be unpacked. They looked terrifyingly endless. How could one hobbit have so much stuff? She was only in her late twenties, how had she managed to accumulate so many things? She had had this very same thought when she was packing, getting ready for her move from Loamhedge to Hobbiton, but packing was easy. There were stacks of boxes in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the art room, in the pantry, in the library, in the parlor. Boxes this innumerable required a house with more rooms than any one young hobbit required. That’s what she told herself, then she laughed.

It was easy to complain now, having to unpack and place every single item she owned, but she would be very thankful when she was making tea that there was a cloth nearby so she didn’t burn the loving goober out of her hand on the kettle. Not to mention all of her books. She had more books than anyone in Loamhedge, a full two thirds of her boxes were full of books of all shapes, sizes, and subject matters, so many books that she insisted the house she bought in Hobbiton Village had a room she could convert into a library. She needed more than just a few extra bookshelves. Her small home in Loamhedge had nearly burst at the seams because she had so many books in so many random places. There was an order to it all, she swore, but when pressed as to what that order was and why there were books in her pantry cabinet or stacked up by the sink, she couldn’t quite articulate what it was. She needed a library. Wall to wall shelves, books organized by author, subject, publishing date, and size. It was a task that was going to take days, perhaps weeks, to complete, but something of this magnitude, this import, was worth taking the time to do.

Her parents had installed in her a strong work ethic. Actually, they had to curb the work ethic she had so it would not burrow over into obsession. Eris Wanderfoot was an odd hobbit, she often forgot to eat. One of the greatest tenants in all hobbitdom was that food was above nearly everything, but Eris was only interested in food so that it could fuel her work. She loved collecting books, reading them, cataloging them, and illuminating them. She was a deft hand at penmanship-based art. There was not a hobbit in all the Shire, or beyond for that matter, better than her. She had a keen eye for color and inks; she loved experimentation, finding the right shade for the right image. She’d come to Hobbiton Village to work at their library, a place in serious need of an illuminator’s services. She was also an expert restorer. Her father had a business in Loamhedge based entirely on that activity and she’d learned from him with the voraciousness that would have behooved an entire swarm of bees or a colony of beavers. Her father told her she surpassed his abilities within just a few years of learning the trade, saying he’d never seen someone as talented as his only daughter. She went to work for the Loamhedge Library, but it was so small that the work did not take nearly as long as anyone expected. It was decided, in a family feast that she nearly missed because she was trying to mix a more vivid shade of black, that she would go to Hobbiton. The library there was much, much larger and had more books in need of her expert care. Her grandmother lived there too, giving her more opportunities to visit her and not feel alone in a big town.

She was here now. Eris Wanderfoot was home. She stood amidst her books, half unpacked and scattered haphazardly about, and smiled. The work getting to this point, somewhere close to halfway now, had been difficult, she’d stubbed her toes on corners of furniture she hadn’t expected nearly ten times by now, but she felt good about it all. Hands on hips, Eris surveyed the rest of the kitchen. The most important things had been unpacked, her tea kettle (given to her on her eighteenth birthday by her grandmother who would likely be over at any moment) and her tea set. Each cup and saucer had survived the trip unscathed and uncracked. There had been more than a few moments on the road, when the ponies took an awkward turn or found the one and only gopher hole in the road, that Eris feared for the safety of her tea set. The muffin pan was out too. Eris, compounding her oddities, was not much of a cook, having only a dozen or so basic recipes in her repertoire, muffins were easy enough that she could make them when her grandmother came over. She took a final look about the kitchen, eyeing the box she’d set on the table. It was full of plates, plates that she’d been gifted just before she moved so had never been used, indeed she couldn’t recall the pattern on this particular set of plates. She wiped her brow again. Did she want to take them out right now and find room for them in the dish cabinet? If she didn’t do it now, she was going to have to do it later, before her grandmother arrived.

She sighed, rolled up her sleeves, and went to work. There was no point in putting it off. The plates clicked and clacked against each other as she reached in, sounding their displeasure at being moved. They had a green and purple floral pattern running along the rim, meticulously hand-painted so that each plate was, itself, unique. Eris took a moment to admire them, tracing the vine-y lines all the way around the edge of the plate. She loved the colors. Even though the only colors were green and purple, there were dozens of different shades within them, some lighter, some darker, some an admixture of green and purple. Eris found herself spacing out as she looked at the plates. It was easy to get lost in the lines, to lose track of time. She was brought back to the present by the chirping of a robin. She turned to see him (she had no way to tell but she felt it was a safe assumption) perched on her open kitchen window. He was small but his chirp echoed in her kitchen.

“Well, hello there little one. Are you going to be my new neighbor? Oh, you know, I should thank you. I need to remember set up my bird bath and feeder later this afternoon. You’ll have to forgive the mess. I just moved in and I’m still getting things all sorted. I bet you don’t have to worry about that do you? No, you look like the kind of fellow that’s neat and orderly.”

The little robin chirped and hopped from the window frame to the dish cabinet below the window. Eyeing the lacquered wood suspiciously.

“Well, that’s bold of you,” she laughed. “Come on in and relax a spell I suppose. You know, you’ll have to tell me all the good watering holes around her. Everyone always talks about how legendary the Green Dragon is, but there has to be a few places that are quieter and out of the way. Maybe some actual watering holes, yeah? Somewhere where a stream meets an overhanging willow tree? Oh, that’s the perfect kind of spot. If I find one, I’ll bring you there and you’ll see how amazing it is.”

She reached out a finger and the little robin, bold as you like, hopped on. He chirped and titled his tiny bird head at her. “You’re lucky you’re cute, little guy. You don’t talk much but I can tell you have a lot to say. Tell you what, let me finish putting these plates up and I’ll go set up my bird bath and we can take a break outside? As you can see, I have a lot to still get through.” She put her finger on the window and the little robin hopped off, chirping musically before fluttering over to the fence at the edge of her front yard. Had he actually understood her? She narrowed her eyes and gave the bird a critical glance. Surely not. Right?

She chuckled and shrugged. Apparently, she had a date with a robin red breast once she finished putting away these plates. “Well mother, you needn’t worry about me now, I have a bird friend to make sure I remember to eat at semi-regular times.” She put the plates away, gingerly stacking each one, inwardly flinching each time the plates clinked and clanked in agitation. She worked her faucet pump, listening to it groan and complain until finally cold water came rushing forward and into the kettle. She and her friend could have some tea. Or, more likely, she would have some tea and the little robin would have some cold, clean water. To each their own!

The sound of knocking filled her home as soon as the fire was going, and the kettle was on the hook. Eris blanched. Was it already time for her grandmother to come? Oh drat! She’d lost track of time. That’s what she gets for not focusing on her task and daydreaming about her new job.

She rushed to the door and opened it to find—

Not her grandmother. A young hobbit stood under her portico, mussy brown hair, sharp green eyes, and a smile. He also had a basket in the crook of his elbow and Eris could smell half a dozen different kinds of muffins.

“Hello!” he said, taking a bow. “My name is Jorgy, Jorgy Underash. Are you, uh, Miss Eris Wanderfoot?”

Eris crossed her arms over her chest. “I am.”

“Oh good, I came to right place. I’m your neighbor, right next door. Wisteria, that is Mrs. Pumpkinberry said you would be arriving today and that I should come over and introduce myself.” He lifted to basket, removing the cloth and displaying an impressive array of muffins. “She suggested I make something, and muffins are about the only thing I can make right now.”

She was taken aback. “I’m your next-door neighbor but you weren’t sure if you were at the right house?”

Jorgy gave her a silly smile. “Sounds bad when you say it like that,” he laughed. “The little robin on your fence told me you had plans so that’s why I wasn’t sure.”

“The robin…” she trailed off and looked at the tiny, round bird sitting on her fence, hopping about expectantly. “Ah, well I suppose I do at that. But come in, it’s rude to leave a visitor just standing outside. I’m not a Baggins after all. Come on!” She opened the door wider and stepped aside. Jorgy came in and stopped halfway into the kitchen.

“Oh, my goodness! I’ve never seen so many boxes in all my life!”

Eris chuckled. “You didn’t have as much stuff when you moved next door?” She took the basket of muffins from him and set it on the now empty table.

“Oh no, when I moved in, I didn’t have any boxes.” He said it with such matter-of-factness that Eris wasn’t sure she’d heard right. No boxes? None whatsoever? How did he do that? “You’ll have to tell me how you managed that,” she said, recovering her manners. “Please, Mr. Underash, do sit down.”

The kettle began to whistle. “Oh! Just in time. You do like tea, don’t you?”

“Oh!” cried Jorgy, “very much so, I’ve found that it might be one of my favorite things, next to going on walks or swimming, or jumping from waterfalls. Oh, and honeyed biscuits with jam, and playing in the rain.”

Eris’ hearty laughter cut off his list. “Oh my, you are quite the busy hobbit, Mr. Underash.”

“Oh please call me Jorgy. And yes! I do love to do things, there’s so much of the world to be seen and things to do and experience. I just hope I manage to get it all in before I’m too old to enjoy things.”

Eris looked at her guest bemusedly. She thought she was an odd hobbit, but her neighbor outstripped her by a farthing mile at least. He was the same as she, judging from his youthful face, and unmarried, judging from his lack of roundness, but he had the enthusiasm of a young hobbit barely into his tweens. Most outgrew that sense of wonder and adventure as they grew older. She decided she like this Jorgy Underash. More hobbits like the two of them, oddballs that enjoyed myriad things were a good thing.

“Well, that is quite a lot of things,” she stated. “All I have unpacked is apple and vanilla tea. Is that alright? My grandmother is coming over later and that’s her favorite kind.”

“Oh?” asked Jorgy, perking up. “It’s my other neighbor, Mrs. Pumpkinberry’s favorite tea as well. What a coincidence!”

She smiled knowingly. “Not too much I’m afraid. My grandmother is Wisteria Pumpkinberry.”

Jorgy’s face was alight with realization. “Oh my goodness! You’re Eris!”

“Well yes, you asked that already, remember?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, “but I didn’t think you were that Eris. Your grandmother has been talking for a week about how you were arriving.”

“And you didn’t think that I might be ‘that’ Eris when you asked my name?”

“No, never occurred to me.”

Eris could not help but burst out laughing. She very much liked this Jorgy fellow. He was silly as a mouse in a habit, but he was so good-natured it was impossible not to like him. “It’s good to meet you, Jorgy. Yes, I am that particular Eris. Came down from Loamhedge to work in the library here in Hobbiton Village.”

Jorgy’s eyes opened wide with delight. “You work in the Library? Oh I bet that’s exciting. That’s where I would like to work. I tried working as a sheriff, but I don’t think I’m very good at mysteries. I like reading them more than trying to solve them.”

Eris poured the water from the kettle into the teapot. The aroma of silky vanilla and vibrant apple exploded. “You know, I think my grandmother and I could help you there. I’m sure the ladies at the library always need help. I could show you how to catalogue, I’m sure that would impress them enough to hire you.”

Jorgy’s eyes went wider somehow. “Really? You’d do that? But we only just met.”

“Of course! If my grandmother likes you, and if she likes you, then you have to be a capital fellow. And you like to read mysteries. I think you might be one of my favorite people in Hobbiton already.”

“So what will you do at the library, Miss Wanderfoot?”

“If I’m supposed to call you Jorgy, you have to call me Eris. And I’ll be doing some illuminating and restoring. There are lots of old books that are starting to come apart. I know how to rebind them, re-ink them, and make them look as if they’re brand new.”

“Wow!” said Jorgy, genuine amazement in his voice. “You know Mrs. Pumpkinberry, your grandmother, she has a lot of old books that I’m not allowed to read, she said they’re so old that they belonged to her grandmother. Do books last that long?”

Eris nodded sagely. “They can, if you take care of them and treat them with respect when you read them.”

“Oh, I would never be rude to a book!” Jorgy sounded aghast.

“No, no, Jorgy,” she laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. Only that books that are as old as some my grandmother has must be treated very gingerly. We can’t have tweens running around trying to make book forts with them.”

“Book forts?” Jorgy sounded very intrigued. “What are those?”

“You never made book forts when you were younger?”

“I, uh, I don’t remember; I might have,” suddenly Jorgy looked very sad and very uncomfortable, first he looked down at his teacup, then at a spot on the wall, trying quite hard, it seemed, not to look at her.

Eris paled. She didn’t know what she’d done, but something she said hurt her new friend. She was saved by the chirping of a tiny bird at her window. It was the same little robin red breast that had so boldly invited himself inside. She sighed with relief, then gasped. “Oh fiddle-faddle! I forgot about the little bird.”

Jorgy shook himself, pulling on a smile as quickly as it had vanished. “Oh yes! Your little bird friend. He told me that you and he had a date planned.”

“He told you, eh?” she asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh yes, he and I had a quick conversation before I knocked on your door. He’s quite a nice chap, said you were going to set up a bird bath in your front yard?”

Eris blinked and shook her head. Jorgy can talk with animals? She really had to get to the bottom of this young hobbit, he had more surprises in him that a barrel of weasels. “Indeed! Speaking of, I might need your help, if you are okay with that.”

“Help? I’d love to; point me in any direction and I shall accomplish wonders.”

Eris chuckled. “Well in that case, if you could fill that pail up with water from the sink? I’ll go outside and move the birdbath into place,” the bird chirped happily behind her, “or rather where he thinks it should go. Then we can bring out some chairs and enjoy our tea and muffins in the late afternoon sun?”

Jorgy did a goofy little bow, making Eris shake her head. “I am at your service!” He scooped up the pail, worked the faucet’s pump, and waited for the water to fill. She nodded and headed outside, followed by her robin companion. The birdbath was already outside, but it was stuffed into a lonely corner and was, not to mention, dry as a bone. She cracked her knuckles and took a deep breath. It was a heavy piece of masonry, carved out of solid stone. It was a family heirloom, of sorts. Her father’s father had been a mason and a sculptor. He made this birdbath for his son’s wedding day to the great awe of the crowd. Now it belonged to Eris. It was in remarkably good condition, the little hobbit children figurines that had been carved into the top were a little worn, but they had been carved so vividly, so kinetically that it looked as if they were only a few years old at this point. Eris was quite sure she got her artistic talent from him.

She rolled the birdbath rather than trying to pick it up. Work smarter, not harder was an adage she thoroughly endorsed. With the little robin red breast fluttering back and forth behind her, Eris moved the sculpture into the front yard. The robin perched in the grass a few feet from the door, leaving just enough space for a chair or two to be place between.

“Right there? Alright then.” She rolled the birdbath over, settling it in just the spot her little friend had been. “How’s that?” she asked. The bird chirped happily and perched expectantly on the edge of the bowl, looking back and from the dry stone to Eris. “Oh, he’s coming, don’t you fret now. You’ll have some amazing water in just two shakes of a beaver’s tail.”

Right on cue, Jorgy came around the corner, pail of water in both hands. He grinned as he stepped out into the light. “I like your faucet; it takes less pumps to get the water flowing than mine. You’ll have to tell me your secret. Oh! That’s an excellent spot for a birdbath, excellent indeed.” He lifted up the pail and slowly poured the water in, the birdbath suddenly coming to life with light being reflected every which way off the surface. The little robin chirped happily and, once Jorgy had finished pouring, hopped in, dipping his head in and out, slashing and making a general silly nuisance of himself. “Perfect!” Jorgy declared.

“I agree, and so does our little friend,” answered Eris. “Now how about we bring our tea and muffins out here? You can tell me about your favorite mystery novels while we’re at it. Have you ever read the books of Edgard Alladoc Poe? He’s my absolute favorite. I think you’d love him.”

[Periantar]

There's Dragon Smoke Afoot

Whisperings and Meetings

@Silky Gooseness
@Lady of Shadow

"I tell ya... there's Dragon Smoke afoot and no doubt about it!"
"And I tell ya... there ain't! Ain't no Dragon Smoke, ain't no dragon, and certainly ain't no arrable soil in that bald farmer's pate of yours, Bill Turnfoot! Wouldn't be able to grow a single decent thought in that head with a million years of Hobbittish know-how."
"How dare you, Joh..."

Periantar had been relaxing quietly by the fireside of the Green Dragon for a few hours now. It was a cold Winter's eve and the well travelled hobbit had drifted off with a gently smouldering pipe in one hand and a half emptied ale on the table before him. An easily recognised - though not often seen - figure in The Dragon, Periantar had been in Bywater a few months now, the longest he'd stayed in one place for quite some time.
Awoken by the somewhat heated discussion of dragon smoke, Periantar's interest had been piqued. His well travelled hobbit's feet were beginning to get that familiar itch for the open road, for hills, fields, forests and what ever may come; what's more, he'd been enjoying plenty of double meals at the Dragon long enough now that his breeches had once again become a little too snug about his waist - now several inches larger than it had been when he'd blown back into town in the middle of autumn. The idea of dragons anywhere about, was enough to stir him to action.
"A mug of ale Keeper, if you will, and a bowl of some hickory smoked mushrooms ta boot."
"Coming up Peri."
"And I'll have an ale for my friend here while I'm at it!" Periantar wrapped an arm around the shoulder of Bill Turnfoot, the elderly hobbit that had been swearing black and blue that there were dragons about. Bill was now wearing a little more of John Hopps' mug of ale than he cared for, and having given his sister's brother-in-law's nephew a quick reply with his own remaining beverage, Bill was just turning to leave.
"Steady on there Bill, why don't you cool off over a fresh mug and a bowl of The Dragon's finest smoked mushrooms."
At the mention of "Dragon," and, "smoked," Bill pretty near took a swing at Periantar but the well travelled hobbit's face was gentle and well meaning. They quietly removed themselves to a cosy corner as their ale and bowl arrived.
"...And that's about all there is to tell. Dragon Smoke and no mistake. That fool Hopps don't know what he's talking about - barely in his tweens, and thinks he knows all there is. But I tell ya, that's just what I heard - Dragon Smoke, it has to be."
The fire had burned low in the Inn. The two hobbits stood, Periantar patted Bill on the back, and turned to head to his room upstairs as he caught the eyes of a curious character on the opposite side of the room. Suddenly Peri realised that he had been watched all through his conversation with Bill Turnfoot, and Peri wasn't convinced that he was happy about it...

[Periantar]

@Silky Gooseness - please make sure you've seen the cross-over post in The Green Dragon first...

While he was naturally suspicious of most who took an interest in his personal business, the comical image of these two hobbits coming toward him gave Peri cause to chuckle. They struck a most disconcordant pose; one, an elderly, balding hobbit with good tilled earth beneath his finger nails, and an ungainly limp - and was that a honey stain on his dusty waistcoat? The other, a much younger hobbit with a mug of ale and a slowly smoking pipe, both of which were proportioned so as to completely dwarf the hobbit carrying them.

"Hobold Chubbs Hobblefoot sir," the older hobbit announced with an friendly gesture of his pipe, and a gentle nod of his balding head.
"And Silas Hardacre sir."
"We couldn't help but notice the commotion and talk of... Smoke... just before and were wondering if we might make inquiries."

Periantar took one more look at these two and decided they looked harmless enough. "Aye, one of the locals here, tells me there've been disturbances - damage, loss of livestock, beehives destroyed..." Both of the curious hobbits gasped almost inperceptibly and took a small step back, at the mention of destroyed beehives. "They say they've seen smoke on the horizon, Dragon Smoke. And they're looking for someone to investigate - you might even say, to 'detect.'"

This was more than enough for Silas; he quickly pulled out a chair and sat himself down, Hobold, stepping around to another that had become vacated by another hobbit as the conversation clearly sounded too adventurous for his liking.

"'Detect,' you say sir?" asked Sila, trying to cover his excitement.

[Periantar]

Suddenly, and with little more than a, "how do you do," and a polite dipping of his hat, Hobold Chubbs decided to walk out of the Green Dragon in search of adventure involving Dragon Smoke. He politely paid up on his tab at The Inn, gathered his traveling things, of which there was very little for Hobold traveled light whenever he could manage it, and tipped the Inn Keeper a little extra to, "Watch of me stuff while I'm a gone."
Whistling a quiet tune to himself, something he believed was originally penned by the now legendary Bilbo Baggins, he headed down the path, making toward the South Farthing...

[Periantar]

There's Dragonsmoke Afoot
Comings and Goings

Hobold Chubbs

As he wandered along the lane from The Green Dragon, Hobold veered slightly east, heading toward the Three Farthing Stone. It was from here that he would enjoy a hearty pipe of longbottom leaf. This was Hobold's tadition; a relaxed pipe in the centre of his beloved Shire before departing on an adventure. Afterall, to paraphrase the great words of Mr Bilbo Baggins, as Hobold would often say, "It's a dangerous business - going out your door - once you've put your foot to a new path, there's no knowing when you'll return... if at all."

Hobold leant against the Farthing Stone, blowing rings of various sizes, and watching them drift in the early evening air. He observed the quiet comings and goings of the Shire about him as night time approached, wondering what this latest adventure might bring.

"So," he quietly said to himself, "there's dragon smoke afoot is there? Let's see what we can find."

Hobold hoisted his rucksack over one shoulder, tucked his pipe into his tunic, picked up a well worn and much travelled stick, and with a satisfied, "humph," headed towards the gentle rises of Green Hill Country away in the South Farthing, all the while wondering, if he would be joined at anystage along the way.