Lord of the Rings Fanatics Plaza

Honey. Liquid heaven truly worth its weight in gold. There isn’t a hobbit in the Shire (or anyone anywhere else in Middle-earth for that matter) that doesn’t love honey. Honey is nearly as ubiquitous as pipeweed and has just as many fanatical adherents. Everyone in the Shire has at least one jar of honey in their kitchens. Grandmothers are obligated to have at least six jars at any given time for visits from grandchildren, bakers and chefs practically live on the stuff, and even bachelor tweens with barely enough money for a single chair in the living room have at least two jars. Honey has been a form of social currency since Hobbits were Hobbits (and that goes pretty far back depending on your genealogical particulars). What sort of soiree or tea party doesn’t have at least a few varieties? Even children having tea with stuffed animals know that without honey, a party is really just a random gathering of people eating without something sweet to break the monotony.

The Honey Club is a bit of a misnomer. It started off as a club, of course. Goodbody Twofoot was said to have started it as a social gathering for the mothers of Michel Delving to meet and compare recipes (along with a heaping helping of gossip, but that’s neither here nor there). Over the years, as the club’s membership grew, splinter groups formed in Hobbiton, and Tuckborough, and rumors of one somewhere in Buckland but those rumors were never substantiated. As membership grew, so did the purpose of the club. The days of gossiping about one’s neighbors were gone and the days of comparing wildflower honey to rose garden honey were in. The club morphed through the years into something like a guild, where members paid dues and learned secrets about honey making, foraging, and cooking. It was considered a mark of great renown to be a member of the club, especially in some of the higher-ranking orders.

However, the idea of apiaries, that is beekeeping, never occurred to many of the members until just a few generations ago. Foraging was the order of the day, and it was a highly respected position. It was not until Benedict Twofoot, the tenth great grandson of Goodbody, decided to try and build nests for the bees to use, ones that he could easily harvest from without potentially endangering or destroying beehives, that apiaries became popular. While honey foragers will never go extinct (indeed it became something of a bougie profession that charged obscene amounts to those that paid), they could never compete with the sheer volume of honey an apiary could produce in a season.

Benedict Twofoot bought land outside of Michel Delving, close to vast meadows filled with more varieties of flowers than there were Baggins children, and began his apiary. By trial and error (and more than a few beestings) he learned how to work with the bees, how to appease them, calm them, and take their honey without disturbing their queens. He sold much of the honey out of his home but that was, of course, impractical from the start. Hobbits came from all over the Shire and often showed up on his doorstep at odd hours, morning, noon, and night. Something had to be done.

It was time for the Honey Club to make another transformation. Benedict built a store. The Honey Club, of which he was the leader, returned to its social gathering roots while maintaining the commercial aspect of the guild era. Now it was time to start spreading the word…

How this will all work

Want to play a Hobbit working in an apiary? Of course you do!
Want to play a Hobbit working their way up the societal ladder? Why not!
Want to play a Hobbit buying up as much honey as their pony can carry? Is that a real question?

There are many ways this thread can work. Hobbits can come in and request to be employed by the Honey Club, buy honey from the Honey Club, or act as vendors for the benefit of the Honey Club. It’s really whatever you’re willing and wanting to play out. As long as honey is involved, this will be the thread to do it in (except that, not that, everything but that particular thing).

There will be rankings Hobbit characters can earn within the club based on number and quality of posts (and specially made icons for each rank too), from apprentice to master craftsman— we can fiddle with titles as we go. Most posts can be done through self-direction, no need for the threadrunner to give out tasks willy-nilly. I don’t plan on being very active and I don’t want people to have to wait on me for the bimonthly visits I’ll be making to posts and update and what-have-you. Also, I haven’t and don’t want to do any sort of bee biological research. If you want to sell the Club a drone for a new queen we can simply do the good ole fantasy handwave and make something up, realism isn’t going to be as necessary as comfy vibes. Positions within the store are open and available (aside from owner and grandmaster obvs), just pop in and apply and away we’ll go.

Any questions? We can settle them in the OOC thread and adjust things accordingly.

Ranks:
- Apiary Apprentice
- Apiary Fellow
- Apiary Freedman
- Apiary Grandmaster

Basic Rules:
- Standard Plaza rules apply, obviously
- Hobbits are representative of comfy fantasy, let’s leave heavy drama outside the Club
- Canon characters are cool, but let's not double up on them
- Hobbits only, big folk will be allowed on a case-by-case basis, and absolutely no minion characters (from *the* minion character)
- Have fun and be creative

Silas Hardwick

The air was sweet and cool in the buttery. A thin slice of winter sun gilded the flags. Silas scuffed a foot across the floor.

“Why’d you want to go now, anyway?” Ma Hardwick scolded. The folds of her forehead were perpetually wrinkled with some thought or the other - usually about what Silas should or shouldn’t be doing. “Bees will be sleeping now, mostly, and there’s jobs you could be doing up at the Mathom-house, for sure!”

“Yes, Ma,” Silas agreed easily, smiling to himself: Ma had protested his job at the Mathom-house in much the same way. “They’ll be quiet, and busy keeping themselves and the queen warm and fed. Time enough to get to know them, and to do the learning of it, without when they’re out and about and busy.”

“Well, now, then,” said Ma, by dint of reply, which meant that she had not thought of any suitable rejoinder. Silas wisely took this pause as assent and hastily exited, straightening the jaunty ribbon-tie at his throat and palming a handkerchief: of course, no Hobbit would leave the hole without a handkerchief. He was off to the Apiary!

Before the sun was up, all pink and orange sherbet in the sky, Benedict Twofoot was pacing in the entryway of the Honey Club. He was nervous, and rightly so. Today, once the sun was up, the Honey Club would officially be open. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, all the negative and improbable scenarios twisting and morphing in his dreams. He forgot his pants a few times, forgot what bees were in another, and lost the Honey Club in another, lost as in misplaced. Dreams were not prophetic or helpful to Benedict, they were a source of anxiety.

“Mycroft?” he called.

The corgi, large and chonky, came barreling around the corner. Benedict’s eyes widened in temporary terror as the beast plowed into him, knocked him on his backside and proceeded to lick his face with reckless abandon.

“Mycroft!” he called again, his arms flailing. “Mycroft no! Off!”

The corgi gave him one more lick, right across his cheek, then stepped back dutifully, tail wagging with anticipation. There was energy there that could have turned to course of a small stream. Mycroft smiled and barked.

“I know, I know. I just need some tea and I’ll look better.”

Mycroft barked again.

“I already fed you, you can’t fool me like that anymore. I’m wise to your tricks.”

Mycroft made a disappointed sound and tilted his head to the side. He woofed and stepped up to Benedict, searching for scritches.

“Think we’re ready?” He looked at a portrait of Goodbody Twofoot. She looked severe, well-do-to, and lively, in other words like a society matron. What would she think of all this? Benedict was certain he didn’t want to know, good or ill. Mycroft woofed. Benedict nodded. “I think you’re right. Have to take it on to figure it out.”

The sun came up and everything looked fantastic. Everything in the store was placed in the perfect spot. He knew this because he’d spent the last three weeks arranging, rearranging, and then re-rearranging fixtures and kiosks and shelves. There was a science to commercial layouts, a science that did not come easy to Benedict.

“One of these days you’re going to be large enough to ride into battle. What do you think of that?”

Mycroft snorted, showing exactly what he thought about being ridden, much less into battle. It was preposterous idea and no corgi would suffer such and indignity.

“Oh! Do you see that there? That lad running up, all arms and handkerchiefs? Do you think…?”

Mycroft barked and wagged his tail enthusiastically.

“Right, Mycroft, you be good now. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Alvin Chubb
Alvin Chubb
Even with his fair features and sunny blonde curls, the hobbit who stood outside the shop, Alvin Chubb, trying to look inconspicuous as he stole glances through the window, was a painfully shy hobbit. His head jerked up and down, then side to side as though he were debating with himself. And his long, lean legs (being somewhat on the tall side for a hobbit, having been born in the Spring of 1420, The Great Year Of Plenty) moved hesitantly towards the door, then back to the spot by the window - uncertainty playing with him like a yo-yo walking the dog.
'Just go in and say you would like to join the club, you ninny head!' he scolded himself under his breath as he shoved his hands deep inside his trouser pockets, then out again.
'It simple! Open the door and walk in!'
But it was more complicated for the hobbit. Standing for a long time (actually, it was a short time, but it seemed like an eternity) outside The Honey Club shop, hands dangling by his sides, Alvin finally found the courage to open the door and walk in.
A pleasing smell of honey greeted him as he stood motionless at the entrance. There was an anxious-looking hobbit in the shop and a large dog. Alvin liked dogs, but dogs sensed his timidness and were frightened by it, and so reacted to it, barking and some even snarling. He hoped this dog would see past his weakness. Alvin attempted to call out a greeting, but his tongue appeared tied (a frequent occurrence). He then tried to walk toward the hobbits, but his legs wouldn't move, skillfully mimicking his lack of words. Turning red in the face, he mustered as much courage as he could; with a painful expression very noticeable to those who watched him, he blurted out a greeting in a high squeak and cracked voice.
'Hullo! I have come to join the club! I am a great fan of bees, you see!'
His courage gave him a backbone that made him stand tall but simultaneously moved him backwards and thumping into the wall beside the door, for his legs trembled. His chin quivered still- yet his heart slowly tumbled back into its proper place. An awkward smile brightened his flushed face. He had done it. He could leave the heavy cloak of unease for good in this shop.

Silas Hardwick was following his nose. There was a faint and subtle sweetness in the air that was making it twitch: the scent of good earth gone chill with winter’s last touch was the richest one, but above that, a floral ribbon that led him on until his ears took over and he thought he could hear the drowsy humming of a hundred bees warming the hive… and then the barking of a dog, and the frantic panting of a dog, and the excitable whipping sound that was caused by a delighted corgi thrashing its tail back and forth so violently that it looked about to take flight.

Silas stopped abruptly, and laughed out loud, catching his breath as he did so. As many hobbits are, he was slightly out of shape due to too many good dinners (mostly pressed upon him by Ma Hardwick, convinced he was a “growing boy” even though he was practically in his tweens now, and indeed in the waistcoat, he was).

Even as he did, Silas saw Alvin coming up from the other lane, a look of determination earring with anxiety in his face. Nevertheless, despite his apparent nervousness, the long-legged hobbit strode decisively in and introduced himself. Silas supposed he could do no less, and ambled in afterwards, only slightly redder in the face than Alvin. Fortunately, many hobbits are both round and red of face, and it even gives some a jolly aspect. He beamed at everyone.

“I, too, am a great fan of bees,” he announced. “Silas Hardwick, how do you all do?”

The wings of fortune oft take the flight of a bumblebee. That was Benedict’s father’s favorite saying. It didn’t really mean anything, but it was a nice catch phrase one could use in conversation to sound wise and pithy. Benedict’s father was neither wise nor pithy, but he was a good enough actor to fool most. He would have thought this evolution of the Honey Club was a mistake, but he also had a collection of wooden shoes so his judgement was suspect before one could even hear him opine on subjects wide and varied.

Still, a broken clock is right twice a day. One moment, Benedict was being assaulted by a corgi tail, the next he had two customers. Two! He’d seen the one bounding a ways off, but the second one apparated out of the earth like a, well, like a bumblebee he supposed. This was excellent! He looked to the portrait of his ancestor and smiled. He knew it! He knew it! It was his first day, his first hour, and there were already customers. Well, maybe customers. Customers or new members. Now that would be even more amazing. Take that dad!

In his younger days he might have skipped about and punched the air. He’d have to save that sort of juvenile exuberation for a more private time. Mycroft thumped his tail on the floor, woofed twice, then thumped his tail again. Not for the first time, Benedict wondered if the corgi was sending secret messages.

“Welcome, welcome! It’s good to meet both of you. Alvin Chubb, is your aunt Priscilla by any chance? It’s so wonderful you came by. Silas Hardwick, I remember delivering mail to a Maribal Hardwick when I was younger, any relation? Thank you so much for stopping by.”

It was very important to Benedict Twofoot to greet each prospective customer or member and make them feel welcome and at ease, shaking their hands and giving them his full attention. By benefit of his position in the Honey Club and his extroverted disposition, he knew a lot of people and a lot of families. Family trees in the Shire could be complicated though, they were often more like brambles or hedges or ivy-covered walls. The Chubbs and the Hardwicks, though, were decently well known enough that his guesses didn’t feel too off the mark.

“I’m glad you’re both fans of bees! I, too, have been known to like one or two,” he chuckled. His humor was odd and dry, like most of his family, but hopefully it translated. “So what can I do for you two lads? A tour of the apiary? A stroll through the store? You’re my first two customers so the day is yours.”

Silas Hardwick

The corgi’s tail thumped the floor with what Silas hoped was effusive welcome, echoed by the hobbit who was enthusiastically greeting both Silas and the newcomer. He looked somewhat familiar, in the way that many Shirelings did; it was simply pointless to say that someone had a round and cheerful face and curly hair when one’s fellow did as well, but in truth Silas had not a good eye for faces. He saved his keenest examinations for the items that came through the Mathom-house, and by dint of careful inspection and meticulous, tiny notes, could identify this timepiece from another gilded clock quite exactly. People were another, quite alarming matter. But this fellow was reassuringly friendly, shaking Silas by the hand and drawing a smile from him immediately. He also conveniently named the other hobbit, who turned out to be Alvin Chubb. Silas dimly thought he had been to school with one of the younger Chubbs, who had had the tendency to pull hair.

“Why, why, I suppose it could be my great-aunt Maribal,” Silas stuttered through his memory. “I hope she was nice to you - she had a tendency to wave her stick around when she saw people coming, I recall…” He had no idea who might’ve been writing to the old bat - except, possibly, to beg her to stop doing whatever it was she had been doing.

“I’d love a tour of the apiary,” he went on, eagerly. “I want to know everything!”

Hobold Chubbs Hobblefoot

A middle aged hobbit, of exceedingly hobbittish stature hobbled into the club rooms, a large jar under one arm, and several more on a trolley being pulled behind him.
"Five large amphoras of the finest Shire honey, free to good home... if any around here would care for some honey - and a chat"
He sat himself in a comfy chair, rested his brown, curly toes on the thick woolen carpet by the fireside and awaited a customer or two. The pipe in his pocket came out and was lit with a well practised smootheness which was undeniable. To the untrained eye of a big-person, this may have simply been a lazing hobbit of indistinct qualities. But the vast knowledge of family histories, the understanding of various soils and of course, the deep skill in the infusing of various herbs with honey - thick, golden, nectar of Eru - was of a value that the Big-folk would never truly comprehend.