Rowan enters the crowd, her round eyes wide. She nods politely to a few hobbits and slips quickly by the more frightening “big people.” It had been ages since she had seen anyone taller than a hobbit; it must have been twenty years ago, when she was but eight years old and an old man in a grey cloak and pointy hat had come to the Shire for some event or another with a huge assortment of squibs and fireworks. He had not frightened her, although the adults did not much approve of his presence, insisting that he would be nothing but trouble. Her mother had called him a wizard, but Rowan heard very little about that sort of folk and decided that it must be a special kind of old man. For all she knows, all elderly men might be called wizards. Now that she in such a large crowd of big folk, she decides that this must not be true, for she little believes that many of these old men would be able to create and send up such fireworks, and none wear pointy hats.
The girl had been so deep in her musings that she bumps into a guest. “I’m terribly sorry-” she begins before looking up and seeing two dragon eyes looking down on her. Rowan shivers, remembering all the tales she had heard of dragons, especially those who like to snack on hobbits that run away from home. Of course, she realizes that most of these stories must have been made up to frighten young hobbits into good behavior, but she cannot help but wonder if there is a little truth to them. “-very sorry indeed…” she stutters, managing a feeble smile and curtseying while trying to balance the wicker basket under her arm.
[ September 21, 2002: Message edited by: ElanorGamgee ]
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Soli Deo Gloria
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