[piosenniel]

Bullroarer tightened his belt as he sat down to breakfast. A small bowl of porridge with a thin drizzle of last summer's meager honey, and a weak cup of tea, from leaves which had seen too much water. He passed up offers of seconds from the serving girl, saying that she was to see to the wants of the other Hobbits first.

He had been up early, long before the wan sunlight had pierced the flying snow on the eastern horizon. Wrapping his thick hooded cloak about him, he had gone to the stables to help the stablehand feed and water the horses and ponies. They had stood there discussing the back wheel on his wagon and how old Mungo had found a way to make it steadier and more road worthy. 'Should make it see them Elves at least.' commented the silver haired blacksmith.

Having finished mucking out several stalls, and freshening up the scant hay in the rack, he leaned on his pitchfork looking out at the pattern of the wind driven snow. His own breath trailed out in great foggy spirals, joining the dancing flakes. He saw both the advance scout parties leave for their destinations from his vantage point in the chill stable.

He was hoping against hope that Carl would find no sign of Wargs, and that the howling he had heard last night was only some trick of the wind. Giles and Autumn he was depending upon to make sure the road ahead was clear and that there would be shelter from the cold and storms for them this coming night.

When he was done seeing to the horses, there was an already noticeable lightening in the sky and a lessening of snow in the persistent wind. Perhaps, with some nod of good fortune their way, it would be clear for most of their trek to Whitfurrows. He frowned slightly, thinking of that town - he had forgotten to ask Giles whether his relatives lived this side of it or further east. They should have made firmer plans to meet up with Giles and Autumn at some predetermined point. He frowned again, wondering if Giles and Carl had spoken.

He strode back to the Inn, and stood at the entry way to the Common Room, stamping his feet to knock most of the drifted snow from them and the bottom of his breeches. The warm air of the room hit him as he walked through the door, and he pulled off his cloak quickly, hanging it up on a peg by the door.

The company was up, though many did not appear as if sleep had come easy to them. Only two days out, and the grim needs of the cold and hungry Shire were beginning to be felt. He sighed deeply, sizing up the strengths and weaknesses of his companions. then, putting a cheerful face on, he strode from table to table greeting each by name, a pat on the back here, a touch on the shoulder there.

The old campaigner rallied his troops and soon had them up, donning their cloaks and shouldering their packs. 'We're only going a short distance today.' he told them, wrapping his own cloak about him. 'We'll rest easy in Whitfurrows tonight, then on the morrow we will strike out on a longer leg of the journey. To the Brandywine river and across the bridge and ten miles beyond, if we can make it. Then in two days time from that we can travel past the Barrow Downs in daylight, and pushing it, come near to Bree.

There were mutterings and dark looks at the mention of the Barrow Downs. But Bullroarer gave them no time to complain. He led them quickly out of the Inn and to the stable to pick up their horses and ponies. Then down the road they went, each step kicking up eddies of snow along the way. He led the troop in his wagon, its great iron-banded wheels making ruts in the snowy road for Hobbit feet. And when one or another grew tired or too cold, he invited them up to ride in the back of the wagon for a while, where they could snuggle beneath the piles of burlap bags and warm up.

[ December 04, 2002: Message edited by: piosenniel ]