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Ealasaid · 06-14-2003, 05:58 PM

By the time Old Bill arrived at the hobbits' little camp, he had regained his composure somewhat from his fall. He wasn't sputtering or grumbling anymore, but the knot on his forehead throbbed and his poor back didn't feel any the better for having taken the brunt of the fall. And he was still angry. He had had a perfectly nice day planned, pulling plunder (as he called it) out of the river, before he ran afoul of these accursed hobbits, with their nasty little snare and their low-hanging branches. Well, fine, he thought to himself. I have a few tricks of my own.

The two hobbits he had encountered on the path ran ahead of him into the camp, the girl trumpeting, "We have found a guide! We have found a guide!"

A guide, am I? thought Old Bill, following close behind. We'll see about that!

He stomped into camp, puffing vigorously on his pipe, and bristled his eyebrows at the six new hobbits, treating each of them to a fierce scowl. As he did so, he heard little Rosie telling her companions, "Look there he is, his name's Old Bill, he's very nice!"

At that, Old Bill attempted a grandfatherly smile at the bunch of them. He didn't smile much and wasn't quite sure how to do it properly, but he gave it a shot. The expression looked more like a pained grimace than a smile, but the collected hobbits did not seem to notice. The six hobbits of the camp were sitting next to a small campfire over which they were cooking fish on wooden skewers. Old Bill had been temporarily forgotten as all eight hobbits entered into a lengthy discussion about the fish, whether it was done, and when they should eat.

Hobbits! sniffed Old Bill. Food and their own relations.. that's all they ever talk about. Nonetheless, the fish did smell awfully good. He thought of the lunch his wife had packed for him that morning which he carried in his rucksack: fresh bread, a block of white cheese, and a bottle of beer. He decided not to tell the hobbits of his own food. Maybe then they would offer him some of their fish. He could eat his own lunch later, after he had guided them (he snickered just a little bit) on their way.

Old Bill knew the land around the river like the veins on the backs of his hands. He had wandered those woods as a little boy and farmed the land nearby for close to forty years. If anybody was qualified to be a guide in those parts, it was Old Bill. He could guide them anywhere... straight into the Barrow Downs, if he wanted to. Boy, oh, boy, that was a creepy place. It would serve 'em right, the crummy little beggars with their nasty little snares!

He sidled away to the edge of the camp, all the while eyeing the cooking fish and plotting his revenge.

[ June 15, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]

06-14-2003, 05:58 PM	#23
Ealasaid Wight Join Date: May 2003 Location: under a large pile of dirt & gravel Posts: 193	By the time Old Bill arrived at the hobbits' little camp, he had regained his composure somewhat from his fall. He wasn't sputtering or grumbling anymore, but the knot on his forehead throbbed and his poor back didn't feel any the better for having taken the brunt of the fall. And he was still angry. He had had a perfectly nice day planned, pulling plunder (as he called it) out of the river, before he ran afoul of these accursed hobbits, with their nasty little snare and their low-hanging branches. Well, fine, he thought to himself. I have a few tricks of my own. The two hobbits he had encountered on the path ran ahead of him into the camp, the girl trumpeting, "We have found a guide! We have found a guide!" A guide, am I? thought Old Bill, following close behind. We'll see about that! He stomped into camp, puffing vigorously on his pipe, and bristled his eyebrows at the six new hobbits, treating each of them to a fierce scowl. As he did so, he heard little Rosie telling her companions, "Look there he is, his name's Old Bill, he's very nice!" At that, Old Bill attempted a grandfatherly smile at the bunch of them. He didn't smile much and wasn't quite sure how to do it properly, but he gave it a shot. The expression looked more like a pained grimace than a smile, but the collected hobbits did not seem to notice. The six hobbits of the camp were sitting next to a small campfire over which they were cooking fish on wooden skewers. Old Bill had been temporarily forgotten as all eight hobbits entered into a lengthy discussion about the fish, whether it was done, and when they should eat. Hobbits! sniffed Old Bill. Food and their own relations.. that's all they ever talk about. Nonetheless, the fish did smell awfully good. He thought of the lunch his wife had packed for him that morning which he carried in his rucksack: fresh bread, a block of white cheese, and a bottle of beer. He decided not to tell the hobbits of his own food. Maybe then they would offer him some of their fish. He could eat his own lunch later, after he had guided them (he snickered just a little bit) on their way. Old Bill knew the land around the river like the veins on the backs of his hands. He had wandered those woods as a little boy and farmed the land nearby for close to forty years. If anybody was qualified to be a guide in those parts, it was Old Bill. He could guide them anywhere... straight into the Barrow Downs, if he wanted to. Boy, oh, boy, that was a creepy place. It would serve 'em right, the crummy little beggars with their nasty little snares! He sidled away to the edge of the camp, all the while eyeing the cooking fish and plotting his revenge. [ June 15, 2003: Message edited by: Ealasaid ]