[Kransha]

“Work, work, nothing but work, that’s all anybody does around here.” Toby said loudly to himself. He paced with a frustrated air around the building site, near the stable.

In truth, Tobias Hornblower had done very little work during the past week. He’d avoided everyone’s attempts at convincing him to help and stayed keenly away from both the innkeeper and the dwarf, Regin Hardhammer, though he had engaged in one or two trivial discourses with Fredgar in times of most extreme boredom. From the way he paced, complained, and pointed randomly at unfinished sections of the inn, one might think he was some kind of supervisor. One poor deluded group of young hobbits had actually persisted with this belief, a fact which Toby used to his advantage at the time. Of course, he long since lost track of these Halflings and felt at a bit of a loss without anyone to boss around.

He hadn’t spoken to Snaveling, his would-be partner, in several days. Actually, he hadn’t seen much of the shady man either. The two of them had never attempted dialogue since the nearly failed trickery a week ago. Toby had often thought of trying to strike up a conversation with the man, but never got around to it. Today, though, he was particularly bored. The work dragged along like molasses as hefty folk milled around the property, looming over the shifty hobbit. Toby found no solace in scurrying around like a rat, even though many thought him most fitted for that. He needed something to do besides pace and think. The aged gentlehobbit was denied the ability to go back to Longbottom, since he’d unofficially volunteered himself to help out in the reconstruction of the Dragon and could see nothing else to do except pursue that goal.

Toby flitted with surprising agility towards the frail stable frame and inside, darting past the woman who he now knew all too well. He headed through the structure, past many folk who’d taken up temporary residence there on makeshift beds with some aspects of crude furniture to seem homely around them. The hobbit quickly passed several sleeping and rising men and hobbits until he saw the familiar form and face of that figure, who was currently reclining on the stable floor, his chest heaving up and down in slow succession.

It was early, and a warm blue sky had peeked through cold night to initiate the comforting arrival of a fresh day. In Longbottom, Toby was used to waking up early to tend his pipe-weed crop, even if he was too lazy to actually deal with them. He always inspected his fields early enough in the day, when the dawn sky was still barely tinged red with morning’s light, and then headed to an early breakfast. It was his one admirable quality, at least that he knew of. He had, in truth, enjoyed looking out on a new day’s warmth enveloping the slopes, fields, and glades of the Southfarthing of the Shire. It was quite a sight to wake up to, that hazy sun seemingly rippling into darkness and spreading its dappled paint of color over that sunless cloak.

“Mister Snaveling?” he murmured, leaning down to the man’s level.
He wasn’t sure if Snaveling was awake. He inspected the heavily breathing form and didn’t hesitate to poke it rather roughly in the backside with his knobby index finger.