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Buttercup
Buttercup wound her way through the crowd in the yard with a tray of ale filled mugs on a tray held high above her head with one hand. Rebuilding the Inn was thirsty work, and many were the smiles she got as she brought to the laborers resting in the field.
That smell again teased her nose. Some sort of pipe-weed she just couldn’t quite place. Like a hound sniffing out the trail of an elusive coney, she followed the scent and found the source. There, sitting with the gaffer, was one of the local lads. Harold Brandybuck – an ale in one hand and a pipe in the other.
The gaffer waved at Buttercup as she drew near. She plunked a fresh half pint in front of him, noting he too had a pipeful of the good smelling pipeweed. ‘Oh my!’ she exclaimed, taking another whiff of the smoke. ‘I’ve never smelled anything like it.’ She looked at Harold, smiling broadly. ‘What’s it called,’ she asked. Then, sitting herself down with the both of them asked if she might try a little . . .
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Eldest, that’s what I am . . . I knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from Outside.
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