[Kransha]

The day had seemed so calm before, despite minor annoyances and inconveniences biting like pestering gnats at Kalimac. Now, the prosperous hobbit found himself more muddled then ever before. The families were slowly but surely breaking out into a very perplexing argument. It had actually begun with him, seeming simple enough to end. Elsa had inquired, with surprising politeness (or at least Kalimac tried to take it as politeness) but obvious anger about the payment of the Chubb children. Too tired and annoyed by the day’s happenstance to respond, Kalimac simply appropriated Harold Chubb to explain the matter in simple terms. Unfortunately, his shifting of responsibility was interpreted as a pinning of blame, and Harold became defensive. Now his family had joined in the argument and Kalimac wasn’t entirely sure who was defending who. His wife, the ever-ready Elsa Whitfoot, heralded Kalimac onto the playing field by taking her anger out on Sarah Chubb, but swiftly turned to him and redirected her righteous fury.

“Surely our children are of infinitely more value than any coin!” concluded his wife after her brief, but caustic tirade at her husband. Kalimac, looking slightly floored by everything that was happening, managed a response meekly. He did not have time to consider what he was saying, so the awkward puddle of words promptly spilled out of his slacked jaw as he tried to salvage the ruined situation.

“Yes, yes, of course they are, that’s not the…umm…that’s not the issue here. I…I think…I think we can trust them with money. I mean, we’ve always paid them well before and they’ve never slacked off in their work, or even asked for forwarding of funds or any such financial aid, though they might sorely need it. It is not me who is being the fool here, Elsa, it’s just that….that…” his tiny voice shrunk, shriveled up, and finally faded from existence. He could think of no more to say an thus didn't bother trying.

For a moment, Kalimac looked like he really had no idea what he was saying, irritation, rage, befuddlement, confusion, and an utter sense of chaos welling up in him, but he immediately summed up all the plausible choices and was about to defend himself when he was interrupted hastily by the person he’d least expected to interrupt him, old Fordogrim Chubb. The old hobbit went on for a good minute, sending Kalimac’s maelstrom of a mind for a loop as he saw all the paths that lay before him dematerializing and materializing like fireflies in the night. He stood agape, utterly gone from sanity, as the elder drones on.

“Why any hobbit with even half the sense his mother gave him can see that a Whitfoot is about as suited for a journey of this type as an easy-chair. Sitting about in your comfortable holes all day, counting out the earnings that others with grit have made for you – that’s what you're good for.” The elder drew his almost narrative oration to a close, looking set in his decisions. Kalimac felt a vein on his neck throbbing unnaturally as one of his ears twitched, as they so often did.

“Now see here,” Roared Kalimac, suddenly feeling his voice, formerly hushed and meek, grow in volume and enraged splendor, “That is entirely uncalled for! You can insult me as much as you want, Mister Chubb, but, never make the mistake of insulting my family, my children, or my wife!”

He ranted on; moving forward slowly and nearing Fordogrim, as he summed his argument up, his voice swelled ten fold. The other hobbit seemed at least slightly reduced and Kalimac saw this as a good sign, so he moved, unfortunately, closer to his ‘opponent’ on this verbal field of battle. He saw too late the elder raising his cane and swiping it unintentionally near his own nose. To add to the cruelty of fate, it was at that moment that Kalimac chose to bow his head forward, making gestures like those he’s seen on the great orators and wandering speechmakers of Bree. The cane, as his wide eyes saw all too well, slapped right against Kalimac’s vulnerable nose. The hobbit stumbled back, clutching his now reddened nose angrily.

The cane’s thwacking against Kalimac’s face was not truly painful, but the hobbit could take no more of this. His small, usually pensive eyes, filled with unhobbit-like fire as he dove forward madly at the aged gentlehobbit, Fordogrim Chubb. The one hobbit’s cold fingers groped outward towards his foe’s open throat, though he missed miserably and only ended up fumbling forward awkwardly, his teeth grinding menacingly.

“YOU ADDLE-BRAINED OLD GOAT!” the usually reserved hobbit bellowed at the top of his small lungs, literally clamoring on top of poor Fordogrim. He would’ve punched himself in the round belly if he’d realized that he was attacking an elderly, venerable Halfling, but for once in his life, his thoughts leapt ahead of him as he half-tackled the grandfather, only to find his grasping, wrenching fingers filled with hobbit shirt collar, and his stomach filled with a well-aimed hobbit cane.