[Kransha]

Someone else was sneaking about in the Dragon as well.

Tobias Hornblower.

Toby, after eavesdropping on the conversation between Amanduial and Snaveling in the stables, an event which he regretted having heard, had managed to assume his long lost vermin’s tendencies and scurry into the inn unnoticed by most, and most importantly, unnoticed by the innkeeper and her wiles. He still had to avoid her, as much as he didn’t want to, but was now also occupied by the matter of Snaveling and Aman. They went together, as the saying went in Longbottom, like weed to a pipe. Toby didn’t bother denying it. In fact, he’d been subconsciously denying the fact, or at least ignoring it. He was wistfully unaware, though he had good reason to be so. He was darkly preoccupied with his own matters. If such a thing had happened in the old days, before the ill sequence of events that had befallen Toby, he might’ve played matchmaker if he could. He done such things back in Longbottom, and was accredited among Hornblower’s for bringing about the weddings of several of his close relatives…though mostly for personal gain.

The elderly hobbit wondered now, miserably, what he would do. His inner, hobbitish instinct kept driving him to and fro like a meek little fishing boat in a storm. He continually considered making his concerns known, publicly, to someone at least. The burden was making his entire existence a continual cycle of repetition and wariness. Being circumspect might be routine for some, but Toby wasn’t used to this heightened level of cautiousness. He disliked it…he really disliked it, and had had enough. But still, he could not make up his mind about what to do. He was lost in a sea of choices, which should’ve been a good thing, but was instead more hindering and cumbersome. It made him feel obtuse, in truth, and that irked him most. He was compulsory, and though he often schemed and conspired, his skill at being decisive was always sharp and ready. For once, it had been dulled, leaving Toby at wit’s end and in the dark.

He sat in the dark as well, for the sunny light, fair and golden, streaming through the inn’s windows did not reach him. He had taken up temporary residence at a corner table, at the dark side of the Common Room, surrounded by bustling folk who obscured any view of him. He looked across the room every so often at Snaveling, or Aman, simply to see if they were looking back. He did not want them to be, if they were, but part of him wished they knew. He held his weary head in his hand and breathed deeply, hoping to calm himself. The hobbit kept glancing, almost involuntarily, at Snaveling, who looked to have become almost as much a hermit as he. But Toby knew that Snaveling had nothing to hide, and that was the difference between them…though he did, perhaps, have some things.

Suddenly, it hit him (again). He could tell Snaveling. He didn’t know why he hadn’t done it before. The eyes of Aman had not been on him all night. He’d thought of this before, but not mustered the courage to do anything. Now he could. Toby could simply approach his compatriot, take him aside, and carefully explain the situation. It was simple; painfully simple, in fact. Toby could not believe he had not done it before. His face warmed up, his ears quivered nobly, and his chest inflated. Then, like a King ascending, he stood…

And sat back down again a moment later. He couldn’t do it, no matter what circumstances. The hobbit could not bring himself to force his woes on a friend, or even break to him the news. Even a close and dear friend would probably misinterpret it, or not understand. He buried his head in his hands again, kneading his sore temples, and pulled himself back into the refreshing shade, hoping to conceal himself fully from any onlookers. There was nothing for him to do, except await the painful inevitability that was to come.

--------------------------------------------

Not far away, an obnoxious voice woke up those animals on either side of Bywater Road who were still sleeping.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!”

Scratching the swollen wart on his bulbous nose, Spurge Proudfoot dug his proud feet harshly into the grizzled haunches of an ancient pony, causing it to bray uncomfortably and, instead of quicken its pace, buck and slow to a standstill. Growling, his murderous rage at the horse full to bursting, the hobbit struck the beast mightily, creating a resounding clap that reverberated in his ears. He clasped one hand to his ear, and the other’s chubby digits tightened on reins slippery with sweat. The horse brayed more madly, and printed his weakened hooves in the dusty earth, sending up a torrent of sandy mist that manufactured a shroud around the pony and his rider. Atop the animal, the hobbit swayed and lurched, his ear-gripping hand now coming to his stomach and grasping a monstrous belly that sagged in his hand. Spurge Proudfoot was definitely not a very apt rider. Twisting his face into a foul grimace he leaned and looked forward at the mounted figure on the well-trodden road in front of him. “Why don’t you slow down, hotfoot.” He yelled towards the figure heatedly, “You know I’m not good with these blasted pennies!”

The figure not far off, barely noticeable by Spurge through the newly sprung curtain of dust, turned his pale-faced head, shaking it in an admonishing fashion. “They’re called ponies, Spurge, not pennies.” He cried back, emphasizing the word ‘pennies’ as if he were stabbing something, his voice pointed and precise. Spurge’s lip curled disdainfully, and he spurred his mount out of the dust cloud until, after much unwieldy gallivanting, he had maneuvered it up to a point on the road just behind the other horse and rider. “You think I care what they’re called?” he growled crudely, half muttering and half speaking to the other Halfling, “Doesn’t change the fact that they’re smelly, and slow, and stupid.” The other hobbit turned, flicking his long and tangled mop of hair to and fro on his head. “Well, maybe you should shut your trap.” He retorted glumly (this being the reason why he was most often called “Glumwell” Boffin, rather than his real and true name, Gromwell). His words were dry and witless, but he seemed to be more in charge of his verbal faculties. Spurge, who was known as “Splurge” to Gromwell only, often slurred words together and, despite a long and grueling education, had not mastered his own tongue.

“Maybe you should learn to ride better, so’s you don’t hafta complain all the time.”

“Maybe you should think a little before you open your big mouth, less’n you wanna fist in your face someday.”

A third voice interjected before both pony-riding hobbits came to blows. It was a delicate, grandiose voice, that of a theatrical being, with annunciation and a voice for the stage, or, perhaps, for the birds, depending on how long one was forced to hear it. The voice said: “Maybe both of you should show a little tact and settle down before some ill-mannered tussock burgeons between you. We’re on a mission, remember.” Not missing a beat, Gromwell echoed the last line, smirking moronically. “Yeah, we’re on a mission.”

The source of the voice was Fescue Bracegirdle, a flowery, overblown Hobbit, stuffed into his clothes as if he were being worn by them, rather than them by him. He had a black-haired head, and a face that was heroic and debonair at first, and later became stifled, conservative, and ridiculous to look at. One had to admit, though, his face, and his overly regal attitude was much more tolerable that Spurge’s oafish thug persona, and Gromwell’s intolerably wormy nature. Fescue was the self-styled leader of the trio, even though he was also higher up on the scale of intelligence, and of many other things. Neither Gromwell nor Spurge cared about this, though. They were content to be in the business they were in, which was a busy business, certainly. The trio was all in the government business, or so they claimed. Really, they merely worked for the barely official government of the Shire, which, in Tookland and least, consisted of the Thain and his men. Thain’s men did not have the same power that local Shirriffs and Postmasters had, and had comparatively less, but they still had some minor duties. Most of those duties were the same, delivering the Thain’s messages on whims to the Shirriffs, who then delivered messages to the local populace. Fescue thought that his position was greater than this, but such a rank was above his own. He was merely in charge of a personal delivery, though he considered it to be much more.

“See, Master Proudfoot?” Fescue continued, in his aloof, dated tone of voice, “Gromwell has the right idea. Perhaps you should take etiquette lessons from Master Boffin, if you ever wish to gain a position of authority…like me.” He puffed out his miniscule chest, and his mount gave a whinnying neigh that resembled a sigh of annoyance, and could easily be misconstrued as such. Spurge grumbled, muttering inaudibly to himself, though the words, “Position of authority my foot!” were clearly heard by Gromwell. He might’ve have raised the proverbial alarm on Spurge, but he was cut short by another proclamation by Fescue Boffin as the trio crested a small, grassy ridge, flanking hilly fields, and a lump of a building came into site nearby. Fescue jabbed his finger forward, striking a dashing pose and nearly falling off his ‘noble steed.’ “Ah, yes.” He said daringly, “There she is, lads; the Green Dragon Inn: our charge.”

Spurge scratched his head. “Why are we charging? Is the criminal in there?”

“No.” Fescue snapped, almost losing his well-maintained composure, “We’ve been charged with the defense of the Green Dragon, and defend it we shall, upon the mighty bulwarks of Eriadorian law. I do not doubt that the place is filled with poor, defenseless souls in need of rescue. I assure you, boys, some will panic when we tell them the horrid news, but we will yet prevail. For we, my comrades in arms, are in the service of the Thain, and shall not shirk our duties, may they be physical, clerical, or lackadaisical.” With a powerful gesture, he goaded his steed on, and Gromwell followed up the oratory with a loud and triumphant, “Indeed!” He looked down on the Green Dragon Inn, aiming his beady eyes at the small stable that adorned it.

The three had soon clip-clopped their merry way to the stable, which was, to their mild surprise (and Spurge’s dismay) without a stable master. Fescue, Gromwell, and Spurge managed to wade through some high layers of hay and deposit their ponies in some unoccupied stalls, some of the few that were unfilled. One horse, though, was giving them a very hard time, braying and neighing and making an assortment if loud noises that grated on Spurge’s easily grated nerves. Of course, when he turned to see the animal that had made him so irate, he forgot his annoyance in light of the awesome nature of the creature. It was a noble and mighty animal, not like anything found in the Shire. It seemed almost undomesticated, wild and free, though it was compliant with the terms of its stall.

“Tha’s a mighty fine penny!” remarked Spurge,

“It’s 'pony',” commented Gromwell, as he gave his own pony a firm pat on the haunch that caused the beast to make a glancing kick at him with its front leg, though it missed utterly, “and that’s not a pony. That’s a horse.” Managing to ignore the equestrian experience, Gromwell turned and picked hay disgustedly off of his uniform. Spurge glowered at him as Fescue busied himself looking at the horses, scrutinizing them for some unknown, but no doubt very important, reason. “Well, how’m I supposed to know the difference?” Spurge Proudfoot shot back menacingly, shooting a sharp look at his rival. “You’re not,” Gromwell nimbly replies, “‘cuz you’ve got a head as thick as unchurned butter!” At last Fescue turned and placed his outstretched hands between the two as they stared each other down. “Now, now, lads,” he said coolly, though still overblown in his speech, “we ought not to be quarrelling over such petty matters, yes? Remember, we’ve been-”

“Yeah, charged.” Spurge interrupted him, sulking, “I got it.”

“I’ll bet.” Gromwell snapped.

Fescue ignored them both, musing and scratching his carved chin. “Mayhaps,” he philosophized to himself, “the chief ostler is not in at the moment.” Gromwell nodded dutifully, like any canine ought to (and the situation would’ve been vastly improved if he was a canine). “Mayhaps.” He said, acting in his customary fashion, as the precise and accurate echo of Fescue Bracegirdle. Fescue gave him a friendly look, the kind of look that master gives a dog, saying ‘for that, you get a bone later,’ and then said, in his heroic manner, that had already become annoying to the very air around him, and the horses, “Then let us proceed within.” And as they al left, he did not bother to note that many of the steeds let out neighs of relief.

So they entered, and found no one to accommodate them. The place was bustling with mid-morning activity, that of hobbits and men alike, who all cluttered the floors and tables. There was no person who seemed to stand out – to them – as innkeeper, or proprietor, or a person of some powerful position. With Fescue in the lead, the trio sauntered through the Common Room, very much expecting everyone to move out of their way, but no one did. Annoyed, they worked their way forward, searching for someone with authority. They found no one who had any, that they knew of, but they did manage to locate a fellow who looked as if he did. They did not know, at the time, that his name was Snaveling, so they did not call him that – or, Fescue did not, the other two did not like the Big Folk, and felt likewise about speaking to them. So, Fescue Bracegirdle addressed the well-clothed, nobly groomed, and kingly fellow called Snaveling.

“Fine sir.” He said, tapping the man on the shoulder as he sat, reclusively, despite his crowded surroundings, in a small chair, “You seem to be very…gargantuan…in stature and in gait. Perhaps you, a man of such noble girth and eminence, might be able to direct us to the proprietor of the most indomitable establishment?"