[Kransha]

Toby’s brooding was at last interrupted by a small commotion in the Common Room. He was far too circumspect and concerned to venture near it. He saw, after an instant of looking, that Snaveling was involved, as was Aman, and both were looking down at a trio of figures whose faces were mostly obscured by other activity. Tobias Hornblower tried unsuccessfully to catch a glimpse of the figures, but he was suddenly distracted by Snaveling, who was shooting him a knowing glance. He looked, reservedly, at his old friend, and was alarmed to see a look of great urgency. In an instant, the whole situation became clear, too clear for poor Toby. The authorities had come, as he knew they would. Thankfully, Snaveling was still with him, and had enough presence of mine to give a very noticeable signal. Panicking, Toby jumped to his feet and began a mad dash, as discreetly as he could, for the door, and an adequate hiding place.

He flitted out, with sprightly, but not jovial quickness in his feet. He dashed through the crowd, sticking to the shady walls and avoiding the vague pools of morning light that gathered together on the floor. He felt underhanded, illicit, even criminal, practicing such conspiratorial activity, but remaining unknown was of grave importance. The hobbit dearly wished that he had gotten the chance to explain his plight to at least Snaveling. But, he could not do so now, and was condemned to hope that he and Aman would understand. He would explain it to them as soon as he could, but he could no longer go to them. They would have to seek him out, and, maybe, they would remain his friends, and not expose him. He had quite a bit of explaining to do, a thought which tore at the front of his mind, but that was unimportant now. The hobbit had to find a hiding place that could house him, at least temporarily.

Toby thought of fleeing, but the Thain’s men probably had horses or ponies to ride, and he had nowhere to go. He resolved to stay on the inn’s grounds, but he could not go back into the inn itself, for his pursuers were there. Then, he saw his salvation: the stable. Without thinking, or considering what he might do, he high-tailed it to the stable and barged in, causing a number of nervous noises from the horses, many of which disconcerted Toby greatly. He headed back to the stall he’d slept in, but found it filled, by a disagreeable pony who neighed at him loudly, and snapped its horse jaws together at him. Hurriedly he back away from the stall that had been his, and spun, searching frantically for a stall that was empty. There were none. Every stall bore a horse, all of them braying and stamping and kicking. Only one stall held an animal that was not reacting aversely – the stall that held Snaveling’s (now Aman’s) mighty horse.

Tobias Hornblower had never liked horses. He remembered, distinctly, his last encounter with the creatures. It had been at the very place he stood now, in the stable of the Green Dragon. It was when the fire, which had begun, and later solved, all of his problems. He and his cousin, Fredigar, had been assigned the task of extricating the Dragon’s clients’ mounts from the burning stable. Toby had nearly gotten his head kicked off that day, more than once. If there was one thing he knew, it was that he hated horses. But, he could do nothing else, so he carefully opened the stable door, tiptoed in, with the horse staring at him, and shut the door quietly behind him. He began to move towards the back of the stall so he could conceal himself there, but the steed was blocking the way. The hobbit knew he could not get past the strong animal, so, he did the only thing he could think of doing…He began to talk to it.

“Alright, lad,” he said, “I don’t like you, and I’m willing to bet you don’t like me, but we’ve got to get through this together, got it? You let me stay here, and I won’t put every last drop of money I have to my name into making a fine lot of glue and horse meat out of you, alright?” Of course, this was a genuine absurdity, since Toby did not, presently, have any money, and he knew that if he did, he wouldn’t spend it on a grudge against a horse, but he was attempting to be as intimidating as a hobbit could be, and the only way to be intimidating, for him, was to act rich. Screwing up his face into a mighty scowl, Toby firmly planted himself and thrust his arm forward, pointing at the spot where he desired the steed to relocate to. “Now,” he said with an air of command and of power, “move.”

The horse did not look amused…or compliant. In fact, if it had had a readable face, one might’ve detected a look of incredulousness. Toby’s nature told him to be mad, to be furious with the animal, but his situation was simply to dire. He began to stutter uncontrollably, considering options. The thought of trying to dive past the horse and hide, occurred to him, but he realized that the horse would simply kick him, or do to him whatever horses did to those that they didn’t like. Stammering like a fool, he opted for sympathy, hoping that the beast would at least be able to understand simple emotion. “Move,” he said again, but less firmly, and he added, like a question after a long pause, “please?” The horse still did not move, and there was no hint of equestrian compassion in its noble eyes and drawn muzzle. Toby’s eyebrows furrowed darkly again and he tried a second time to assume the high ground, and force the horse from his way by verbal force. “C’mon, you filthy beast,” he demanded angrily, “move your great hide, or else!”

The horse whinnied sinisterly, printing his hooves several times in the soft earth, and Toby retreated miserably, backing up against the swinging stall door which he had closed behind him. With a sudden anarchic bray, the horse reared up, stabbing sharp hooves at the air too close to Toby, and the hobbit sunk back, quivering, into the stable corner. At last, the horse came down, and his braying ceased. It looked bemused, and its angry eyes lightened up, the fierce fire in them fading, to Toby’s relief. The elder Halfling managed to stagger to his feet, balancing on a trembling form that barely allowed hum to stand, and took a few half-steps forward, towards the serene steed. It was now completely calm, and Toby saw only one course of action. Very hesitantly, he laid his hand on the horse’s neck and mane, flinching constantly, but the horse did not react. Slowly, he let his rough palm glide along the steed’s sleek coat, caressing it, and then neatly patted its back. He tried, as hard as he could, to be unafraid – and tactful. “You know,” he said, semi-confidently, “there’s really nothing I can give, in exchange for sanctuary, but, if I ever come back into my fortune, I swear on my grandfather’s golden pipe, I’ll buy you so much provender that it’ll take more than two lifetimes to finish it all, and I’ll see that it’s good provender to. So, is it a deal?”

To his surprise, and overwhelming happiness, the steed of Snaveling took a few slight steps to the side, and threw its proud head back, indicating the stall corner. Testing the ground as he walked, as if it were water of unknown temperature, Tobias Hornblower moved into the corner and sat, allowing himself to sink into the piles of hay nestled there. The horse moved back into its place, positioning its head over the stall door, but shot one last look back at Toby. The weary hobbit managed to crack a meek smile. He had no idea why he had even bothered speaking to the horse. He probably could’ve convinced the horse to move simply by petting it, but somehow he thought that the animal knew of his promise…and, if ever the circumstances arose, he would be sure to keep it.

“Thank you.” He whispered, and the horse neighed back.

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

“You are the innkeeper, then?” said Fescue, completely forgetting that he had just been tricked. His mind was caught up in introductions. He considered himself quite the ladies’ man and, even though he wasn’t to keen on romancing any of the Big Folk, his familiar elegance took over. The innkeeper looked back at the strange little fellow with a polite smile on her face and said, “Yes, I am.” simply. Fescue pondered momentarily, scratching his clean, nearly polished chin like a philosopher of old. “I see…” he murmured, and then paused for a winding moment, looking off into the distance as a true thinker might. “Well, dear madam,” he then said, as he bowed pompously, “I am Fescue Bracegirdle. My two colleagues are Masters Spurge Proudfoot and Gromwell Boffin.” He indicated each of his Halfling cohorts, who gave curt little nods that the innkeeper acknowledged. “We are here on the business of the Thain, with dire news, of which you must be informed.”

Here he paused again, mulling over his words, and hushed his tone to a whisper. He realized that the man, Snaveling Tar-Carondil, who had deceived him a moment ago, was still beside Aman, looking a bit worried. This was very suspicious behavior, but Fescue Bracegirdle was, in fact, horrible at analyzing lies, and was also very bad with faces, which were very limiting factors for an officer of the law, but no one truly cared. It was family connections that had gotten him his position, even though he didn’t really know it. Speaking quietly, like a ready predator, he leaned toward Aman and said, “There is, dare I say it, a criminall on the loose, a scoundrel, a rogue, and a villain, and it is feared by the Thain that he may seek this very place as a hideout from the forces of justice.”

He was very surprised that the innkeeper did not gasp, or shriek, or do some other lady-like thing under the circumstance. He had fully expected the young maiden to swoon where she stood, but she did not. She simply said, a little more warily, “A criminal?” Questioning the words as if she thought Fescue might be fabricating them. This made Fescue very self-conscious, and slighted, but he didn’t let it show. Perhaps this wily female was merely concealing her normal instincts so that she could impress him, or some such thing. Though he would never admit it, the fairer sex was a complete mystery to him, so he plowed on.

“Yes, indeed;” he said, “a criminal most vile. I and my associates shall be remaining here, in the Green Dragon, to monitor any activity that may pertain to the rogue.”

Spurge suddenly piped up merrily, adding a tidbit to the conversation. “And,” he said, a devilish tone in his thuggish baritone, “since we’re on Thain’s business, we get free service.” But Fescue scowled at this, not realizing that it was actually a clever plan that Spurge had conjured uncharacteristically, and dismissed the thought as ignorance. “That is not necessary.” he said, “We’ve been endowed with more than enough necessary funds to pay for service.” Spurge grumbled and moved back, greatly annoyed that Fescue had again shot down his idea, which had, in truth, shown promise, but Fescue Bracegirdle was far too righteous to accept any improper activity from his two counterparts. Now, the innkeeper spoke.

“So, if you’ll excuse my asking, who exactly is this ‘rogue’?” She said, patient and unalarmed.

“I’m glad you asked.” said Fescue, “You will have to read this.”

The hobbit turned and yanked the scroll he had observed before out of Spurge’s baldric. He then neatly undid the thin ribbon that held it together, and unfurled the piece of parchment. It smelled of perfume, and of ink, and bore much intricate cursive on it. The whole content of the veritable proclamation was written in detailed, ornamented script, all in sable ink that looked still wet, and a bright red seal lay stamped at the bottom. Gripping each edge, he pushed it forward and held it open, allowing Amanaduial to read, as well as Snaveling, who was looking over her shoulder, worriedly.

Both quietly read the contents of the message:

One Tobias Hornblower, Hobbit man of Longbottom in the Southfarthing, formerly a respectable figure, is now to be regarded as a criminal, possibly dangerous, who is, at present, a fugitive in the Shire. It is advised that if any person sees or comes into contact with Hornblower, said person should swiftly report to a Shirriff or authority figure nearby. Hornblower may have links to several renegade organizations in and outside of the Shire, and is probably being funded by these syndicates, thus he may be in disguise as well. His presence alone may be considered espionage and criminal in itself. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to deal with Tobias Hornblower, as he has numerable dangerous and hostile colleagues. If he is apprehended, I condone extreme care and suggest that contact with the local authorities be made immediately.

Hornblower is short, around two and a half feet in height, has green eyes, brown hair, and has been described as ‘rat-like’ by several relatives and associates. He was last seen wearing a dark green waistcoat, brown breeches, a black cloak, and a brightly colored vest, though it is most probably that he has found new garb. Any persons fitting his description should be searched without delay.

In addition, one Opal Boffin is offering a modest reward for the capture of the fugitive, which has been augmented with a sizable bounty from me. Bringing Hornblower to justice is of the utmost importance, as his information may lead to exposure of other illicit activities in the Four Farthings. Those who receive this dispatch should consider it their duty to make all of these facts known to their surrounding communities. This dispatch has been sent to inns, taverns, estates, and county seats throughout the Shire. Locations that Hornblower has frequented in the past include the Hornblower Estate, the Drooping Willow Inn, and Hardbottle Hollow in the Southfarthing, Crickhollow and Bogmorton Tavern in the Eastfarthing, the Boffin Estate and Long Cleeve in the Northfarthing, and the Green Dragon Inn in Bywater.

There followed, after this paragraph, a rather large, relatively accurate ink sketch of the accused, with his name in large, thick print below the rendering, and more listed information.

Tobias Hornblower III – Charged With:
-Funding of Orcish activities, marauders, and ruffians
-Indirect participation in the subjugation of the Shire
-Indirect counts of assault and battery
-Numerous counts of petty larceny
-Grand larceny
-Murder

Paladin Took, Thain of the Shire,
Year 1433 by the Shire Reckoning,
The Great Smials, Tuckborough