A Land to Call Their Own RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

By the time the Chubbs were clearing the supper dishes, a heavy fog had blanketed the entire camp, veiling the families and their belongings in an eerie haze. Harold had gone off to fill his family's leather water pouches. Everyone was camped beside a gentle tributary that branched off the Baranduin and then ran westward, one that the Hobbits had taken to calling "The Water"

Refilling the bottles and turning back to camp, Harold inched forward with some difficulty since he could see no further than a few inches in front of his nose. The Hobbit shuddered as he heard the screech of a hoot owl, but continued to tramp through the thick underbrush, although he was barely able to make out the path leading towards the camp. By this point, darkness had totally swallowed up the few brave stars that had earlier attempted to shine out from behind a heavy curtain of clouds.

Harold heaved an audible sigh of relief when he finally managed to find his way back to the clearing and saw Sarah seated on the ground waiting for him next to the campfire.. Marcho had already warned the others that he expected them to set out on the road very early in the morning. Most had gone to bed shortly after dinner.

Harold and Sarah were the only two still awake in camp. They sat hand in hand, quietly whispering to each other about the events of the day. Finally, Sarah stretched, yawned and stood up, indicating that she was going off to prepare for bed. Harold puttered around the campfire a few more minutes, extinguishing the last of the glowing cinders and throwing a bit of water and dirt onto the pit to make sure it was entirely cold.

Hastily retreating to the wagon, Sarah yanked a nightgown over her head. She stopped for a moment to unlatch her precious topaz necklace and carefully hung it on the nail that Harold had pounded into the sideboard expressly for this purpose. Soon both Hobbits were asleep in their bedrolls, the same as the other travellers. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Grandpa Fordo who had earlier that evening drawn the short stick and was now supposed to be on sentry duty. Grandpa was patrolling the perimeter of the campsite, armed only with his sharp wits and a cane. His sole companion was his horse Stout who trotted along comfortably beside him.

The day had been long, and Granda's eyes were growing heavy. He sat down for a moment in a comfortable patch of leafy ferns and tall grass, positioning his back against a massive oak. He intended to rise in just a moment to continue his inspection of the camp. But the grass was like velvet, soft and inviting; the crickets sounded their sweet serenade. In the distance, a great owl hooted again, this time in a much gentler tone. Soon, Grandpa's head nodded once and then twice as it fell to the side and grazed against his shoulder. The old Hobbit was sound asleep......


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The Hobbit camp was arranged in three distinct sections. The Fallohide wagons were drawn together in a circle near the front of the line, on the side of the compound closest to the river. Landowners and forest dwellers, the Fallohides tended to own the larger and faster ponies, and thus had less difficulty keeping up with the line of march. Morever, their proximity to the river gave them the advantage of not having to go so far in order to fill their water skins and lug them back again. The few Stoors among the travellers were positioned in the middle, while the Harfoot families who made up the single largest group of Hobbits, remained at the rear of the procession, set back the farthest from The Water.

A dark shadow slunk in from the east and then squatted in the thick grasses and bracken that lined the base of the hill. Garlin Woolthistle, former citizen of Bree, a rascal and scoundrel to boot, was descended from a long line of burghurs that had once served as proprietors of the Prancing Pony. But that was in another lifetime. Garlin's overfondness for good ale and his well known dislike of the Little Folk had doomed him to failure as a barkeeper at the Inn. He had lost his reputation and most of his possessions, and was finally reduced to earning a living by thievery and other questionable means.

Dressed entirely in black and wearing a hooded cloak pulled low over his face, Garlin hid behind a boulder. He cautiously stood up and peered into the night, trying to get a better look at the long procession of travellers who were camped near The Water. He had actually been following the Hobbits ever since they had crossed the Baranduin River, but always being careful to stay out of sight.

Tonight, he decided, would be a good time to strike. He was very adept at what he did. Garlin reasoned that the stupid Little Folk would never know what hit them. They were all sound asleep and the only sentry on duty, an old man who apparently didn't carry a weapon, was also snoring as well. Garlin reached down and fingered the belt at his side, feeling the outline of his sword hilt and his two throwing daggers. He would rather depend on speed and stealth than brute force but he would use the weapons if it became necessary.

As the shadowy figure slunk into camp, he came to the rear of the procession where the Harfoot families were camped. Quietly he went from wagon to wagon, ransacking the chests and bags that the families had brought with them. He took a trinket or two out of each family's luggage: a brass candlestick, a shiny copper dish, a sharp dagger, a sturdy axe and a host of other small items, none of them terribly valuable. He dropped each one in a cloth sack that he carried on his back. Only when he'd come to the last wagon did he see something that attracted his attention. On a nail at the side of the wagon hung a lovely necklace with a gleeming topaz stone. He grinned at the sight of it. This would make his entire night worthwhile! He hurriedly stuffed it inside his pocket before retreating back to the river. He had confined his activities to the Harfoot families and had never gotten to the other parts of camp where the Stoors and the Fallohides were sleeping.....

***************************************

A little boy in the Whitfoot family stirred nervously in his sleep. He had been having a very bad dream. He bolted upright in bed and shook the sleep out of his eyes. He knew he shouldn't go very far, but he felt he would bust if he didn't get out for a minute. Quietly slinking out of his bedroll, he sprinted down towards the river, taking a quick drink of water and then immediately coming back to his family and slipping under the bedclothes.

The one thing he did not know was that Adelard, the biggest gossip in the entire camp, had spied him running back and forth and begun to wonder what sort of mischief he had gotten into....

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim felt a light familiar touch on his arm and he awoke with a start. At first, he did not know where he was but remembrance came quickly. I’m on watch, he cursed himself, and here I am falling asleep on the job! A welcome voice called out to him and he looked up into the suddenly bright night Where did the fog go? And what’s that full moon doing up there, he’s not due for another week? and saw Prim standing in the grass looking down at him with that lovely little smile of hers.

She was not as he had seen her before she went away, but young and lovely once more, with round cheeks like apples and that complexion like fresh cream. Fordogrim smiled like roses blooming. “Why Prim!,” he cried, “What are you doing here? Not that you aren’t a sight for my tired old eyes.”

Prim only smiled. “Hello, Grim my love. Are you well?”

“As well as can be, my dear, what with the journey that we’re on. Did you know…”

She laid her hand on his arm, cutting him off, and said, “Grim. I’ve been getting your letters, I know all about it. You’ve been very hard on young Marcho, you know, he’s only been doing what he thinks is best.” He looked down at the grass and mumbled something inaudible. Prim continued, “How are Harold and Sarah? And the children?”

“May and Henry are well, if a fine couple of trouble-makers. You should be that proud of Mayflower, Prim, she grows more and more like you every day. Such a spirit she has! Harold’s well, although he and I are having a bit of rough patch right now. He’s kind of stuck, I think, between home and where we’re going and I can’t help but wish that he were unstuck, and unstuck my way, if you know what I mean.” He looked up at his wife and saw that she did. He smiled. “We nearly had some words just earlier today, but he’s like you in that he knows when to hold his tongue and let his actions do his talking for him” his mind went back to the hug he had received from his son. “He’s not like his father in that way at all is he my love?”

“No, Grim, he isn’t. But he’s like you in other ways. Remember how he charged after the wolves with you? At least we know he’s as thoughtless and fool-headed as his father.”

“Maybe, maybe.” Fordogrim brooded a bit more before speaking. “I’m afraid that I was something quick with Sarah as well. She tried to speak with me today about things, but I was that bebothered and confusticated by Harold that I kind of snapped back at her and refused to speak with her properly. I’m afraid that she and I are just never going to see eye to eye on things.” He recalled with shame the curt words he had used in response to Sarah’s desire to talk with him about the family. She had chosen a bad moment – Fordogrim was still angry about the journey and feeling in a fouler and fouler mood with each day that passed. He didn’t want anything but a fight at the moment.

“You should try harder to get along with them, you know” Prim said. “They are your family. Sarah’s a difficult person, I know, but so are you! And she is our Harold’s wife, and look how much he loves her!”

“You’re right, I know, but it’s that hard for me to get along with folk, and it only seems to have got harder since you went away.” He looked up at Prim and marvelled at her beauty. “How did you get here my love? And why are you looking so well? You look just like you did the day we met, and I know that’s not possible…”

She smiled at him once more and cupped his chin in one hand. Leaning close she kissed him on his forehead. “Maybe you’re dreaming.”

“Aye, I think I am.” And with a start, he awoke.

[Kransha]

For the first time in days, Kalimac Whitfoot felt like he welcomed sleep. Even though he did not and would have preferred to be on watch instead of old Fordogrim Chubb, he accepted the heaviness of his eyelids. Sand filled his stern orbs as they shut reluctantly. There had been some minor mishaps recently, which had alarmed Elsa as he expected, but oddly enough, that bumbling ancient fool of a Harfoot had done something right for once and saved his own offspring from watery talons, if one could call them that. Kal wanted to make amends, but he still tried to convince himself that the Chubb had done all of this rescuing by accident. He’d never gotten around to giving Fordogrim a hearty thanks for his deed, but he assured himself that he’d do it eventually. Now, he was content to sleep and dream of better things.

Bree had always been beautiful to him, but this new land, a land that was at least partially his by right, would be so much greater and he knew it. He could see the vast land stretched out before him on a mental plane; endless greenery as far as the eye could see, rolling hills that dipped and sloped like oceanic waves, lush treed groves dotting the subtle horizon, a red-rimmed golden sun hanging aloft in the sky; it was the stuff stories were written about. Through hardships and woe, through mishap and mischance, the company if Halflings would come to a new home after a harrowing quest to be remembered eternally by hobbit kind. It was a story that his children, Crispin and Alora, would tell to his grandchildren as he sat in some billowing-cushioned lounge chair in a cozy study, smoking a pipe and watching wisps of smoke climb to his ceiling and expand out into the room’s warm air. He could hear the crackling fire and the birds chirping with their chiming notes from outside and the gentle yet rhythmic fluttering of their delicate wings.

His dream was vivid enough to give him that idea, at least. There were fields everywhere decked with flowery gardens and neat little houses all around. He could see the new hobbit abodes, and yet their shape was unperceivable to his sleeping eye, so he dismissed the contours of his new world and surveyed the landscape and the flowing rivers that severed the horizon in two. It was such a stunning sight, a golden hue covering the land offset by the natural green of the amber gardens. He saw Crispin, Alora, and Elsa, standing on the cobblestone path that lead through a great garden to what he knew to be his home. Unfortunately, there was now a rainy sheet coming down upon the area and the hobbit folk around fled inside. But still, it was so perfect: a quiet, peaceful, tranquil, uninterrupted paradise for his kind.

The first ray of sunlight struck Kalimac from his reverie, beaming almost through his shielding eyelid as the eye opened and bringing the new day in with blinding force. Slowly, the hobbit rubbed sand from his eyes and tried in vain to stand, only sagging into a crumpled heap of Halfling looking up at the wagon he’d fallen asleep leaning again. Yawning and groaning, Kalimac pushed himself up into a sitting position and smoothed the wrinkles in his dusty vest, grumbling under his breath. A new day had dawned, as Kalimac kept reminding himself. The night had soothed his racing mind, but now work had to be done again and more progress had to be made. Snorting with indignation at nothing in particular, Kalimac tried to stand again and failed just as quickly as he had the first time, landing where he had before.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Harold opened his eyes and sat up with a great yawn. He stumbled over to the wagon where his wife had saved a few taters for breakfast. Harold's stomach growled: he thought he could already smell the sweet aroma of the taters frying in the pan.

Glancing over to the sideboard of the wagon, Harold was shocked to note that his wife's topaz necklace was not its usual loation. He distinctly remembered her removing it from her lovely neck and placing it on the nail. Overnight, the necklace had completely disappeared. In a frenzy, Harold desperately searched all around the wagon . He overturned boxes and strewed utensils on the floor as he tore the family's belongings apart.

Just when he was about to give up his search, he heard his neighbor Lavender Goodbody shrieking in frustration at the top of her lungs, as she complained about the loss of her mother's heirloom candlestick. From another wagon, he heard a cry from someone who couldn't find his axe for chopping wood. Harold couldn't believe that all these Hobbits had suddenly become careless with their most important possessions. Yet at the same time he didn't want to think that one of his fellow Hobbits would do such a sneaky thing. But what other conclusion could he possibly draw? Whoever the thief had been, he must have been very experienced not to wake any of his victims. And of all the things he owned, this was the one he valued most because he had worked so hard for it, and it was a loving present to his wife. He vowed to catch the person who had stolen such a precious object.

Harold barked out a curt warning to his wife and father to get up quickly because Sarah's necklace was missing and had probably been stolen. Then he stormed off frustrated and angry in the direction of Marcho. Perhaps Marcho would know who had perpetraed this wretched crime. On his way, he noticed that none of the Stoor or Fallohide families had been visited by the thief. Harold thought that rather suspicious, but reminded himself that jumping to premature conclusions was not wise. Marcho was standing by his wagon as Harold arrived.

"Marcho, we've got a serious problem. Last night my wife set her necklace in its usual place on a nail in the wagon. Now, it's missing. I searched everywhere but couldn't find it. And thast's not all! Many of my Harfoot neighbors can't find their belongings either. I don't mean to blame you, but I'm very upset. Could we talk to everybody in camp and see if they heard any strange noises or saw something suspicious last night? Let me get my father who had watch duty. Maybe he knows something."

[alaklondewen]

Marcho was not pleased by the news brought by Harold Chubb. Missing property was one thing, but stolen property was a serious issue, especially if a hobbit among them was the offender. As the scout followed the Harfoot through the camp to meet Fordogrim, he noticed that no one among the Fallohides and Stoors appeared to be troubled. Could this be simply an attack on the Harfoots? Of course, it might be possible that a few things were misplaced, or one of the children was playing a prank.

When Fordogrim came into view, Harold went ahead of Marcho and spoke a few hushed words to his father. The scout saw the elder shake his head and look slightly confused.

“Mr. Chubb,” Marcho tipped his head in greeting. “You were guard last night. Do you remember hearing or seeing anything out of the ordinary, Sir?” The Fallohide knelt next to the hobbit and awaited his reply.

[Memory of Trees]

May tossed in her hard bed in the wagon. It was too hot in here to sleep, and besides, she wasn't feeling sleepy anyway. Quietly, she got up and stole gently across the wagon bed and out into the cool night air. She padded down to the water's edge and sat down in the soft grass. For the first time that day May felt as if she could breathe.

It was a clear, cool night, and May turned her face up to the velvet sky. The stars seemed so close tonight, so real, as if she could reach up and touch any one of them. May tried to imagine what touching a star would be like. Cold, like ice, she thought, but it would burn and tingle, too. Fiery ice. May looked up at the sky and imagined strumming the stars with her fingertips. Just like harp strings, she imagined. They would probably make music, too, clear and haunting and ancient, just like the sky itself. Singing stars. May closed her eyes and smiled.

There was a noise from the wagon. Glancing over her shoulder, May saw her father leave the wagon. His lamp made eerie shadows in the grass as he strode off toward Mister Bolger's wagon. Wonder what he's up to? May thought.

She laid back on the soft hill of dirt she was sitting on. As much as she'd tried to forget the day's events, the images kept playing themselves over and over in her mind. And Adelard's sneering face was right in the middle of them.

~~~

It had started after the forest episode. Adelard was in a nasty mood the next day (surprise, surprise), and determined that someone should pay for "dragging him off into the forest and injuring his innocent person." He demanded that whoever was responsible should be forced to care for him until his was sufficiently recovered from his illness. And yes, of course. Mayflower Chubb was entirely responsible for the entire mishap.

Or so Adelard was convinced.

And what could her mother and father do? She had been irresponsible, and she should be punished. Besides, the Proudfoots were a very wealthy family!

May was furious, to say the least. Any sympathy she had felt for the Proudfoot boy had vanished when his stood, face purple with rage, pointing an accusing finger at her, and yelling about what an injustice she had caused him. No, May was not pleased at all.

And right now May was quite convinced that she hated Addy Proudfoot. With all her heart she hated every inch of his fat, stuck-up self.

May got up and returned to the cart.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim was shocked to see the sun almost above the horizon when he opened his eyes. He felt immediate shame at having slept through the night and not waking the next watch. He hoped that nothing had gone wrong while he had been asleep. “Of all the woolly-pated, knuckle-skulled pumpkin heads in the world. Fordogrim, you must be one of the worst,” he railed at himself. Stout leant down his old head and nuzzled Fordogrim as though to assure him that there was one creature in the world, at least, who loved him as much as Prim had. Fordogrim’s scowl transformed into a smile at the memory of his dream. It had been so real that he cast about on the ground for signs of her footsteps, but there were none, of course. Harold’s shadow loomed on the grass before him and Fordogrim scrambled to his feet (with more than a little help from his son).

Harold quickly informed him of the apparent thefts and asked if he had heard or seen anything on watch last night. Fordogrim immediately thought of his vision but decided that was probably not the kind of thing his son was asking after. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t say as I did.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “But I wasn’t altogether…well…you see, I couldn’t have seen everything that happened last night for I, well…” Fordogrim never liked to admit when he was at fault, and given the gravity of his mistake, he found telling his son a difficult thing. He had never approved of the necklace, Useless gewgaw, but he knew how much it meant to Harold and Sarah and he felt bad that he had been the cause of its theft.

Marcho Bolger chose that moment to approach and demand (or so it seemed to the elderly hobbit) if he had seen anything suspicious. Fordogrim scowled at the scout and retorted sharply. “As I was just a-saying to my son, who’s already asked me that question, no, I did no see anything out of the ordinary, or in the ordinary for that matter. For I was, well, to be as honest as I’d hope any hobbit would be – I was asleep. I know that I shouldn’t a-been sleeping” he rushed ahead of Marcho’s recriminations, “but there it is: I was. Now, I’m not one to go about casting blame away from me as belongs to me, but if you leave an old hobbit whose been attacked by wolves and saving certain children from rivers to try and keep his eyes open, when younger ones than his get to close for the night, well, I think you can’t complain overmuch when those old eyes fail you.”

Marcho seemed on the verge of speaking but Fordogrim did not give him the chance. His temper had been on a slow boil for days, and now it had hit the very limit of the pot’s endurance. As he saw things, he’d been dragged from his home and lead through the wild to be assaulted by Whitfoots, threatened by wolves, and now accused by Bolgers – to make matters worse, the son who had taken him on this wild-brained, crack-headed fool-hearted venture now stood beside the very scout who had taken them into the wild and exposed them all to these dangers…and Fordogrim to the sting of his own guilty conscience. None of this, he reflected angrily would have happened if I’d been allowed to live out my life in my own hole! The elderly hobbit rounded on his son. “Don’t you dare stand there accusing me with that crack-brain Bolger scout. If we hadn’t come on this gallavant we’d none of us be in the dangers we’re in, and you and I would still be comfortable and happy in our hole! You should have a-listened to me, my son, and stood well enough alone! I know why you came out here, though! I know! It was your wife as led you to it! And you, squandering good money on a ridiculous necklace – a necklace that’s good for nothing more than puffing up her vanity and attracting the eyes of thieves! I won’t say I’m glad it’s been stolen, but I ain’t sorry it’s gone!” Days of fury and frustration, of anxiety and of feeling old, of the incessant pain in his leg and of the ache in his heart – all of it came out, motivated and set afire by his shame at having failed his family in his duty. “I know what you all think of me: ‘Useless old Grandpa Fordo. Good for naught but nagging word and to tag along at our heels.’ Well, it’s true, and I guess we’ve all seen it now!”

As he raged, the tears started in his eyes, and he longed for the calming presence of Prim. But she was gone now, and he was alone.

[Witch_Queen]

Sarah was relieved that she had finally reached her new home. Though she was heart broken since Fordo had died on the journey. She didn't see any reason to make a mushroom pie anymore. It was because of him she had made them.

She didn't know what else to do now with him gone. Her life had an empty place in it. She still had her family. She was finally happy for a chance in her life. Even if her father-in-law had died only days ago. Sarah still shed a tear for the loss.

[Regin Hardhammer]

Harold sat contently gazing out from the front step of his burrow onto his family’s fields as he rocked back and forth in the old oak chair. A slight breeze tickled his chin and swept through the rolling hills of green. The afternoon was sunny and warm and the time was drawing near to harvest. He sat in front of a snug burrow that had a round yellow door and a few smaller circular windows. Daises, roses, and sunflowers lifted their bright faces and sprang up all around the garden surrounding the burrow.

Three years ago he had arrived in the Far Downs, part of a parcel of land that had since been renamed the Shire. At first, Harold had been completely opposed to leaving Bree, the land he had known all his life. On the way to their new home, the Hobbits had encountered wolves, thieves, and many other dangers, but were able to keep together because of their determination as well as the guidance of their leader Marcho. Harold was certainly glad that he never had to use a scythe for anything other than cutting grain again.

When they first arrived in the new land, Harold and his family had very conflicted feelings. On the one hand, they did not have to journey anymore and could begin their new life. On the other, they still did not have any land of their own, and held a lingering sadness from the death of old Fordo. Perhaps the journey had been too much for him. Maybe, Harold reflected, if I had stayed in Bree, he would still be with us. But my family did not decide to leave Bree: the Whitfoots decided for us.

The hardships of the journey had forced the three groups of Hobbits to band together in order to survive. Harold had begun to feel more responsibility to the community as a whole, rather than just his own family or the other Harfoots. Apparently, the Fallohides had felt the same way; Kalimac and Marcho had discussed the matter of land with the others and they had agreed to grant small farmsteads to the Harfoot families.

Although he still missed his father dearly, Harold no longer felt that the journey from Bree had been a waste. If only his father could see the Chubbs now, thought Harold. He would have been so proud. After working for the Whitfoots their whole lives, the Chubbs had finally gotten a farm, “a land to call their own.”

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~