[Kransha]

Tobias was rudely stirred by the sound of hands clapping together. His eyes fluttered open wildly and he snorted indignantly, his pipe falling to the floor. He scooped it up quickly from the floor and sat back again in his chair. He listened to the lady innkeeper as she mustered the attention of the masses and spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the woman in a jovial and gentle tone of voice, "As the evening draws in, the time for stories comes in with it! Please, feel free to come around the wide fire and listen to the stories from all over Middle Earth, even here in the Shire and, if you wish, tell some of your own!"

Tobias narrowly avoided snorting again. ‘Stories,’ he thought ‘what a futile way to spend one’s time.’ A Hornblower had no use for fairy tales and works of embellished fiction. Toby Hornblower had heard the stories of Mad Old Baggins and his kin and had no need of them. If he’d never seen a troll, orc, or oliphaunt, why should he believe they existed? He believed what he saw, and what he saw pleased him just fine. He needed no tales of heroes and damsels and dragons, no legends of ancient creatures and foul demons. They were the addled concoctions of children and maniacal old coots, not dignified gentlehobbits such as him.

But, for the sake of argument, Tobias decided to listen anyway. He supposed he could enjoy critiquing the work of fiction to satisfy his own curiosity. He leaned forward against the table’s edge, casting an aimless glance at the table beside him and the darkened window the sat above it. He was met by a strange sight.

First, he noticed the object outside the window. In the gnarled branches of a twisting tree, a figure twitched slightly, at least so much to prove it was not inanimate. It was no woodland beast, as shown by its size. Tobias couldn’t see it well through the murky glass pane, but he could tell that it was some bipedal figure sitting on a sturdier branch. Who in their right mind would take up residence in a tree branch?

Second, he looked to the other figure looking out the window. It was a man, taller than any Halfling, with a full beard of grey. His gaze lingered upon the old man for a moment too long, seeming rude to anyone who noticed. He did not like foreigners, a fact which he often established for anyone he met. Men of the south didn’t belong here in the Shire. Even Bree-men shouldn’t wander here too much, encroaching on the property of any self-respecting hobbit of quality. The qualities of good breeding in Bree were questionable, despite the alphabetic irony. Men of any sort ought not to make themselves comfortable on hobbit land.

His sharp bird-like eyes turned back to scanning the room, waiting for the yarn to begin. He could have a good laugh about the tale with his friends in Longbottom when he returned to the Southfarthing. He coughed loudly, cleared his throat, and waited, his eyes still turning back to the aged man every now and then.

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 7:01 PM January 30, 2004: Message edited by: Kransha ]