[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Character Description Form:

1.) Have you ever played in an RPG at the Barrow Downs? – NO

2.) How many RPG’s on the Barrow Downs are you currently involved in?

List them, please:

I’m working as one of the planners for the proposed rpg “Bloodstained Elanor”.


3.) Have you posted in The Green Dragon Inn or in The White Horse in Rohan? – YES
The Green Dragon Inn (the character Snaveling)

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NAME: Fordogrim Chubb (the elderly grandfather)

AGE: 113

RACE: Hobbit

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: None…unless you count a short temper and a stout cane.

APPEARANCE: Fordogrim is hale for his age, although his hands have been crabbed somewhat from the years he has spent working the land about his family’s hobbit hole. What’s left of his hair is snow white, but his eyes retain the clear deep brown of their youth. Fordogrim was always a stout hobbit and he has retained this build into his old age. His dark brown skin is lined but taut, except for a single deep wrinkle between his two bushy eyebrows, which lends to his face an air of deep disapproval (which is convenient, as Fordogrim seldom approves of anything new or anyone he has not known for at least thirty years).

His preference in clothes is for simple garments of sturdy homespun wool in earthy tones. While everything he wears has seen its fair share of use, he would rather be caught dead than be seen wearing something threadbare or “gone all natty at the edges” (unlike some hobbits he could mention). He is never seen out-of-doors without a waistcoat and jacket, and never anywhere without a waistcoat. For the last few years he has had to walk with a cane, which is made of a highly polished piece of twisted wood that used to be a root of the old chestnut tree that grows from the roof of his hobbit hole.


PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Fordogrim Chubb is an elderly hobbit who long ago decided that he knew pretty much everything that he needed to get by in the world, and so stopped learning anything new. He is not exactly close-minded; rather, he is happily confident in what he knows and honestly sees no need to question it. He does not speak often or at great length (for a hobbit) but when aroused – particularly if he feels that he is being “sassed” by some young hobbit lad or lass who should know better – he can become quite vociferous.

When left unchallenged and uncrossed, Fordogrim is a pleasant enough hobbit to be around. He has few friends, but those few are, as he says “chosen for their quality rather than their quantity”. Those who don’t know him think he is a crabbed old hobbit. Those who do know him think he is a crabbed old hobbit with a spirit like sunshine in June. What nobody knows about him is the deep, heart-wrenching pain that he still feels for the death of his beloved wife Primrose.

HISTORY: Fordogrim has lived in Bree for almost his entire life. The only interruption to his residence there came after he had a terrible falling out with his father when he refused to take over the family farm with his brothers. He wanted instead to have some land of his own. Not content to live in the crowded family hole the rest of his life, he fled for the Wild where he wandered for a time, looking for someplace to call his own and settle down.

He quickly found, however, that the world beyond Bree was a much wider and more dangerous place than he was comfortable with. He attempted to go into the brewing business with a family of Stoors far to the East of Bree. The business was a failure, however, and he was finally forced to return to his homeland. Too proud to rejoin his family, he approached the Whitfoots to see if he could take over the cultivation of some of their land in return for a share of his crop. They had reluctantly agreed to his proposal and he had seen to it that they never had cause to regret that. He was an excellent farmer and a hard worker, and he soon had brought a piece of relatively unprofitable land to flourishing life. Pleased with his work, the Whitfoots gave him more land to farm. It was not a fortune, but it gave him the money he needed to marry his childhood sweetheart Primrose Proudfoot.

He and Primrose had [?] children, [one of which is the father of the Chubb family; obviously, this part of his biography can only be fully developed in partnership with the player of that character]. Primrose lived just long enough to see their favourite son [the Chubb father] marry. Since then, Fordogrim’s life has not been as easy or as pleasant as he pretends to others. The loss of his wife was a terrible blow to him and he has yet fully to recover from it – in fact, he doubts that he ever will. A more quotidian source of unhappiness, both to himself and his family, is the fact that he makes no pretense to approve of his son’s choice of wife. [Again, the reasons for this disapproval will have to wait for the character description of “Mrs. Chubb”.] Six years ago, Fordogrim decided that it was time to take it easy. So after a lifetime spent working his fields, he turned control of the farm over to his son and retired to the comforts of the family hole’s best bedroom.

While it would never occur to Fordogrim that reading or writing were skills that he requires, he has in the last few years taken to writing letters to Primrose in his imagination, in which he chronicles his daily life and comments on the events of the day. He is a down-to-earth hobbit, and would be hard pressed to say where Primrose is or how she could be hearing these letters, but he is certain that somehow they are being delivered to her.

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Fordim Hedgethistle's post

“What’s that he said?” Fordogrim asked the young hobbit who stood next to him, “The Brandywine River?”

“The Baranduin,” the hobbit lad replied. “It’s a big River hundreds and thousands of leagues away.”

“Eh, what’s that, what’s that?” Fordogrim scoffed. “It’s not that far off I’m sure, though it’s a goodly step. What’s he talking of that for?” The lad tried to fill him in on the details of Marcho’s speech, but the people about them hushed him into silence. Glowering at their temerity, Fordogrim turned his attention to the little stage to hear what young Master Bolger had to say. He could not believe his ears: had the young fellow gone completely mad? The more he heard of the proposal the less it made any sense to him. Rich land? Wasn’t the land hereabouts rich enough? For seventy years Fordogrim had cultivated the dark earth of Bree and for seventy years it had rewarded him with its bounty. As to the promise of trade, Fordogrim snorted loudly. Leave trade to the likes of the Whitfoots, he thought. What’s a hobbit got to worry about trading with Elves and Men from Faraway for? We’ve everything we need right here already.

As the Bolger boys continued their speeches, Fordogrim moved to an unoccupied bench at the side of the square and sat down slowly, sighing audibly as he took the weight off his right leg. It had been getting worse lately, what with the weather changing, but it was still bearable. Fordogrim knew that he would outlast his leg. Leaning his head back against the wall of the house behind him, he closed his eyes and thought about the letter that he had been composing to Primrose on the ride to town. It would need to be amended.

My Dearest Prim, he began in his mind,

I couldn’t find any decent seeds for the side-garden. Ferny had naught but pumpkins today, and Thistletoe was no better: lots of seeds, but the moisture’d got into them. The only thing they’ll grow is mouldy. I know how much you like sweet peas, but there’s still that stand of them in the kitchen garden, right where the scent can make it inside, so that will do for this year. Perhaps I can take a small clipping from that and plant it round the side garden? It would go nice with the marigolds when they come in full.

Still haven’t got round to fixing the barn door, but I will be sure to do it soon. When the rain starts to come on heavy again the wood’ll swell right up and we’ll have a back-breaker time trying to open it up. Must remember to talk to our son about that this afternoon.

And before you start to worry, don’t: I rode Stout into town this morning to save my leg. Better that than listen to our son’s wife nag at me about doing the walking myself. I’ll walk back halfway to give Stout a rest but then he’ll have to carry me up the hill himself. I feel bad a-asking it of him as he’s almost as old as myself, so far as ponies go that is. I know I keep saying I’m going to put him out to pasture once and for all, but each time I try he gives me such a look that I know he’d rather do his best with me than do what’s best by him.

You won’t believe what I heard in the town today. Masters Blanco and Marcho Bolger have gone completely cracked. Making speeches they are, about leading a lot of Bree folk away from here to some uninhabited waste miles from nowhere. There are a lot more folk than you’d think willing to listen to them too! Lucky for me, they’re so eager to hear this foolishness that there’s an empty bench in the square (for once) so I’m able to take a bit of rest and send you this letter.

I’m finding it hard to do much but think of you my dearest Prim, for it was just about this turn of season that you went away all those years ago. I’ve done my best by our boy since you went, but I can’t help but think that he missed of having his mother about. No-one knows better than you that I can be a cussedly hard-tempered hobbit, and I admit that more than once I’ve spoken hard words to the boy when you would have spoke softer and to better purpose. He misses you more than he lets on, I think – just the other week I caught him a-putting a nice posy of wildflowers on your grave and crying over it, just as he has since he was a young hobbit.

The crowd is breaking up, my love, and those wild-eyed Bolgers seem to be finished. I hope that you are well and happy. I miss you awfully.

Your husband,

Grim

Fordogrim tried to pull himself to his feet, but his leg gave way beneath him and he stumped down again. From out of nowhere appeared the young hobbit with whom he had been speaking earlier. The lad took Fordogrim’s elbow and tried to help him rise, but Fordogrim flared out at him, “What d’yer think yer doing!? When I need your help laddie I’ll ask you for it! Now if you please!” and he wrenched his arm free from the lad’s clasp. Staggering to his feet and hiding the discomfort that he felt, he walked off through the thinning crowd, tapping out his frustrated anger on the cobbles with his cane.

As he was leaving the square he saw his son and daughter-in-law amongst the crowd. He wondered what they had made of the speeches. And then a terrible idea occurred to him: what if they actually approved of the crazy plan? And then a horrific idea occurred to him: what if they agreed to go along with it? He shook his head to drive away all such nonsense and whistled for Stout.