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Owen
Owen decided that this was rather a pleasant and rewarding job, even if unpaid. It was much better than pitching hay or mucking out a stable. And he held himself a little bit straighter seeing all the fine guests arriving. It seemed like the best of the Shire was turning out for this affair. Even Samwise, the mayor himself, had appeared bringing his family in tow. Now there was a hobbit fairly bursting with the stuff that songs are written about! Owen had heard a thing or two about him, for even in Dale he was known to be a friend of the King. And now that Owen clapped eyes on him, he couldn’t believe that such a mild looking fellow had so much to do with the Dark Lord’s defeat. But there would be plenty of time to see if he might be coaxed to tell a tale.
Owen quickly finished off his second mug as he saw Gil and Tomlin, Ferrin and Fallon tucking sweet william flowers into their buttonholes and helping themselves at the kegs, before returning to the platform. Gil was busily talking to Master Headstrong, a hobbit who Owen had initially thought quite stiff, but who had proved rather an inspired player. The old curmudgeon had seemed to melt like a pat of butter when music was concerned. And where Owen had thought that the old hobbit had little chance of ever enjoying himself, he happily found himself in error. Owen wanted to enjoy himself as well, but unfortunately found he could not, not fully.
It was not what could be seen, nor his poor clothes that weighed on Owens’s plate, but rather what could not be seen. Still Shimshin had not returned, and neither had Seamus who had gone in search of the monkey at the end of the set. It had seemed an interminably long time since the little scamp had run off, and Owen pushed his dark blonde locks off his forehead as he surveyed once again the ground between the gaily-colored skirts and trousers. His eyes wandered until they caught a glimpse of the well between the milling crowds, and a sharp stab of panic overcame him. Setting his bladder pipe down, he quickly jumped off the stage and ran to the well, thinking what a fool he had been for forgetting to give Shimshin a taste of water.
The well small and deep, and looking over the edge it was very, very dark. “Shimshin?” Owen called, his voice echoing back to him. Then nothing. The man began to search for where the rope was tied when he came upon a rather smug looking cat that sat in the cool shade.
Owens’ brow furrowed as he saw it was the same cat who had earlier sharpened his claws on young Willy’s coat, but the animal merely licked its lips with disdain, and yawned. “Oh if you’ve so much as scratched my little Shimshin,” he threatened, “I have friend who’d know how to make good use of you!” With that he rapidly untied the rope and carefully lowered the bucket into the blackness below. “Shimshin? Are you down there lad?” Silence. Owen pulled the bucket up again and stood a while by the well, considering if he should ask Mithalwen and Rasputina or perhaps Caity if they had seen which way the little fellow went.
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