A Land to Call Their Own RPG

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordogrim had spent the day happily dozing in his saddle and offering advice to members of the convoy who happened to stray close enough to him to wake him up. The rain had come as an unhappy surprise, but the old hobbit had spent a long lifetime outdoors working the fields and was not to be deterred by a bit of wet (even though the damp made his leg ache). He noted with disdain the rudimentary attempts by the Whitfoots to protect themselves from the water, and with pride the stoicism of his own family. As the afternoon had worn on and the sky had begun to grow dark, Fordogrim had contemplated another confrontation with Marco but decided against it: the scout was clearly too far gone in his lunacy to be swayed by even the most commonsensical observations of a level-headed hobbit such as himself!

He was asleep once more when the argument started, but the raised voices of his Harold and Sarah were enough to stir him from where he slumbered with his back to the cartwheel. When Fordogrim saw who they were fighting with, he could not repress a happy smile of pride at their determination, even if he did not approve of their target. It never did any good to go after one’s employer, no matter how thick-headed and tight-fisted they might be! Hauling himself upright, the old hobbit hobbled over to the squabbling families to hear the argument better. Almost as soon as he got within range of the fury Mrs. Elsa Whitfoot turned toward him a torrent of abuse: “This never would have happened if your son hadn’t asked for pay! We give him sufficient wages already! Why should we pay our employees twice? Do your grandchildren need to be bribed in order to maintain a passable level of responsibility? How on earth were those children brought up?”

Fordogrim was stunned, and not just by the sudden attack on himself, but by the total lack of respect for his years and hobbit-sense that it showed. So enraged was he by Elsa’s attack that for a moment he stood his ground absolutely wordless with rage. Elsa, clearly taking this as a victory over him, turned to her husband to abuse him. “Kalimac,” she began, “this is madness! What are we doing, arguing with these folk? It doesn’t matter if we are being manipulated, just stop being a fool! We shouldn’t grudge them the money!”

These folk? Manipulated? This was the first and last straw for Fordogrim. Raising his cane to emphasise the full extent of his rage at the Whitfoots he staggered forward a step. He felt rather than saw Harold and Sarah attempt to stop him but nothing short of an earthquake could have diverted Fordogrim’s attention to his landlords in that moment. “Now you just listen here a moment young Miss Elsa! It’s handsome is as handsome does, I always say, and at the moment you are acting in a manner that’s far from handsome. After all the years that me and mine have been a-working your lands and providing you with rent you should owe us all a bit more respect, even if the fact that I knew your father from the time he was a rapscallion lad stealing apples from my orchard weren’t enough to shame your tongue from a-speaking to me as you have!”

Elsa and Kalimac bridled at this and said some angry words in response, unused as they were to hearing their oldest and most stable tenant farmer speak back to them. Fordogrim, emboldened by their reaction, pressed forward, despite the warning hand he felt Harold place on his shoulder. “As to the money that’s been paid, you should be thankful that our Henry and May were a-willing to take on the job of looking after your fool children. Why any hobbit with even half the sense his mother gave him can see that a Whitfoot is about as suited for a journey of this type as an easy-chair. Sitting about in your comfortable holes all day, counting out the earnings that others with grit have made for you – that’s what you're good for.”

Kalimac raged at Fordogrim for this, stepping so close to the older hobbit that Fordogrim had to take a stumbling step back. He raised his cane toward the taller and younger hobbit in order to shake it beneath his nose as he let loose with his most stinging retort, but then a very unfortunate thing happened. Just as Fordogrim began to shake the knobbled head of his cane beneath Kalimac’s nose, the Whitfoot moved his head forward to make an emphatic point. End of cane collided with tip of nose, and Kalimac roared with pain and anger.

[Kransha]

The day had seemed so calm before, despite minor annoyances and inconveniences biting like pestering gnats at Kalimac. Now, the prosperous hobbit found himself more muddled then ever before. The families were slowly but surely breaking out into a very perplexing argument. It had actually begun with him, seeming simple enough to end. Elsa had inquired, with surprising politeness (or at least Kalimac tried to take it as politeness) but obvious anger about the payment of the Chubb children. Too tired and annoyed by the day’s happenstance to respond, Kalimac simply appropriated Harold Chubb to explain the matter in simple terms. Unfortunately, his shifting of responsibility was interpreted as a pinning of blame, and Harold became defensive. Now his family had joined in the argument and Kalimac wasn’t entirely sure who was defending who. His wife, the ever-ready Elsa Whitfoot, heralded Kalimac onto the playing field by taking her anger out on Sarah Chubb, but swiftly turned to him and redirected her righteous fury.

“Surely our children are of infinitely more value than any coin!” concluded his wife after her brief, but caustic tirade at her husband. Kalimac, looking slightly floored by everything that was happening, managed a response meekly. He did not have time to consider what he was saying, so the awkward puddle of words promptly spilled out of his slacked jaw as he tried to salvage the ruined situation.

“Yes, yes, of course they are, that’s not the…umm…that’s not the issue here. I…I think…I think we can trust them with money. I mean, we’ve always paid them well before and they’ve never slacked off in their work, or even asked for forwarding of funds or any such financial aid, though they might sorely need it. It is not me who is being the fool here, Elsa, it’s just that….that…” his tiny voice shrunk, shriveled up, and finally faded from existence. He could think of no more to say an thus didn't bother trying.

For a moment, Kalimac looked like he really had no idea what he was saying, irritation, rage, befuddlement, confusion, and an utter sense of chaos welling up in him, but he immediately summed up all the plausible choices and was about to defend himself when he was interrupted hastily by the person he’d least expected to interrupt him, old Fordogrim Chubb. The old hobbit went on for a good minute, sending Kalimac’s maelstrom of a mind for a loop as he saw all the paths that lay before him dematerializing and materializing like fireflies in the night. He stood agape, utterly gone from sanity, as the elder drones on.

“Why any hobbit with even half the sense his mother gave him can see that a Whitfoot is about as suited for a journey of this type as an easy-chair. Sitting about in your comfortable holes all day, counting out the earnings that others with grit have made for you – that’s what you're good for.” The elder drew his almost narrative oration to a close, looking set in his decisions. Kalimac felt a vein on his neck throbbing unnaturally as one of his ears twitched, as they so often did.

“Now see here,” Roared Kalimac, suddenly feeling his voice, formerly hushed and meek, grow in volume and enraged splendor, “That is entirely uncalled for! You can insult me as much as you want, Mister Chubb, but, never make the mistake of insulting my family, my children, or my wife!”

He ranted on; moving forward slowly and nearing Fordogrim, as he summed his argument up, his voice swelled ten fold. The other hobbit seemed at least slightly reduced and Kalimac saw this as a good sign, so he moved, unfortunately, closer to his ‘opponent’ on this verbal field of battle. He saw too late the elder raising his cane and swiping it unintentionally near his own nose. To add to the cruelty of fate, it was at that moment that Kalimac chose to bow his head forward, making gestures like those he’s seen on the great orators and wandering speechmakers of Bree. The cane, as his wide eyes saw all too well, slapped right against Kalimac’s vulnerable nose. The hobbit stumbled back, clutching his now reddened nose angrily.

The cane’s thwacking against Kalimac’s face was not truly painful, but the hobbit could take no more of this. His small, usually pensive eyes, filled with unhobbit-like fire as he dove forward madly at the aged gentlehobbit, Fordogrim Chubb. The one hobbit’s cold fingers groped outward towards his foe’s open throat, though he missed miserably and only ended up fumbling forward awkwardly, his teeth grinding menacingly.

“YOU ADDLE-BRAINED OLD GOAT!” the usually reserved hobbit bellowed at the top of his small lungs, literally clamoring on top of poor Fordogrim. He would’ve punched himself in the round belly if he’d realized that he was attacking an elderly, venerable Halfling, but for once in his life, his thoughts leapt ahead of him as he half-tackled the grandfather, only to find his grasping, wrenching fingers filled with hobbit shirt collar, and his stomach filled with a well-aimed hobbit cane.