Tookish Tales

[Turgon]

'Well then young Peregrin...' Bilbo sighed as he drew himself nearer to the fire. 'If it's family history you're looking for then I have a store of it.'

The old hobbit coughed slighty, and drawing a warm blanket about his shoulders, took a long puff on his pipe. He sat in silence for a while, his bright eyes taking on a distant cast as he gazed into the crackling embers of the fire. What he was thinking of was anybody's guess, but the two young hobbits sitting restlessly at Bilbo's feet, fancied they caught a glimpse of dragon-fire in his far-away eyes. Of course the elder of the two, Master Meriadoc, was old enough to know better. 'Just the hearth-light shining on his face!' he murmured, slightly disappointed at such a workaday thought.

'Mmm... now where was I?' Said Bilbo, his sharp ears catching Merry's hushed words. 'Where has Frodo gotten to? Off to the Green Dragon no doubt!'

'No, no, uncle. I'm right here.' Frodo, was in fact, standing at his uncle's side. A stout young fellow, fair-faced and ruddy-cheeked. Dutiful as always. He had indeed planned on a visit to the Dragon this night, nothing like a good mug of ale to keep away the winter chill. But the old hobbit looked careworn of late, his gentle face etched with a delicate tracery of wrinkles, laughter lines one might call them, and that wouldn't be too far from the truth. Bilbo certainly enjoyed a merry joke. Yet, thought Frodo as he gazed upon his uncle, it was something deeper than that, and as much as the old fellow liked to blame his infirmaties on the chill Yuletide weather, young Master Baggins couldn't help but wonder. He certainly had no intention of leaving his uncle at the mercy of his two inquistive cousins.

'Well then Frodo my lad,' Bilbo smiled. 'What tale shall we give these young gentlehobbits tonight?'

'How about a tale from the Long Winter?' Frodo grinned. 'Great white wolves with teeth as sharp as a hobbit-wife's tongue!'

Merry and Pippin shuddered at this - the feeling was not entirely unpleasant.

'No! no!' Bilbo muttered, his thoughts skipping back to his own adventure, long ago now, but still fresh in the mind. 'That won't do at all!'

'Fifteen birds, in Fifteen firtrees,'
Their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!'

Was it getting hotter? Suddenly a great crack came from the hearth as log gave in to the fire, and poor Bilbo jumped clean out of his skin.

Flustered, he thrust a hand into his waistcoat pocket. Fishing, or so he thought, for his matches. Yet his hand clasped, almost instinctively, around something cold, something metalic... something precious. He felt better almost at once. Fir-trees indeed! Bilbo snorted inwardly. What was I thinking?

It was then that the story came to him.

'It was in the days of Ferumbras the Second... now he was brother to Brandobras Took... yes that's right Pippin... the great Bullroarer.'

[Turgon]

The old man strode with long purposeful strides, his great black boots kicking up the dust of the narrow path upon which he walked. A cool breeze tugged at his travel-stained cloak, which was grey, and toyed playfully with the tall pointed blue hat that rested (rather wearily it must be said) upon his head, threatening to steal it at any moment and toss it gleefully into the air. A long silver scarf hung about his neck, which seemingly agitated by the mischievious breeze, flapped angrily in a vain effort to shoo it away.

Nobody quite knew where the old man came from, or where he was going to, though he was a regular sight on the road to Tookburrow. He seemed to live his life in a constant state of 'just passing through' and in the small corner of Middle-earth known as the Shire, they had a name for people like that. One thing was certain, big folk were as rare as shoes in these parts, and the old man never failed to get an ample share of dark stares and clicking tongues. He took it in good sorts, a pleasant smile, or friendly Good morning! offered to any who happened to catch his eye. Mostly curious hobbit-children it must be said.

On this particular day, an especially fine day in the spring of the year 1147, the old man's appearance caused more than a few heads to turn, for it happened that the Tooks of Great Smials were holding a celebration of sorts. The fields had been sown, the sheep put out to pasture, and the residents of Tookburrow were now ready to make merry. It was a tradition in those parts for the Thain to hold a feast for the workers and dwellers in his lands, be they Took or Bolger, Fairweather or Heathertoes, all were welcome. This was, however, the first time anybody had heard of a wizard being invited. Indeed the old man was a wizard, none other than Gandalf the Grey in fact, as you have no doubt guessed.

In truth Gandalf's appearance had little to do with the celebrations up at the Smials. Strange rumours had reached his ears of late, rumours both disturbing and grave. It was whispered that something wicked stirred in the wild lands to the north, something that had not stirred since the days of the old kings, long since vanished into the dust.

It was high time that Gandalf paid a visit to the gentle folk of the Shire.

[Nóm]

Isenbold peeked through an opening in the high weeds. He watched a place where the grass had been matted down to nothing and several young hobbits stood bickering. They were playing Secret Smials, a game whose lifeblood was arguing over which of them should be the Thain. During those few rare moments when Thain was agreed upon there would be extensions made to the tunnels. But now Isenbold made a new tunnel while the matter was debated. Fed up with the way things were run he crawled off in a new direction, out away from the Secret Smials and towards a lane that ran along the foot of the hill.

A dark head of curly hobbit hair emerged and Insenbold looked up and down the lane to ensure that all was clear for exit. Secret Smials was of course to be kept secret, but the only secret was that all the grown ups knew. The brightest among them would have guessed as much even had not Lobo Hornblower seen the strange movements in the grass from the window of his high hole on the side of Great Smials, and sent his hound out after what must have been very large rodents. Word was he nearly choked on his pipe smoke when the rabbits burst out onto the lane as hobbit children and began shoutting 'Werewolf!' among themselves. Had ol Hornblower any sense of fun he might have done this regularly after.

Isenbold found the lane was not clear. To his wonder a wizard was coming along. Hhe ducked back into the high grass and wait for him to pass, heart racing with the excitement of being found out. After a moment he could not resist, and peeked careful as a hobbit child can through a half inch opening in the base of the weeds. The steps grew louder, and when his boots came into view Isenbold held his breath and hoped to himself so badly that he would not be discovered that he imagined he saw the wizard start to pause then continue on.

After what seemed like a much longer time than it actually was, and the wizard was off a safe distance, Isenbold crawled out and let the warm sunshine dry away the cool damp from of depths of the grass. Carefuly now he stayed along the edge of the weeds, and moved forward behind Gandalf, in the general direction of the celebration. Where would the wizard go and who would he see first?, he wondered.

[greypilgrim]

Merry took one last look at his target...it was a long shot, but he thought he could make it, with some luck. He went and got his favorite stick, the one he made out of a tree that got hit by lightning back when he was a lad, and came back.

His friends from Archet were there, and some Underhills from Needlehole even showed up for this years tourney. He had expected more. Still, it was a good turnout, even with the bad harvest. There must have been twenty hobbits, twice as many as last year, and the Bullroares were still the reigning champions from last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, and so on as far back as these tourneys had been in existance. "Not if I have anything to do with it" Merry thought as he took his stance over the ball, dug his hairy feet into the ground, checked his target one last time, and swung....hard.

He barely managed to keep his balance on the follow through, and had to do a full 180 to check his shot, and gain his balance as well. Once he had done so, he walked forward following the flight path of the ball, eyes wide open (and still a little dizzy)...and right before his eyes his ball landed a mere two feet from the hole.

"Oh my!", "Nearly split it in two!", and "Atta boy!" were some compliments aimed at him, accompanied by some pats on the back. Merry's cheecks flushed and his nose started to tickle, common occurances when he was nervous or excited.

"Well, last up is Harry Bullroarer, reigning champ of last years golf tourney." Someone announced, but before he could even finish, everyone scattered and hid.

A wizard was walking up the lane off in the distance.

Merry took one last look at his ball, then jumped in some bushes and waited for the wizard to pass. "Something must be a'foot" some whispered. "Whats he doin' here?"..."Shhh...here e' comes"...