A letter came in the post. Actually that is not true. It was an invitation. An invitation from Mrs. Underhill, the popular and busy party Hobbitess that was always hosting some sort of soiree or another.
You are cordially invited to A MIXER for unwed Hobbits given at Mrs. Underhill's residence
It gave a time and a place. Finn knew Mrs. Underhill always had nice parties plus it was kind of a requirement to attend one of these parties as many of the well-to-do Hobbits would be there. Plus she had some of the best foods ever offered in the Shire.
And so there he was. Standing in the large gathering room with a cup of hot cider and a small plate of various fruits and sweets along with several Hobbits, both male and female, he did not know or knew in passing.
Many of the young females were Hobbitess were huddle on some chairs on one side of the room chattering and giggling together. The male Hobbits were huddle to the opposite side basically doing the same thing.
Finn hung somewhere in-between the two group feeling awkward and out of place wondering if he had made a mistake coming to this thing.
Post by Bramble Pricklebottom on Oct 29, 2018 15:58:03 GMT -5
“Another party?” Oxlip gasped, lifting high the invitation and waving the paper for Bramble to see. “Bramble, you simply must go with me,” the woman hummed, already leaping to her feet and scurrying off down the hall toward her bedroom. Bramble did not have a moment to protest, to quickly divulge the Mathom House needed her and any sort of mixer planned by Mrs. Underhill was hardly somewhere she would belong.
Yet, it seemed Bramble’s own words were unnecessary. Oxlip was prattling and squealing about new hats, and how rude it would be to let Mrs. Underhill’s extension go to waste. Such was the proper hobbit way; aside, there would be mathoms galore, Oxlip reminded. And food.
Well, perhaps it would not be so dreadful, Bramble mused. Food and mathoms were two of the things she loved the most, after all. Still, in the time to took for Oxlip to skitter down to the post box once more to send out an exuberant acceptance to the party, Bramble had not really decided she would go.
However, what was done was done, and it was only a few short weeks before Bramble knew she would have to be ready to mingle amongst hobbits—funny things, far different than the mathoms she enjoyed.
--
Bramble had not known it was a mixer in the way that it appeared to be; though, the moment she stepped inside and noted the general ages of the hobbits about she began to get a sinking feeling this was not just a simple affair.
Oxlip had bloomed in the presence of all the people. She was clad in the color or peonies, curls set up and tight beneath a rather handsome hat of appropriate size, and her smile was eagerly stretched from one side of her face to the other. The party had been graced by her presence—and sound—from the moment she walked into the door.
Bramble looked mute in both color and personality beside; her simple moss-green skirt, dark navy bodice and tannish undershirt was clean, well set, but hardly boisterous to the eye. The hobbit wondered if such was the norm or not, though as she glanced to the cluster of females off to the side they all appeared as radiant and varied as the flowers of the Shire. Perhaps Oxlip had been right; she did appear rather drab. Yet, in these colors Bramble was comfortable, in a way a hobbit might wish to be if speaking to a stranger over scones and teas.
She padded her way over to the food, awkwardly there between the main clumps of attendees. There seemed only one other that was intent upon the food—though whyever so, Bramble could not say. Mrs. Underhill was, after all, known to be a wizard in the kitchen! “Hm,” Bramble hummed as she overlooked the array of trays. “Oh, are those sausages?” She chirped to herself happily, reaching for a plate and using a fork to set one of the links upon it.
“I’ve heard she might have made her famous cream pie,” Bramble noted aside. A quick, small smile on her lips. She was not entirely sure what it was she should say; at least the Mathom House was easy to navigate such conversations with strangers. “I’m Bramble, at your service.”
When he heard the feminine voice he nearly jumped out of his skin. It was all he could do to keep from spilling the tea or the sweet delicacies he had yet to taste. Luckily he managed to set both dishes down on a nearby table.
"Very nice to meet your acquaintance. I am Finn. Finn Goodsong. Bramble. That is a lovely name. Do you live here in Hobbiton or the Shire?" he asked her nervously.
Post by Bramble Pricklebottom on Nov 6, 2018 19:15:16 GMT -5
The young hobbit seemed startled by Bramble’s sudden presence, and the young hobbit’s eyes widened as she watched the hobbit juggle his pastry and tea, feeling ever more the shame of such action welling in upon her. It was, after all, not proper gentlehobbit behavior to startle those of acquaintance or not; too much like adventure that was, no mistake.
Bramble appeared to be forgiven of what trespass she had made—surely if Oxlip saw she would nary hear the end of such a show—and offered a small smile. “I’m from the Delving, out in the Westfarthing,” she answered. Of course, all hobbits knew of the hobbit-city; the stone buildings built reminiscent of the smials of hobbit renown, and the very capitol of the Shire itself.
“I work in the Mathom House,” she added as an aside, an eager lilt to her words as she considered once more her work. It was, after all, her deepest, truest love to collect and store mathoms of all sorts. The be a junior curator was simply a dream. “And yourself, Master Goodsong?”
Quickly licking the tea and frosting from his fingers he listened as the pretty Hobbitess introduced herself.
"Westfarthing? Oh, very nice," he commented with a polite nod. "Mathom House? Not sure what that is but if you work there it must be very nice. Yes, indeed."
Then she asked about himself. "Well, I live in the Shire with my father. I am a tailor. We sew clothing. I excel in male clothing. Yes. Does it seem hot in here to you?" he asked, tugging nervously at his collar.
He was feeling very unsure of himself as he stood there talking to this very pretty Hobbitess.
Post by Bramble Pricklebottom on Nov 12, 2018 19:00:06 GMT -5
“Oh,” Bramble piped. She had in her rounds never before met a hobbit that did not know of the famed Mathom House, a museum of small trinkets and large trinkets that any good hobbit knew had no value beyond being a bauble. She quickly reached and lifted a cup of tea to her lips, buying time to think by downing the liquid in but four steady gulps.
“A tailor’s work is good work,” she observed, now tugging at her own skirt in apprehension, perhaps subtly picking up on Finn’s nervousness himself. “Your father must be proud to have you in the family business. My father’s a caretaker, plants the best roses in all the Farthings, as he tells it.” Now, she, too, was rambling.
“Do you have roses? Bet they’re the nice red ones. Father has a way with the pink ones, I’d say. Lovely blush things, very nice. Oh, dear, my tea is gone. I’ll…I’ll grab another.”
Finn couldn't help but to grin slightly at Bramble. She made him feel better despite his nervousness.
"My Mother grows roses. She has red and yellow ones," he answered her. Then she said she needed more tea so he nodded and she left. Looking around he saw a couple of chairs side by side so he sat down in one, placing his small plate of food on a small side table and took a sip of his.
If she didn't come back he wouldn't blame her. He was shy and not a very good conversationalist. But she was very pretty and seemed very nice.
Post by Bramble Pricklebottom on Nov 25, 2018 19:25:00 GMT -5
As Bramble skittered her way to the table arrayed with warm teas, the hobbit wondered why old Mrs. Underhill even thought such affairs necessary. Yet, laughter filtered back to her ear, and the young woman could make out her twin’s voice within to recall that the problem really was not the event itself. It was Bramble Pricklebottom.
She frowned to herself, beginning to drop her lumps of sugar into her tea. Keep it together, Bramble, she thought to herself. Plop. Plop. Two lumps. Taking after your father, you are. He, too, sometimes got flustered in large groups. Talked too much. A rambler, alike to herself. Plop. Plop. Four lumps now.
She gasped, realizing she had added far too many. “Thorns and prickers,” she whispered to herself, glancing around to be sure nobody noticed. Well, there was nothing for it. She was going to have to drink it anyway.
She saw Finn sitting, a single open chair nearby. “Sorry about that,” she chirped as she approached. It was, perhaps, the polite thing to do. She had talked herself to parched tongue, at least. Now, though, her tea was going to be too sweet. “Red and yellow roses, quite a pair. Might look quite nice by a gate. Are they by the gate?”