Strangers, but in Familiar Lands [Bramble]
Oct 27, 2018 15:17:12 GMT -5
Post by Becanbran Townward on Oct 27, 2018 15:17:12 GMT -5
Becanbran hated times like these. Times he had to be away from home, going somewhere or another to buy or sell something. In this case, he'd been sent out from Bree, over the Old Forest along the East Road, to the Shire. He didn't even agree with the 'why' of this trip, but his betters had told him to, and that meant he was going to do it. Even if he was going to complain incessantly.
At least it made him feel useful. He was the only hobbit his boss completely trusted with the task of picking up pipe-weed from the Floating Log Inn at Frogmorton and bringing it home un-consumed. He was, after all, more fond of the inferior brand that came out of Bree itself. So he carried his own supply with him. He just hoped it would last until he managed to make the return trip home.
Bec took a pony and cart out from Bree, and set of across the Brandywine bridge. It was an aggravatingly long journey. Of course, five minutes was too long a journey when you didn't want to be there. Especially by cart. He'd rather travel in his own little canoe. He could probably fit one in the cart, now that he thought about it. But it wouldn't be feasible if he wanted to get anything home in a decent time. Sure, the return journey would be faster, and he could do some fishing instead of staring at a pony's behind, but trying to get himself upstream to the town in the first place would be exhausting.
Plus, if he remembered right, there was that strange little split in the river there at Frogmorton, and knowing his luck he'd somehow be able to find a way to take the north one instead of the south and that would be a whole mess.
He always managed to make a mess of these things.
Sighing to himself, he light his pipe. He smoked as the pony trekked onward, passing others on the road that of course Becanbran didn't know. Strangers. Outsiders. Though, he supposed in this case HE was the outsider. He wondered if he was obvious for it. If any of the passing strangers could tell that he was the one who didn't belong. He found himself to be chewing on the end of his pipe and stopped himself before he ruined this one like he did the last one.
Eventually the hobbit reached Whitfurrows, which, for all intents and purposes, was his halfway point. Sure there was some travel between the Brandywine bridge and Bree proper, but it was amazingly dull. Going over the barrow-downs and avoiding the forest meant that not a lot happened, and it wasn't exactly a busy thoroughfare. He tied up his pony and empty cart when he could, and set the old beast up with food and water, and decided that meant it was time to buy himself something to eat as well instead of relying on what he'd packed for travel. After all, the season was turning, and there was no better time to get a fresh apple tart to go along with his meal.
Bec noticed he got strange looks once in a while, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Did he stink? Did he really look strange? Was there something in his teeth? He sat on the back of his cart to eat, and mulled the questions over as he tried not to feel too self-conscious. He tapped his feet together in thought. Of course, that was when it struck him.
He was being noticed around the town because he was wearing his mud boots out of habit. He'd gotten so used to pulling on the boots whenever he expected to be away from home a while, simply because he wore them while fishing to keep the swamp out from between his toes, that he'd forgotten to remove them. He quickly pulled the offending footwear off and tossed them under a spare travelling coat, then took in a deep breath before letting it out with a heavy sigh.
There. Now that was taken care of. Crisis averted, right? Surely that was the only weird thing he'd do today that made it obvious he didn't belong. He didn't want to cause a fuss. He wasn't a Took! There wasn't a drop of adventurous blood in his body, and like any decent hobbit he wouldn't DREAM of rocking any boats! He took a bite of some especially seed-laden bread, and did some people watching while he lit another pipe of Southlinch weed.
Everything was going to be fine.... He hoped.
Bramble Pricklebottom
At least it made him feel useful. He was the only hobbit his boss completely trusted with the task of picking up pipe-weed from the Floating Log Inn at Frogmorton and bringing it home un-consumed. He was, after all, more fond of the inferior brand that came out of Bree itself. So he carried his own supply with him. He just hoped it would last until he managed to make the return trip home.
Bec took a pony and cart out from Bree, and set of across the Brandywine bridge. It was an aggravatingly long journey. Of course, five minutes was too long a journey when you didn't want to be there. Especially by cart. He'd rather travel in his own little canoe. He could probably fit one in the cart, now that he thought about it. But it wouldn't be feasible if he wanted to get anything home in a decent time. Sure, the return journey would be faster, and he could do some fishing instead of staring at a pony's behind, but trying to get himself upstream to the town in the first place would be exhausting.
Plus, if he remembered right, there was that strange little split in the river there at Frogmorton, and knowing his luck he'd somehow be able to find a way to take the north one instead of the south and that would be a whole mess.
He always managed to make a mess of these things.
Sighing to himself, he light his pipe. He smoked as the pony trekked onward, passing others on the road that of course Becanbran didn't know. Strangers. Outsiders. Though, he supposed in this case HE was the outsider. He wondered if he was obvious for it. If any of the passing strangers could tell that he was the one who didn't belong. He found himself to be chewing on the end of his pipe and stopped himself before he ruined this one like he did the last one.
Eventually the hobbit reached Whitfurrows, which, for all intents and purposes, was his halfway point. Sure there was some travel between the Brandywine bridge and Bree proper, but it was amazingly dull. Going over the barrow-downs and avoiding the forest meant that not a lot happened, and it wasn't exactly a busy thoroughfare. He tied up his pony and empty cart when he could, and set the old beast up with food and water, and decided that meant it was time to buy himself something to eat as well instead of relying on what he'd packed for travel. After all, the season was turning, and there was no better time to get a fresh apple tart to go along with his meal.
Bec noticed he got strange looks once in a while, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Did he stink? Did he really look strange? Was there something in his teeth? He sat on the back of his cart to eat, and mulled the questions over as he tried not to feel too self-conscious. He tapped his feet together in thought. Of course, that was when it struck him.
He was being noticed around the town because he was wearing his mud boots out of habit. He'd gotten so used to pulling on the boots whenever he expected to be away from home a while, simply because he wore them while fishing to keep the swamp out from between his toes, that he'd forgotten to remove them. He quickly pulled the offending footwear off and tossed them under a spare travelling coat, then took in a deep breath before letting it out with a heavy sigh.
There. Now that was taken care of. Crisis averted, right? Surely that was the only weird thing he'd do today that made it obvious he didn't belong. He didn't want to cause a fuss. He wasn't a Took! There wasn't a drop of adventurous blood in his body, and like any decent hobbit he wouldn't DREAM of rocking any boats! He took a bite of some especially seed-laden bread, and did some people watching while he lit another pipe of Southlinch weed.
Everything was going to be fine.... He hoped.
Bramble Pricklebottom