The crisp and slightly chilled morning autumn air does not discourage the people from participating in the daily business of the market. Farmers selling late gathered fruits and vegetables display their rounded harvest in colours of red, yellow and green while the fragrance of freshly baked breads and pastries from bakeries waft past the stall fronts to scent the air starting to bustle with bright-eyed Breehousewives and children.

Standing outside one of the stall fronts is young Ruine, pressing her nose against a wooden counter and trying to wheedle a better deal from a friendly-looking baker. The baker is laughing at some of the young girl's more outrageous suggestions.


Toby lingers near where Ruine is, breathing in deeply of the enticing aroma. Every now and then, he is jostled by someone in passing, and gives them a half-hearted glare. A large blue-black bruise fades to greenish-yellow below one eye, and several half-healed scrapes adorn his nose and cheek. "Tell 'im you'll give 'im a flower," he is suggesting, when a commotion begins near the edge of the crowd. It sounds something like a woman having hysterics - shrieking and wailing - though not a single word can be picked out.


Ambling along from the north is a young boy leading a pony by a makeshift bridle; the pony looks like any average piebald pony, thick mane and thick tail, a whorl over its back and large spots over its hind, and well cared for. Both boy and pony are chewing, the former on a hunk of bread, the latter on what could be grass though the tips poking from the edges of the equine's thick lips are strangely yellow.


Heads begin to turn, the crowd stirs and shifts. "What is it?" whispers a fat kerchiefed woman to her neighbor.

"Will someone shut that woman up?" comes a disgruntled mutter from somewhere not far from the baker. Another voice, more concerned, says, "Mayhap summat's wrong..."


Ruine grins cheekily at the baker, adding Toby's words to her own, "And flowers too if you want. I just want to learn how you make these wonderful smells from just flour and water!" The baker laughs, "So when did you develop a silvered tongue hmm young Ruine? From hanging with the lad here?"


Meanwhile the boy and his piebald pony approaches where the bakery where Ruine and Toby are. He turns to look at the sound of 'Ruine' and grins widely when he sees the young apprentice healer, hurrying forward to tap the dark-haired girl on the shoulder. The pony follows leisurely behind, whuffling softly with each step.


Near the commotion, but quite out of the way and inconspicuous, there leans a tall man against one of the many buildings which line the street. In the shadows he goes quite unnoticed by most of the passersby, and those who do catch a glimpse of him see only a shifty figure with a deep hood pulled over his head to conceal his identity. A quick and spiteful glare they give, but quietly move on without a word. He makes no sign; even with the sound of the screaming woman he remains utterly calm.


The woman herself; her face red and desperate, fingers writhing together and pulling apart, continues to push through the crowd as if she doesn't even see them. "My baby!" she keens. "My baby! Ohhhhhhh, I've lost her, she's been stolen away, I'll never see her again!"

A half-step behind her is a grim-faced man, her husband perhaps. He is vainly trying to comfort or restrain his wife - his hands on her shoulders are continually shrugged off.


Toby snorts, and a rare smile flickers on his face. For a moment, the happy-go-lucky lad of earlier years breaks through the sullen youth of today. "Nobody never accused me of being silver o' tongue, old man," he says. And if Ruine doesn't hear the screeching woman, he does - turning to stare towards the disturbance. "What's happening over yonder?" he asks the boy with the pony. "Did you see?"


The commotion does not attract the young girl's attention, the tap on her shoulder startling her even more as she half twirls and curiously, her right hand reaches into her bag before her hazel eyes identifies both boy and pony. She squeals with delight, "Bilby! Por!" before launching herself at the pony. Her personal priorities very evident. Meanwhile, Por, had turned towards the cries of female distress after tapping the young apprentice on her shoulder.


"Nobody stole 'er, Macey," the man pleads (in vain, for his wife keeps up her wailing unabated). "Like as not, she just crawled out of the door when yer back was turned."


Half stretching as he walks into the market, Gregory is out to make his normally daily round of delieveries, making sure that the sellers get everything before the customers start to crowd the market. As he turns the corner, he slows to a stop, seeing that it seems that the market is already packed this morning. He tries to slide around the crowd, making his way in the direction of the bakery.
R
A half-delighted half-horrified whisper runs through the crowd as one after another turns to tell a neighbor. Heads nod emphatically, and the more knowledgeable add to the tale. "Yes, her baby. Stolen away it was!"

"No, nobbut 3 years, she had."

And darkly, "In the wee hours of the midnight.. t'aint nothing good about at that time, mark my words."

"Here," a man says sternly, stepping in front of Macey and shaking her by the shoulders. "Stop all this screeching and tell us what's wrong." They have come to a halt not far from the baker and the knot of three younger folks.


Beneath the cowl which covers his head, a simple brow is raised in question of the commotion, though none may see it. Still the man makes no sign, and remains as tucked away in the shadows as possible.


People shove towards them, pushing into the available space and all but squashing each other in their desire to hear.

"Her baby?"

"What happened?"

"Hush, she's going to say."

"I can't see!"

Elbows poke and prod, feet are stepped on, heads crane, but the gathered throng hushes itself.


Heedlessly of the commotion, Ruine jumps up while grasping at the mane of the patient pony, trying to scramble to get its back; the boy leading the pony half glances back, absently aids the girl by pushing at her back while continuing to watch the scene approaching them. Bilby, the pony, nuffles and shakes its head.

The baker comes around from his stall, his arms akimbo on hips, curiosity on his face.


Tears stain her unlovely face and her fat jowls wobble at the shaking. Macey gulps and puts out clutching hands to the man who now grasps her shoulders, even as her husband hovers protectively at her side.

"My baby!" she cries. "You must come and help, she's been stolen from her crib. Right out of it, in the night. Oh, will no one help me find her?" Swollen blue eyes turn pleadingly to the crowd around her.


Finding a nearby piece of stone to step up on, Gregory raises up to look over the crowd. He arches a brow at seeing Ruine getting upon the pony, half smirking to hismelf before he hears the cries of the woman. He turns his head to watch her and her husband, a deep frown setting upon his face.


But from where the first hiss comes none can tell... for other voices take it up and lob it to and fro in a sullen mutter. "It were them Rangers. Allus causing trouble, they are. Stealing childer and making birds fall from the sky..."


Now that she's up on the pony's back, Ruine's self absorption fades out and the scene of the fat wobbling woman fades in. From her vantage point above her other companions, Ruine watches from her seat, rocking in place to maneouvre the pony closer towards the front as her hazel eyes darting from each player, keen from interest. She remains quiet, reaching out to tap the pony-boy on his shoulder, whispering. Por responds by making a cradling motion with both arms and then throwing up his hands into the air as he shrug. Then the mute puts two fingers against his eyes, drawing them downwards to indicate tears streaming before pointing to the wailing woman.


Out for an early morning walk is Hewes, dressed in his usual (and only) clothing, burgundy. Approaching the crowd, he asks a passerby what's going on. The gist of what's happened is passed in a few terse comments and then Hewes turns his attention to the distraught mother. Going with the flow, he tries to get in closer to the center of action.


Toby stands, silent and still, as the murmur sweeps through the crowd. One hand lifts, almost absently, to the sheath that hangs at his belt, and then drops away. Rangers. Fear and resentment and distrust, and a newly-born confusion whirl in his brown eyes. "Hst, Ruine," he says under his breath. "D'you think it was them?"


Also out for an early morning walk is Mr. Wilbert Thistlewool, concerned citizen of Bree known for his meddling in other people's affairs. Unfortunately for him, his main concern at the moment is that his dear wife has sent him on a search for flour in the market, and this must be done quickly since he was supposed to have brought home a bag last week. The little man, not entirely able to stick to the Task at Hand finds himself drawn toward the crowd like a fly to fresh dung, and he stands in the back with his basket, craning his neck and standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of what will surely provide fodder for gossip later today.


"Someone stole your baby?" the man asks, bewildered. "How do you know? Wait..." he stops himself, the question is pointless. "When did you see her last, and where?"

Macey, dissolved in sobs, is unable (or unwilling) to reply; and her husband speaks up. "She got up in the night, and the child was there. In.. in her crib." It is certain he too fights back grief. "This morning, she wasn't. She's not big enough to push the door open along," he adds.

When Ruine hears the word 'rangers' she wrinkles her nose before touching it, a dark shadow crossing her expressive face and then she frowns. She pulls the bag slung across her body to the front and then again reaches into its depth, just her hand this time, fingering something inside. Por moves across to lay a hand across Ruine's lap, patting it comfortingly when he notices her reaction. He smiles and then putting his lips together, makes a soft 'pfft' sound which causes Ruine to chuckle softly. A chuckle swiftly repressed.


The baker walks up to stand by the pony, his head craning a little between the gaps of the gathering crowd. He is shaking his head disapprovingly at the various murmurs, adding his own version of truth about rangers.


Toby's question is heard and Ruine readily answers, trying to pitch her voice just so that only her companions could hear her, "Of course, why we saw one a few nights ago at the Healing House. He was tall and dark and smelly. Had a bad leg and he smelled like rotten eggs! Though I like this one better than that other one Megan calls nice. He wanted to cut off my nose," Again she touches her nose.


"Nonsense!" says an older woman roundly, her wrinkled face firm and decided. "Nuisances they be, but never done a thing like this. Why I remember as how some one of them fought of the wolves and saved us all!"

"Who else?" asks a younger woman, turning to argue the point. "And what about the blackbirds around the healer's house? They look queer enough.." She darts a fearful glance about the crowd.

"Don't trust 'em, what I allus say. Never trust someone from Out There." This interjection by a man not far away. "Never know what they might be up to."

Someone next to Hewes murmurs, "They took her alright... The only answer." The 'someone' reeks of beer, but others take up his words nonetheless.


Near the back of the crowd, a surly voice answers, "How we gonna do somethin' without proof?"


"Her child is gone! What more proof do you need?" someone yells in response.


Ruine asks interestedly, "What's proof?"


"If that's proof, I'm a horse's arse," returns the surly voiced man.


Toby's face hardens. "Means, how do you know for sure," he replies. "I thought..." but what he thought, he doesn't say.


Gregory shifts the shoulder strap of his bag before looking about the crowd. "As anyone checked for any signs of a break in?" He asks to anyone close to where he is standing, trying to understand better what is happening.


The surly voiced answer is greeted by a giggle from Ruine. She cranes forward, squinting a little to look at the speaker. Bilby the pony starts to fidget. Por, looking slightly alarmed, reaches up to pull her back on the pony's back, wagging one of his fingers disapprovingly. "Oh alright Por. I just wanted to see what a person with such a face would look like."


Hewes perks up and calls out, "What are we standing around here for? The child's gone. Where are the search parties?!"


Macey's husband turns to peer around him, then addresses the crowd generally when he finds no sign of who spoke the fragment he overheard. "Nothing was broke... winders and all just as we left 'em."

Macey herself breaks out into renewed wailing at the words. "My pore baby! My little girl! I ain't never gonna see her again, she was spirited away!"

"Probably ran away and fell down a hill and is now lost in someone's stable," grumbles a small man at the back. "That--" Nearly tipping over, Mr. Thistlewool is quiet for a moment and then calls out, "Have you looked around the town for your baby? It can't have gotten far by itself, but there isn't much value in some little crying child, if you catch my meaning. I don't think it could do much work. That's what they wanted me for when they took me." A cough. "Not that I'm saying anyone took your child, of course."


Gregory's voice pulls Ruine's hazel eyes from the surly speaker, glance confirms the verbal identity and the young girl waves at the messenger-delivery youth. She does not call out but perhaps it is enough to attract Gregory's attention.


Gruffly the man adds, "And trolls don't pay much for little morsels like that."


"Probably wanted her for something dreadful and nasty," opines someone else, cheerfully.

"Yes, a search party." The man who has been interrogating Macey turns in a circle and waves his arms. "We need a search party! Who'll go and help look for the l'il one?"

"Got to finish up the shopping..." Two women turn and slip away, their eyes refusing to meet anyone else's.


Hewes raises a hand. "I'll help! For the right--" Price hangs at the tip of his tongue but catching himself, the mercenary finishes, "For the right little one!" Not making much sense, the man's intent is clear enough.


"All I'm saying," adds Wilbert loudly, waving his arms about for attention, "Is that before you go send every guard we've got off to look for your baby, take a look around your own house. Anabel once swore our pony was stolen but it turned up down the road chewing on Mr. Greenley's stray carrot greens and that was the end of that. Besides, wouldn't want to look like a fool sending out the whole town to look for your little one and it turns out that was all part of these outsider's plans..."

Beady eyes shift toward the shadows, where undoubtably someone is lurking, even if it's just a figment of the active imagination.


The pony shifts its weight, shod feet moving in place a little impatiently and Ruine leans forward to hold onto its mane. The call for a search party is heard but the young ignores it, reaching to pat the side of the equine with her hand.


The baker shakes his head, "I've got my stall to run and no one t help." He starts to move. Ruine looks across then and offers, "I could look after your stall while you search. No one would let me help search... but I can be your assistant." The baker stands, ashenfaced at the offer and mumbles more excuses before retreating back into his shop.


A burly fellow pushes to Hewes' side. "I'll go along," he says gruffly. "If'n it was one of my young'uns.."

Macey drags a fat wrist across her face. "We looked," she says, sniffing loudly. "Everywhere...." The word ends in another wail. "She's not there!"


Gregory steps off the rock, making his way to follow the two women. If he doesn't get done with his delieveries, he will be losing money and some merchants won't be able to make some of their goods.


"Did you look down the well? Don't want to be the voice of bad news, but we had this pesk of a cat that wandered into our open well-cover. Made the water taste awful after that for a month, but you could be luckier..." Our Mr. Thistlewool, quite the optimist this morning!


Por looks at Ruine, offering the makeshift of the pony to her before stepping out to volunteer as well. Ruine frowns, "Por? What would uncle say if you get found out? 'sides how are you going to tell anyone when you find her? No one would be able to understand what you are trying to say." She nudges the pony forward a little.

For the moment, Gregory is forgotten as Ruine worries about the pony-boy.

Despite the (few) offers of help, Macey refuses to be comforted. "It won't do no good," she weeps. "No one'll ever find her, I knows it." For a minute, anger flashes and pulls her out of her despondancy as she snaps across to Wilbert, "If you are such a thistlehead as to leave the well cover off, /I'm/ not! There isn't anything in our well but the water that belongs there!"


A black haired man ambles from the bakery, rubbing at the back of his head with a semi-stifled yawn. Dark eyes blink then squint bemusedly at the rather loud gathering twisted into a fuss and Drystan wanders nearer to hear what he may hear.


Toby's eyes lock onto the man who appears from the bakery, and he begins to take a half-step towards him before subsiding back against the wall.


"Oh, stop your hysterics, woman, it'll do no good to cry any longer over this. Take the offered help and go look around for your child," grunts Mr. Thistlewool. "And if you still can't find her, then ask the guards at the gates if they've seen anyone carrying suspicious bundles out of town, or maybe go bang on Mr. Ferny's door as he's probably got some stake in any business around here that's no good, but there's a whole lot more people outside town than within, and a whole heap of land to search, so your best luck will be within town."


Some scurry away, shame-facedly; others straighten themselves into heros and volunteer to look for the lost child. All the while, Macey's rising and falling sobs lay over all. Wilbert's kind words bring a scowl from the woman's husband. "You've no need to speak to my wife so," he says stiffly. "She's had a great shock." Beneath his prim words, desolation writes itself across his face; he is not so old and this is his first (and only) child. It is with relief and gratitude that he turns towards the man who is organizing the search party.


From the east, a fat hobbit pants his way towards the marketplace. "Hullo!" he calls, his words thin with breathlessness. "Hullo there, I say! Is anyone... here," he stops, goggling at the crush before him, and wanders about the outskirts searching for a way to the center. "Excuse me? Might I come through? Excuse me?"


Hewes looks around at those who have made their way towards him. "We should search the town first and then go from there."


The mute Por shakes his reassuringly at Ruine, reaching up to pet the young girl's hand before walking forward to join the others. She looks at him with a frown before turning to call out to Toby. "You take care of Por when you two search for that baby!" She then turns the pony using her knees to nudge the creature towards the centre of town, presumably towards the Prancing Pony.


'Helpful advice' not listened to, Wilbert turns his shoulder and inches out of the crowd, his efforts probably better spent buying flour; after all, his energy is better put toward self-preservation than finding someone's wandering child, because if he's not back in an hour, there'll be no bread for the day along with a rather ruffled wife.


Drystan looks mildly to the boy who has pinned him in his sights, impassive gaze drifting over his scraped and bruised face. But he also holds his ground, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking back on his heels - slowly taking in the troubled chatter and parsing the matter from the muddle.

"A child's gone missing?" he asks no one in particular.


"Excuse me, sir!" The hobbit waddles towards Wilbert as he emerges from the throng. "Do you... could you... might you be able to tell me what is happening here?" He casts worried indecisive eyes from the short little man to the noisy jostling crowd and back again.


"I still say," someone else adds significantly, "them rangers is up to no good, even if nobody saw them there."


Jutting a stubby finger toward the crying women, Mr. Thistlewool says, "The woman's lost her child somewhere and is eager, for whatever reason, to blame someone from outside for taking the baby. It's all a little silly, I must admit, but she seems quite adamant that the baby isn't simply lost on its own accord." He shrugs. "Others are a little less quick to jump to conclusions, but they're looking, or going to look."


"...Rangers? Ah no, no, what dark arts are at play?" Drystan moans in reply, blanching. "Quickly, you must find the child!" he cries from the outskirts of the crowd.


"A child?" The hobbit looks with dismay at the vast crowd. "I..." he hesitates. "I heard something of a strange noise, coming over from Staddle; I come over every week, you see," he hastens to explain, "My wife, she likes a bit of cloth every so often, from that shop over there," he points a stubby finger. "But there was this noise... like a cry. Perhaps," he stops again, uncertain. "It may have been a babe...?"


Hewes has moved toward the edge of the crowd with whomever will follow him. He is close by the hobbit as it tells its tale of hearing a strange noise. "A cry you say? Where! Where exactly?!"


In the coming and going, the pushing and shoving, even the one who cloaks himself in shadows in a corner is not exempt. A rather hefty lady surveys the situation, raises an umbrella to prod a pathway for herself, and tramps heavily on his booted toe.


Por follows along with whereever and whatever the instigator of the search leads and does while Ruine slowly disappears around the corner, riding on the pony and crooning softly to the creature, her affection for it clear.


Toby whitens at Drystan's words, a shock of betrayal flashing over his face.


A muffled grunt comes from the shadowy figure's person as his toe is squished beneath the fat woman. Surely it is enough that someone around will hear. But the strange man makes no other noise besides, still trying to appear as inconspicuous as may be.


"I knew it," mutters Wilbert beneath his breath. "All this crying over nothing. Say it a little louder, and maybe the whole search party will move over there and end this whole ordeal and our little crying babe will be reunited with his crying mother before every ranger is killed over this and we invoke the wrath of whatever other folks live out there that have pointed swords and spears and other sorts of nasty metal things not used for farming."


Stepping out from a nearby shop, Gregory looks to the crowd to see what is going on now. He arches a brow at the hobbit as he comes running in. He reaches up to scratches his chin as he watches the man for a moment.


"Up.. up on the hilltop," the hobbit stutters, swaying backwards. "On the way across, you know, from Staddle. I come here every week, my wife..."

"We know, we know," a man growls. "She likes you to buy her things."


The grunt is not loud, but Toby has moved farther from the center of the crowd, and it is enough to draw his attention. His eyes widen and he opens his mouth to call out, then hesitates.


"There's nothing wrong with a man wanting to please his wife," says Wilbert defensively, holding his basket close. "Neither is there anything wrong with sending someone like Mr. Wordlun up to that shop to see if the babe can be found. His wife will probably bear eternal gratitude."


"You found her?" A desperate hope dawns on the face of the child's father, and leaving his wife, he shoves through the crowd to the hobbit. "Where? Tell me at once, no, you must show me. Where is she?"


Seeming to catch the glance, the dark figure shifts his gaze to the lad. With a swift motion he unfurls the hood from his head, and is revealed at last. Strider he is called, and he is not well-received in most circles about town. With a raised brow he begins a stare-down with the boy.


Meanwhile, the fat woman has realized her errant step. "Oh! Pardon me si...." She blanches as she turns round and comes face to face with the most mysterious man in town.


"How come you done it?" Toby asks accusingly. He is not speaking loudly, but his gaze with its burden of betrayal and shock, is locked to Strider's.


The crowd engulfs Wilbert as he makes his way to go do actual market business.


All but unnoticed, her small eyes wide and her hair touseled from sleep; a tiny girl toddles into the busy market-place. There is something strange about her face... besides the smear of tearstains down both rounded cheeks. "Mama?" she says softly, but her voice so quiet could never be heard over the noise.


He simply shakes his head, Strider, paying no heed to the heavy woman also staring pale-faced. His eyes are locked on the boy.

"I didn't," he returns. With a quick glance at the crowd, he slinks deeper into the shadows.


"She was up there," the hobbit turns to point. "In those old ruins, you know? The ones hidden beyond the shrubbery. I found it, well, actually, my son found it one day when he was playing. Terribly spooky place." He shudders a little all over his round body. "Dark and fearsome."


Uncertainty wars in Toby's face. He looks into the crowd, then back to the shadows and in the end, does nothing.


Hewes is looking around, trying to get the masses rounded up, when he spots something small wandering. "There she is!" he yells. "Watch out there, you! Don't step on her!"


"I still think it were the Rangers," says a stubborn voice. I knows what I knows and don't confuse me with no facts... this is the tone that bears those words after the departing Wilbert.


The boy's distraction is noted and Drystan narrows his eyes, cautiously following Toby's gaze. The man peers coolly into the shadows for a long moment, all traces of his former alarm bent out of recognition; then a broad man passes before him and he slips into the crowd.


"Mama?" the child ventures again, the strain in her small voice foretelling pending tears. She rubs at her eyes with half-curled hands, blonde curls tangled, nightdress stained with soil.


"He's right there!" the fat lady screams, at last shaken from her discomposure and pointing a be-ringed finger into the shadows at... no one. "Stop..." she breaks off and stares. "He, I, he was! Right there! Close to me as my own shadow." A few of her nearest neighbors turn around to look, then give her pitying looks. "Bit over.." one of them mutters, miming swallowing from a heavy stein.


Bounding over to the little girl, Hewes pushes aside some dunce not looking where he's going and scoops up the child. "There there," he murmurs.


Macey's sobs are broken off abruptly. "She's here?" Disbelief wars with almost frantic desire as the woman spins around, peering wildly through the crowd. "Give me my baby!" she cries. "Where is she?" And she begins to shove and push randomly at whoever is nearest her.


As the Fat Lady starts to scream, Gregory takes that as a cue to head stage left and go back to work. He hoists his shoulder back and heads off towards the next delievery site.


"Them ruins?" A man shakes his head. "I know which ones you mean.. terrible place. All cold and dark and wicked-like. No decent right-thinking person would be away up there."


The toddler squirms in Hewes's arms, taking a long look at him. This is most certainly not her mama. She flings back her head and lets loose a piercing wail.


"Yes," says the hobbit eagerly. "Exactly. A terrible place to take a child, I don't understand who could have done it."


Hewes pushes his way toward the mother and deftly hands off the screaming moppet before his eardrums rupture. "There are you, Missus. Better take her home and get her fed."


A child's scream cuts through all the chatter and gossip and murmuring like a knife though butter; and both mother and father turn as one towards the sound. Macey is closest, nearly there, her pudgy arms reach out and gather her child to her breast. "Oh, my love, oh sweetie," she croons. "There there, mama's got you now, everything's all right. Don't you worry about a.." she stops her soothing patter with a shriek of her own. "What've they done to her!"


Hewes is still close by and he looks at the little moppet from over the mother's shoulder. "That symbol...!"


The child's forehead and palms are stained a deep red with ... blood? Garish markings mar her chubby features: six-pointed stars that may be curiously familiar to the attentive of Bree.


A horrified gasp comes from someone nearby. And she turns to the woman beside her, pointing and whispering. "Look at those stars! And painted in blood!" Despite the softness of her voice, Macey hears her and begins to cry again. "My baby! What have they done to you!" Her grasp of the child is so tight, it begins to whimper; and Macey's husband tries vainly to pry his wife's arms loose.


A muttered roar sweeps across the crowd as it sways, seemingly with one accord. "Evil!" hisses someone. "It's them from Outside, kick them out of Bree, I say!"


Hewes has paled and he takes one step back and then another, putting some distance between himself and the little girl. He looks down at his hands and arms, noting their soiled condition from the nightdress... He pails further and looks around for a trough to wash in.


"And where're you going, eh mister?" says a man in an ugly voice. He steps up to Hewes and drops a heavy hand on the man's shoulder. "You wouldn't be trying to run off or nothing would you?"


Hewes is brought out of his revelry of his condition by the firm hand. Turning to face his interlocuter, he eyes him with horror. "Good grief, man! Don't touch me! You want to bear the taint as well!"


"Here, here, here," twitters the fat hobbit, pulling a snowy white kerchief from his waistcoat pocket and offering it to Macey timidly. "Wash it off, I'm sure..." he pales at Hewes' words, then rallies. "I'm sure it's nothing but ink?"


Roddy comes mincing down the street on almost stiff legs so that his butt is sticking out like a caboose and swaying back and forth as he walks on the tips of his toes. The breelanders would know that he is the son of a local wealthy merchant, a prominent citizen of the city. Unlike Dad, Roddy is not big and fat but he is no more lovely than his father whose money, they say, has quite gone to his head. Anyway, here comes this rather...interesting....looking fellow down the street traveling on the balls of his feet, oddly, in his brightly colored expensive get up. As he arrives, he says in a self important way that only someone who has inherited wealth can say, "Here here. Now what's all the yelling about?" He talks through his nose....


"Taint?" Macey's eyes are wide, red-rimmed and hollow, and she clutches the protesting child still closer. "What sort of taint?" Her voice rises to a hysterical shriek and she doesn't notice the offered handkerchief at all.


Roddy's question receives a multitude of clashing answers.
"Them rangers stole the baby!"
"No, they never! She wandered off, more like."
"What, all the way to the top of Bree Hill and no-one ever noticing?"
"Left alone in those horrid stones, poor lass, tis a wonder she yet lives..."


"Its the blood of those birds! They did something to 'em and took their blood to draw their designs on the child!" Hewes shudders, looking as if he is about to descend into hysteria himself as he makes some sign with his left hand at the girl, perhaps some warding measure from away south.


The birds. People nearby begin to whisper again, an undercurrent of fear swirling through the crowd. "Not the dead ones? Does anyone know how they were killed? No! Dropped from the sky, like... did you see them?"


Roddy half opens his small mouth revealing his teeth in some high brow confusion, "Here here, now one at a time...one at a time..." He turns around to the hysterical woman, and then, finding her hysterical, he simply shushes her. Then he turns to the guy with the runny nose. "I say, who are you anyway, and what's talk of baby snatching...I ask you, who would want such a little brat, anyhow? What's your name? Where's the constable?" He turns also to Hewes. "Oh please don't talk about blood..." Roddy exclaims. "Can't stand the ...." He sees the baby with the drawings. "Oh dear! What a mess!" He seems more horrified at the baby's state than for his safety from the rangers.

Roddy adds, "Somebody get some soap and water!"


"NO!" Macey seems about to faint, her wild eyes darting from side to side, hunting for anything that might speak of safety. Roddy, Hewes, her husband, the helpful hobbit - she sees none of them as she steps forward, then back, then bolts. Her flabby body rockets through any obstacles as she makes for the dubious shelter of her home.


Calming himself to some degree, Hewes calls out to the people, "We've got to do something! We've got to! First that trambling of the healers' herbs, then the birds and now this little girl! Where does it end?! The black arts! What are we going to do!?" The man descends into almost hysterical bellowing as he sinks to his knees and covers himself with his tainted arms, whimpering.


"Oh, nobody's ever going to be safe again!" An old woman sets up a wailing keen. "Even in 'er own 'ome!" She rocks back and forth, her cries rising to a piercing scream, until a man beside her administers a swift slap - then wisely steps behind Roddy.


"How should I know?" The man Roddy addresses snaps back. "I certainly wouldn't want the child... she was found missing from her bed this morning," he explains, a little less heatedly. "That hobbit there," he jerks his head sideways, pointing, "heard the little one crying up on Bree hill. From those broken down old stone buildings, you know?"


When the woman goes to run off, Roddy draws his hand around to place alongside his cheek. Then his attention turns to Hewes, "OH MY GAWD!" Roddy steps back. "He's some kind of nut." then he sees himself between the woman and the man who slapped her.. He tries to step out of the way of the coming reatribution.


Macey's husband looks around the crowd, then runs after his wife. His footsteps die out of hearing as he rounds a building.


"You.. you.." the crone, a growing red patch on her withered cheek turns upon the hapless Roddy. "How dare you!" she screeches. "Listen to him, I was right, I was, you got no right to go about hitting poor old ladies!"


"It were the Rangers!" a deep voice booms out from the direction of the bakery. "That's all nonsense!" yells someone else in response. "She wandered off on her own, ain't no such thing as witchery!"


Roddy runs. It's not a pretty sight.
Or maybe it is. His rear wiggles admirably.
No. Cover your eyes.
Roddy hides behind the food cart.


"You come back here, you coward!" the old woman shouts. She totters after Roddy, glaring behind everyone she passes. "I'll teach you..."


While everyone is shrieking and so on, Hewes crawls into the shadow of a stall and sits in something of a fetal position, watching the scene out of the corner of his eye.


Toby slides into the alleyway and vanishes.


Roddy is breathing hard. His face is flushed with unaccustomed exercise. He looks around for escape and finding none he just ducks down behind the stall. He is panting.


"He's over there." A gentle voice whispers and helpful hands turn the furious hag towards a stall - the wrong one, it turns out. Roddy is safe... at least for now. Some old women have looong memories.


Roddy repeats, "oh boy oh boy oh boy!" trying to gain control of his breathing.
Roddy waits for awhile as his breathing gradually settles down. His face gradually goes back again to its regular color and he peeks up above the stall....


The crowd remains, some of it; arguing heatedly over who might have been responsible for the child's brief disappearnce - not to mention her return. The furious old woman totters back of the indicated stall and, seeing no one, heads muttering down the street. "When I catch up with that boy... oh, he's going to regret that. Tell his father, I will."


When the old woman is gone, Roddy stands up carefully, straightening his clothes and trying to act as if nothing had happened.

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