Inside the South Gate
The Great East Road enters and leaves Bree here, through an opening in the high
hedge that surrounds Bree. Where the road meets the hedge, a large stone wall
has been erected, of well set stones. Under an arch of stones is a wooden door,
with two small windows: one high, one low. On the west side of the road, near
the door, is the gatekeeper's lodge. On the eastern side of the road stand a
few houses. The Great East Road winds its way north, around the western flank
of Bree-hill. The air is cool but pleasant and the ground is somewhat cool but
becoming greener.
The day sky is clear with only slight wisps of clouds overhead. The early
afternoon spring air is cool but pleasant around you.
The afternoon skies are clear and cloud-strewn today. The sun blazes warmly
upon the brick and stone wall; it glistens faintly upon the leafy hedge where
some few drops of rainwater yet remain. But for the warmth of the crimson-gold
sunlight upon this afternoon, the Spring breeze is chill and it blows
raucously. About the green swards and the foot of the nearest hill in the
distant Southdowns, along the overgrown grasses along the Greenway, the Spring
breeze is at play. Many weeds and manifold clusters of grass are bent to its
will, as well as the tattered folds of an approaching grey cloak.
Indeed, the ragged hem of the quickly striding figure is blown wayward it might
seem. The Stranger walks at a rapid pace, making long strides with his lengthy
shanks, but he makes his way to the Southgate all the same. He does not enter
it, but walks along the hedge as if he would pass it by.
A tall wall is the gate, of stones grey and strong, well-mortared and firmly
set in place. A hasty glance might show the sturdy wooden door that hangs ajar,
the gatekeeper leaning his chair back against the chill hulking wall, a thin
skirl of smoke torn ragged by the wind. And a mop of dark gale-tousled curls
alternately hiding and reveal a pair of bright brown eyes... a girl's face
pokes up over the top of the wall, her chin resting on her arms, her body who
knows where. The strange man has caught her gaze some ways off and she follows
his progress silently until at last she decides to speak. "Why are you in such
a hurry? Did you steal something?" The words might be considered insulting, but
her voice speaks none of this intent; rather it is filled with nothing more
than an idle interest.
The long shanks cease in their determined path quite suddenly.
The grey-mantled wayfarer stands rigidly still as the Bree-girl cries out in
her jibing tone. Whether he smiles or no might not be known, for his back is to
the girl, and his hood casts deep shadows about his features. He reaches into a
hitherto concealed pocket of his cloak, and with his pallid, large,
grime-besmirched hand he withdraws a hardened crust of bread.
Then turning about to look up at the taunting lass, the Stranger's voice might
be heard, though his face still remains unseen save the gleaming of his grey
eyes ...
"What harm might a man do, coming from the Southdowns, Miss? I am many
things, but not a thief." His voice comes not in an angered tone, but in the
same even, steady, somewhat hushed mode as it ever seems. Yet for one who
claims he is no thief, his garb is no defense - and who wears a hood when the
sun is warm and bright?
"Many things," says Tathar darkly. "There are evil men out there, everyone says
so. And other things too." She squints a little trying to see through the
shadows of his hood. "What are you then? And if you didn't steal anything,
where were you going so fast? What is that you've got there?" The questions
tumble out one after another, snatched at by the wind, but still audible. "I've
never seen you before... except weren't you in the Pony the other day? Have you
ever seen a troll?"
Is it soft laughter that is lent the wind? Perhaps the Stranger lends his voice
to this music, if ever such a somber sound might have been called as such.
"You are inquisitive, Miss. It is not always a bad thing, I suppose,
but not all answer as willingly as myself ... such as the Men you speak of."
The vagrant's voice seems not as guarded nor quite as quiet, yet he does not
withdraw his hood from about his face. He holds the crust aloft for the
Bree-girl to see, then tears a chunk off from this frugal meal. "It is an early
supper, or a late lunch, Miss."
Her other queries go unanswered, for the wayfarer stands gazing back up at her,
now turning about and squaring his form to hers, planting his legs apart in a
soldierly manner.
Tathar shifts her position a little, to look at the stones on either side of
her. "But I am safe up here," she says. "And if you tried to hurt me, the
guards would stop you." Comfortable in her certainty that bad things only
happen outside the great wall and hedge that encircle the greater part of her
small world, she continues to chatter. "That's not very much to eat..."
The Stranger glances towards the Guardpost as the Bree-girl mentions it.
Possibly there is a stirring within, or it very well may be that he estimates
whether or not it is within earshot. All the while he munches rhythmically and
orderly upon his makeshift meal.
"An inquisitive young lady who also jumps to conclusions," says he, one
lid veiling one silvern, gleaming eye. The muscles in his powerful jaw cease
their constant tensing and relaxing as he stops his chewing for but a moment.
Laconically he continues,
"I have dined on much less, and much worse. It is not your concern,"
and saying such he places the last morsel of bread crust in his mouth. But
suddenly he adds, "You believe in what you saw then?"
The girl follows his gaze towards the guardpost, brushing a mop of curls out of
her mouth and eyes. But her gaze snaps back towards him and something of
bewilderment curls at the corners of her mouth. "Do I... what?" The wind has
not let up in the slightest, if anything it howls through the hedge and around
the gate with more vigor than before. Tathar's hairstring is snatched loose and
whirled along the street before she can even turn to catch at it; and if her
hair had seemed unmanagable before, now it truly is. Giving up on the
conversation entirely, she straightens and with both hands, attempts something
like a braid. At least it keeps the unruly mass out of her face. Mostly.
"Believe in what you saw, Miss," comes the Stranger's terse reply.
Though the Bree girl does not pursue the conversation, the vagrant seems loathe
to leave it to the wind. His keen, steeley gaze looks after the girl upon the
wall, seldom straying from her and only does is it lifted to look upon the
small Guard's post. He says no more now, but clasps his hands at the wrist
before him.
"Yes but... saw what?" Now that she can see again, and talk without inhaling a
mouthful of hair, Tathar hoists herself up a little further and rests on her
elbows. The sleeves of her faded brown dress ripple with the force of the wind,
and she shivers a little despite the still-warm afternoon sun. "I have seen all
kinds of things. I saw Mr. Thistlewool get arrested and Toby hit a bald man
with an applecore. By accident," she adds hastily. "Why just today I saw a
lizard in the ditch over there." And she jerks her head towards some unseen
spot behind. "I don't know what you mean." There is the faintest hint of
returning suspicion in her tone as the stranger refuses to explain himself
properly.
"You know a great deal of what happens beyond those gates," says the
Stranger with a noticeable grin, for the wind in its vigorous and ceaseless
dance has sent his ragged hood awry, revealing his set jaw and softly upturned
lips.
"You will tell me about this thing, that some claim to have been as big
as the hill over yonder?" In his mildly probing way and softly spoken voice,
perhaps he arouses suspicion ... Perhaps. Mayhap he only needs a distraction
from his weather-beaten raiment and wayworn appearance by a terrific tale ...
Mayhap. But he gestures with his chin, chiefly, and a subtle motion of his
hooded crown towards the summit of Bree-hill as he makes mention of it.
Tathar's brown eyes widen with comprehension. "The troll!" she says, her voice
squeaking a little and then perhaps she blushes. Or maybe it is just that her
cheeks are red from chill. "It was not as big as the hill," she says with the
patience reserved for those who are very young or very stupid. "But it was very
large." Her gaze goes beyond the man now, resting in memory, and possibly
imagination, as she considers just how big the beast may have been. "It was as
tall as that house there," she hazards at last. "Maybe taller. And it was
horrible dirty and this sort of greeny-grey color." Warming to her tale, her
eyes re-focus on her audience's face (for such he has become, and a much more
appreciative one than Tanna it seems so far.)
"We all ran for the wagons and it came up to the top of the hill and shouted
after us." All animation now, she waves one hand towards the hill, the other
mimics the over-filled wagon and herself standing on the outside unable to get
in. "Malorie threw me inside and the poor pony tried to run, only we were
stuck. So they stuck all the leftovers in a basket and gave them to him while
we got away."
The Stranger's keen gaze watches the Bree-girl's face very closely while she speaks
... even too intently it might seem. For studious of her countenance as he is,
he seems agitated to a greater degree with each new phrase that the girl speaks.
"Yes ..." he says quietly, almost inwardly, when she leaves off in her
oration. His dirtied knuckle rises to his lips, and he gnaws at it pensively,
clapsing the elbow of that hand within the other. "Yes. And this is what Miss
Foxglove told you to name it, or did its name come to you from fae-tale?"
Her voice falters and dies away. "I.. I don't know," she says at last. "I can't
remember... she might have said so, I think she did." The piercing squeal of
the murdered animal, the hasty, frantic scramble for the wagons in the dark,
the loud off-key singing, all jumble up in her mind until she is no longer
certain who said what. "It all happened very fast," she says at last. "But I am
certain it was a troll... you can ask her if you don't believe me. He said we
should come have dinner with him, mutton stew. Fresh, he said." Her small nose
wrinkles with disgust.
"It was very far north of the Northgate, Miss?"
The Ranger's queries seem to come much more easily now, and his voice; although
remaining quite quiet and his manner being subdued yet, comes gently from
between his lips in a rather unguarded manner. Never do those keen spectral
orbs leave the girl's face now. There is a clever expression with them, as if
pieces of a puzzle fall into place with the Breelander's responses.
"Not a terribly long ways," Tathar says rather vaguely. "A couple of miles? We
went in the morning and we got there in time to have lunch. There was a picnic!
Oh, and some people walked there.. I did, it wasn't any fun just sitting in the
wagon the whole time." She snickers a little, almost to herself, and eyes the
tall man slyly. "I saw a whole bunch of rocks and some dirt and trees, and
Mercy almost fall out of the wagon, and..."
The Stranger leaves off his pondorous knuckle-gnawing and his eyes lower from
the Bree-girl to the wall as she (seemingly) rambles on about nothing and
everything all at once. Perhaps out of habit, he fidgets among the folds of his
cloak to produce the polished, long-stemmed pipe and he stuffs the bowl quickly
without looking at what he does. Seemingly willing to let the girl go on for
quite some time, he walks closer to the wall and strikes a match upon a rough
stone or brick, sending flame and hissing noises of a match being kindled to
light upon the breeze.
Puffing at the stem and sending wreathes of thin smoke upwards to the girl upon
the wall, he says in his quiet, controlled voice.
"I thank you, miss. The day wears on. Am I free to go, or does your
charge yet rest upon my head?"
Drawing back a little as the man comes closer, Tathar's eyes dart again to the
heavy stone between her and him, measure again the distance above the ground
that she is; and she relaxes. Smoke curls upwards, and she sniffs at it
appreciatively, watching his every move with interested brown eyes. But his
question brings a return of her first accusation, and narrowing her eyes
suspiciously, she says, "But did you steal something? You were going so fast...
maybe you were running away from a merchant." She eyes his concealing cloak.
/Anything/ could be hidden under there. "And you didn't say what you were
doing..." The wind has at last died down a bit as evening draws on.
The Stranger seems not at all perturbed by the Bree-girl's interrogation.
Still, he draws smoke calmly through the long pipestem. Ever does his figure
remain taut and yet at ease, his hands clasped before him at the wrist, his
figure squared to the Breelander's prejudiced eyes.
But the light is failing and the sun has begun to sink in the West. Here wander
his argent gleaming eyes, though now the shadow which wreathes his face has
deepened. He watches until the light comes in but a slanting, faint shaft to
light the gate, and then he says suddenly after his wont,
"If I hastened due to pursuit, do you not think that I would have been
found by now? I have been talking with you for some time now, Miss."
The hedge grows mobile at a small point, not far from the gate. Newborn leaves
complain, and limbs rub against themselves, and eventually a small, tangled
head of brown hair emerges near the ground, followed by a dangling bonnet, and
at last an entire hobbit lass. Mercy squirms all of the way out of the bush and
gains her feet, looking around as if a bit dizzy.
By all appearances, she has had a busy day-- mud covers her bloomers to the
knees, there's a rip or two at the hem of her gown, and now leaves are stuck in
her hair. Her eyebrows pinch together in a bit of a worried expression.
"Oh." Tathar sounds almost disappointed. "I suppose so..." She peers down the
dimming road but no irate merchant man is running towards them. No howls of
rage or loss echo through the quiet evening. "Maybe they haven't noticed yet?"
she hazards hopefully. "Or perhaps..." she visibly racks her brain for another
explanation only to give up with a giggle. A scuffling noise draws her gaze to
one side and the laugh vanishes. "Come back in here!" she hisses, casting a
worried glance at the stranger. He has been quite decent so far, it is true,
but who knows what might happen in the darkness outside the walls.
The Ranger's steeley eyes glance downward towards the little hobbit lass, and
but for an instant there is an expression of tenderness, or a fond smile. But
this gentle softening of his weathered, stony features is gone in but an
instant, and the jaded expression that is generally upon his face, the sharp
glimmering of his eyes; these return without a moment's notice.
He disregards her, though it is plain that he took note of her. He takes no
heed of the hurried chastening coming from the wall's top. Instead, he glances
back down the Greenway and says, rather terse once more,
"If all the merchants in Breeland were as quick as you, or quicker,
then never could a thief thieve again. Surely though, they would have noticed
in these passing hours ... and it is queer to me that you have not dined yet
today." He adds his last words as an after thought, not lacking a bit of a
grin, but this too is quick to hie from his lips.
Mercy is starting to move along the hedge, away from the gates, when she seems
to belatedly realize Tathar is talking to /her/. She whirls about, gives a
guilty glance upwards, followed quickly by a calculating, measuring expression.
"Shh!!" she finally hisses back. "You'll give me away!" A furtive look toward
the man, and she begins to inch backwards once more.
By virtue of having looked at Tolion at just the right time, Tathar catches a
glimpse of a softer expression and she eyes him doubtfully. "Yes... all right,"
she concedes at last. "I guess you couldn't have stolen anything after all."
A soft laugh follows Mercy's admonition. "I'm sorry," she says. "But where are
you going?"
Looking back to the man, she says quite decidedly, "I am not going home yet.
Not for a very long time, until it is quite dark and much too late to start
sewing. I don't care if I am hungry."
"Have no fear of your friend 'giving you away', hal-- ... hobbit," the
Ranger says, checking himself in mid-speech, pausing, then finishing his
sentence. But he says no more for a time, content to merely inhale and expell
the pungent smoke rhythmically.
After some time, during which he glanced at times upon the hobbit child, at
others upon the star-strewn heavens, and yet at others upon the growing,
glowing light within the Guard Post, he finally speaks in the same abrupt and
hushed manner.
"Is it not late for a child to be at play out-of-doors? I do not mean
to pry ... And is it not late to hold an innocent wayfarer from faring upon his
way?" He casts a glance first downwards upon the Hobbit, then upwards towards
the girl, and there rest his gleaming eyes.
"It is not too late," Mercy says defensively. "I'm not going anywhere." She
continues to sneak slowly further away, until she finally stops, the temptation
to brag about her cleverness having grown too great to resist. A few steps back
toward the two big folk.
"They playin' hide-and-seek," she reveals in a hushed tone, leaning forward a
little. "But I heard Granny callin' me home, so I'm sneakin' out, then back in
on another row, and will get home with them never knowin' where I went off to."
She rocks proudly back on her heels, furry toes sticking up, then nearly looses
her balance and stumbles once before ducking her head and straightening her
bonnet.
From co-conspirator to chiding adult. Tathar's attitude swings back and forth
rapidly as, neither wholly child nor completely grown, she seems to be trying
to find a place of balance. "It is late... you should come in, there might be a
wolf out there or something." As the last gleam of light slides behind the
hilly horizon, a scraping comes from the guard house and a short man appears in
the doorway scratching his ribs. Deliberately, he walks towards the wooden gate
and begins to swing it shut. CREEEAAK!
Tathar's curly head vanishes from the top of the wall, to reappear in the
slowly closing gap. "I wasn't keeping you anywhere," she says to the strange
man, but her attention is on Mercy. "Come inside. Hurry, he's closing the gate.
We'll go along behind, I'll show you - and no one will see us. Toby showed me
how."
The man nods gruffly, then adds, "Ayup. I am. Come you in now, little'un." But
he stops his efforts for a few minutes, and along with them, the hideous squeal
of tortured hinges.
The Ranger watches the little Hobbit as she turns braggart in an instant, and
there is an air of appraisal, or amusement about him - possibly due to her
careless nature, and her quick inclination to defense? Who might know, but the
hardened wanderer turns about as he hears the gate shutting, and he glances no
longer at either Breelander.
Away his long shanks carry him and at a rather alarming rate. He does not run,
but walks quickly with an accustomed and practiced ease, and far sooner than
might be expected he has disappeared from view.
Has he melded into a shadow? Does he lurk nearby the wall? Why does he bid no
word of parting? Perhaps he has not left ...
Mercy is sneaking away again when the gate creaks, and she jumps in
startlement. For a moment a rebellious glower is given to the guard, the
strange man, Tathar, and the gathering evening in general. At last, she sulkily
stops toward the entrance to town, head down and feet making as much noise as
hobbit feet can on dirt. She does not deign to glance now at any of the big
folk, and thus doesn't notice Tolion's vanishing.
With a last glance into the darkness after Tolion, Tathar hurries after Mercy,
catching her up in a very few steps and trying to jolly her out of her sulks.
"Here. This way, it's a secret."
Behind them, the gate resumes its tormented wail, punctuated by grunts as the
gatekeeper shoves and tugs and pulls.