Logs

Chicken Run-

It's lunchtime in the market and people are coming and going quickly, bustling in a flourish of noise and activity. There seems to be hardly a spare inch in which one can stand without being pushed and shoved. The spaces beside the wall are mostly clear, though some stragglers stand here and there- watching as the crowds race by. It's a clear, warm day- pleasently so, not too warm nor too cool- the sky is clear and free of cloud and a faint breeze drifts through the square.

There seems to be some action in the centre of the square as people scatter suddenly- shrieks going up into the air as a young Megan- today pig-tailed runs through- several chickens fleeing before her.

Old Hugh Bramblefleece certainly isn't one of those doing the bustling. He is one of the few leaning against a wall - in his case the wall of the Bakery - with his staff set beside him, one hand wrapped about a tasty-smelling meat pasty as he takes another huge bite from it.

At the pandemonium in the market he near-chokes on his mouthful, and as one particularly flustered chicken flees his way he grabs on his staff and brandishes it menacingly at the bird with his free hand - the other is still zealously holding his lunch.

Amidst the pandemonium runs Megan now, hot on the trail of one terrified chicken. Behind her someone is yelling, and people continue to throw up their arms and dive out of the way- chickens scattering in all directions; feathers flying into the air. Megan is about to launch herself and grab at the chicken running toward Hugh, though before she does, she's glanced up to see him, recognise him, and a look of horror crosses her face as she's in the air, arms outstretched at the chicken- or at least in an effort to grab its tail feathers.

Hugh glares towards the source of the yelling, pastry and mince flying everywhere as he splutters indignantly, "Whassall'is pan'emoniummm!" the words muffled by crumbs. Reflexively and defensively he swings his shepherd's crook towards the approaching chicken - well, if he does more damage than simply knock it away, the bird might still make a good dinner. The staff whistles through the air, and only then does Hugh seem to notice the face /behind/ the chicken. His appalled expression is twin to Megan's, and his gnarled hand struggles to pull the staff back, or at least slow its progress.

Megan, her breathing quick and shallow, sees the staff coming; though her first priority is apparently the chicken. It is now at the point of exhaustion and seems to be no londer able to run as it once had and, so with a final stretch of her fingers, she grabs it by the wings, lands on the ground and rolls to the side, chicken held triumphantly in her hands. By now, the pandemonium has died down somewhat, and Megan lays on her back, holding the chicken upside down in the air- an exalted look on her face as she struggles to catch her breath. People who had been caught up in her chase- or who had become a part of it against her will now begin to walk by, muttering and looking down on her as she remains where she has fallen; apparently unable to move for some time.

Hugh's staff thuds to earth just beside where Megan is lying, and the old man is breathing almost as heavily as Megan. "So sorry," he croaks, seamed features darkening to beet-red. "Didn't see ye at first - yer chicken made a break fer it?" He pauses a moment, glancing round at the passers by and their apparent lack of concern, and inquires generously, "Need a hand up?" The hand he offers to the prone girl is of course the one holding the meat pasty, for his other hand is wrapped round the crooked staff as though he'll never let it go again. Who knows who he might hit if he did, in all this pandemonium? The grocer's delivery-hobbit is crawling round on his hands and knees for dropped leeks, one old matriarch is carefully examining her parcels ...

Megan blinks about, as if trying to regain her barings, and apparently she only just remembers that Hugh is standing above her. "Oh! No, perfectly understandable!" and from within what remains of the pandemonium in the crowd comes a voice: "Hey! You took my chicken!! She's got my chicken!!!" Cautiously, Megan lets her eyes glance up to Hugh, then she rolls over and pushes herself to her feet. Now she holds the chicken under her arm as she brushes herself off. "Bring back my chicken you scoundral!!!" comes the voice again- and a red-faced stall-owner has begun to push his way through the crowd.

Hugh peers down at Megan, and his pastry-holding hand drops back to his side - until, that is, the stallholder's shout echoes in his ears. His brown eyes roam over girl, exhausted chicken ... and then rise to peer into the crowd. "Hang on there! Sure there's been some misunderstandin'," he calls towards the stall-keeper, hobbling forward as he does - and effectively blocking Megan's way of retreat, if she was planning to run for it.

All is not lost, however, for the pandemonium generated by Megan's swift flight through the marketplace has not yet abated. Slippery leeks roll this way and that, evading the delivery-hobbit's trembling grasp, and it might well be that an over-eager foot would slip on these fearsome obstacles.

Megan is still fighting to catch her breath, and she appears to be trying to think of something to say in this situation; though a sickly sweet and innocent look has found its way onto her face as she pats the chicken gently- how could anyone suspect her?! "Yes! There has been a misunderstanding in fact!" Megan affirms, following behind Hugh, trying to calm the chicken who is clucking nervously and glancing around- perhaps it's trying to find its friends?..

The stall-keeper continues about his way- eyes spotting some other escaped chickens, and this may well attract his attention. His foot lands on a leek, and he loses her balance, flails his arms and topples- creating bedlam once more as people jump to avoid standing on him or being pulled down with him.

The delivery-hobbit opens his mouth indignantly as one - nay, several - of his precious leeks is squashed, then thinks better of it and scurries off before any further calamity can occur. Hugh, meanwhile, shakes his shaggy head in disapproval. "All this- this ... bedlam over one a few chickens? Mebbe ye oughter tell the poor fellow over there what happened, Miss Tasselberry?" He looks expectantly to the girl and the feathered burden cradled in her arms, then adds one more piece of sage advice. "Mind ye don't squeeze 'er too hard, or she'll-" Well, what's a common reaction to fright and panic?

The stall-holder has managed to pick himself to his feet with a groan and some obsenities, and he begins his rampage toward the two. "Well! I don't know if he saw it or yet, but there was a little boy and he was hovering about the stall!" she says, looking at them both sincerely as she tells her story- her eyes are wide and shocked, yet filled with that same innocence as she speaks. "And well- he let the chickens out you see, so here I come along and I see him, and I see the chickens running, and I think; "Well, I have to get the chickens before these cause too much bedlam!" she pats the chicken again on the head. Again it clucks as only chickens can, and she shakes her head to Hugh. "She's fine! Perfectly content!" It's quite obvious that the chicken is not, in fact, content at all- but continues clucking nervously, occasionally struggling against her grip. The stallholder looks unconvinced.

Hugh nods at Megan's tale, and turns to the stallholder to add his own confirmation. "See - Miss Tasselberry here was only tryin' ter help," he tells the man. "And seems ye needed the help, what with the market so busy an' folk eatin' their lunch an'-" At this point he trails off, looking down at his left hand - it's empty. Seems he must have dropped his meat pasty in all the excitement. Bright brown eyes roam over the gradually quieting bedlam, and when he spots the item several feet away, already trodden into the ground, he simply sighs. Well, perhaps it'll bring a few more chickens back to feast on the bounty.

Speech for the stallholder over, he turns back to Megan and shakes his head. "She's agitated - ye better watch that nice frock o' yers," he mutters to her.

The stallholder continues to look disbelieving. And Megan (perhaps just putting on a show for Hugh), sighs melodramatically, and strides toward the stallholder-pushing the chicken into his hands with a scowl. "You can't do anything around here these days without being accused of something!" She growls, glancing back at Hugh to make sure he's listening. Now, her voice turns somewhat pathetic; "All I'm trying to do is help!!!" though, as she says this, her eyes shine with an excited, mischevious light that she so often holds when she's lying.

Chickens /have/ begun to arrive at the sight of the pastry, and now peck at it with their beaks, clucking happily. The chicken being held by the stallholder struggles, flaps its wings and drops to the floor- running over to help eat the pastry.

Hugh appears utterly convinced. After all, who would suspect that /nice/ Miss Tasselberry of anything? "There, see? All's well as ends well," he proclaims as he watches the chickens demolish his lunch. "An' I hope ye weren't too put out, Miss Tasselberry," he adds, turning to Megan with a great show of concern. "I'm sure this fine fellow here would be happy ta give ye a few eggs or summat in thanks." That suggestion made, he turns to gaze longingly towards the bakery. "All this excitement's makin' me feel peckish," he grumbles now, feeling at his belt for his purse. He might have quite a wait though - the turmoil had of course drawn a crowd of onlookers, many of whom have now moved on elsewhere, and the queue at the bakery is now out of the door.

Megan nods sincerely, looking at the stallholder with a "see, I told you so," kind of expression. "No, I'm alright Mr. Bramblewool- he didn't know, after all.." the stall-holder looks furious, as as if he's about to go on to say something, to try and prove her wrong. But, at this time, chaos has errupted again as the chickens seperate and begin to run in different directions. Apparently the stallholder has decided it's time to catch them and bring them back to their proper locations, and so- with a final cold look to both of them, he's off and disappeared into the crowd, apparently ignoring the suggestion of giving eggs as compensation. "I'm sorry about your pasty, Mr. Bramblewool. If you'd like I can bring you one next time I'm on deliveries..."

"Eh?" Hugh turns his head back to Megan, blinking, only to see the stallholder disappear. "Some folk!" he murmurs indignantly at this apparent 'ingratitude' - then lined features crease in a frown. "Did young Betsy ever go round an' visit ye?" he wonders suddenly, not remembering to answer 'yea' or 'nay' to the offer of a pastry just yet. "Oh, an' it's Bramble/fleece/," he adds in afterthought. "Know it's a hard name fer a young mind to remember," and he reaches out to pat Megan's arm like an indulgent grandfather.

Megan frowns after the stall holder, pursing her lips as he goes. "I know! No manners any more! Really!" she says, shaking her head as if appauled. "Betsy? Well, I havent' seen her, though I've been out and about a fair bit lately- my brothers may have seen her.. what was she visiting about?" Now she pauses, and blushes for getting his name wrong. "Oh! Of course! I'm not very good with names.." and she smiles kindly- just as a well-to-do, polite young grand-daughter would.

"Likely she hasn't then - I'll send her roun' sometime," Hugh responds obliquely, returning Megan's smile with a slightly strained one of his own as he adds, "An' not ta worry, sure ye'll remember me right name in time." Even if the use of various wrong names grates on elderly nerves. Then he frowns again, "I do hope yer brothers behaved 'emselves and didn't cause any trouble in these parts?" Which he surely knows is a false hope ...

Megan nods slowly, though apparently all this talking has caused her attention to wander- bright eyes now darting about the crowds, a thoughtful, mischevious look on her young face as she does. "Oh! But of course- I have trouble with some names, and other names I can always remember..." she sounds somewhat absent now as she focuses her attention elsewhere. It's drawn quickly back as her brothers are meantioned, and she gives a dazzling smile; "But of course not! We've all been as well bahaved as ever! They were going to head back just the other day, but apparently there's another hobbit party coming up before they leave, so they thought it best they'd stay to say goodbye and what-not.. But no- very well behaved!" There is a slight lack of conviction in her voice- a slight tinge of something that could give away her lie.

Hugh looks less believing than he had earlier - maybe even /his/ gullibility has its limits. "Aye, well, I wish 'em a safe journey home," he mutters, shuffling his feet. "Think that queue's gettin' smaller now," he adds, pointing towards the bakery with a definite look of 'must be going'. He has one last question first, though. "Another hobbit party ye said? When'd that be? I know 'em Little Folk are great ones fer eatin' and drinkin'." And giving away free gifts, which is probably why he's interested. Might even be he could wangle an invite ...

Megan looks as though she senses his disbelief, and gives another charming smile. "I'll tell them you said that then..." and now she glances at the queue with a slight nod. "It is indeed... I'd best be getting home myself as it were..." she glances to the east with a slight nod. "Oh- well it's the party for Dharlon, I think.. Only met him once myself but seems like a respectable gentlehobbit... It's tomorrow some time, I think.. though I'm not sure of the exact time- you should ask up at the inn if you're interested; they're sure to know..And yes- hobbits certainly enjoy their food and drink!" Megan makes a move as if to leave. "Well, I hope to see you there, Mr.. Brandyfleece...? Good day!" She has a delighted look, as if she's sure she's just got the name right, and with a cheerful wave, she's off.

"It's /Bramble/fleece," Hugh grumbles after her, before turning away to join the queue at the bakers. "Tomorrow sometime," he mutters to himself as he waits his turn. "Must remember that." A little while longer, and then at last his grumbles and mumbles turn to silence, as he munches contentedly on his Second Dinner