Logs-Falling Objects

Above the Prancing Pony
A small path climbs along Bree-hill, above the Prancing Pony. A stone thrown
could easily hit the building from this path. The path meanders along in a
more or less straight line as it cuts across Bree-hill. To the north the
Hobbit Smials are visible, while the holes of South Row can be seen in the
opposite direction.

Obvious exits:
South leads to South Row.
North leads to Hobbit Smials.

================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Tue Feb 17 02:26:28 2004
Bree time: Dawn <6:19 AM> on Monday of Summer - June 20,1431
Moon Phase: Full Moon

Breelands Weather
The dawn summer air is very hot and dry around you. A light drizzle trickles
from the sky.
===============================================================================

It is very early morning. Well, perhaps not so early that Bree is entirely
deserted, but since it is again raining.. pouring; drowing Bree (despite it
being summer!) there are few people around.. Anyone sensible is asleep still;
tucked away and dry amd warm and snickering at those who have decided it's a
good time to be out and working... Up from the South Row comes Megan-
slipping and sliding in the mud-covered path; perhaps worrying about getting
wet for the first time in ever. Her hood is drawn about her head, and her
head is indeed bowed and her pace is nearing a run. Meanwhile she mutters
quietly to herself- something that sounds like a shopping list of some
description, perhaps.

Anyone sensible might be asleep, but it would seem that Megan's not the only
one lacking the sense to stay indoors. Moist drops of rain cling to every
bead of grass, every footprint ... and a line of those are visible just ahead
of Megan, leading across the hill behind the Pony. Their maker is not far
away - that hunched shape in the dirty fleece grubbing in the wet grass is
clearly identifiable as Hugh Bramblefleece. He's stuck his staff upright in
the ground beside him, and a large, shallow basket with an oilcloth cover
rests nearby. "Hmm? What was that?" is is mumbled response to the sound of
muttering from somewhere behind him, though he doesn't look round.

Onward still comes Megan, and she's certainly not seeing anything ahead of her!
NEarer to the basket, and nearer to the staff does she draw, and no words
does she hear from Hugh (perhaps the pounding of rain on her head and hood,
plus the apparent bustle of thoughts in her head has drowned out all other
noise or focus on anything else..).. Closer she draws, and more and more she
seems to forget about keeping her balance in the mud.. Certainly some kind of
disaster appears imminent-- isn't it always??

Of course, Hugh's quite an expert at causing minor disasters. He leans back on
his heels to toss something into the cloth-covered basket, then wipes his
muddy hands on his trews and reaches for his staff. Alas, his dirty hands
can't quite get a grip on the rain-slicked wood, and it goes rolling towards
Megan. The old man himself is still oblivious to her presence, he's too busy
reaching for the basket with his other hand, to the accompaniment of much
grunting and groaning. "Nice weather for ducks," he mumbles as he straightens
up. "Not for old joints - now where's that wretched staff gone?"

Yes, the pair seem to both be experts at causing minor disasters, for as the
staff comes toward Megan's feet, she hears Hugh's words about ducks and
glances up (thus losing her view of the ground!). A bright smile appears on
her face as she spots the man (though one uncertain and full of hurried
impatience), and, taking a few more short and hurried steps (during which
time the staff catches on one foot and proceeds to trap the other) she calls:
"G'mornin' Mr. Bramble--AHHH!" And is on her way toward the ground.

At the sound of Megan's voice a cheery beam starts to spread across Hugh's
rain-soaked features, changing instantly to alarm at that panicked yell.
"What on earth are ye doin'?" he asks, puzzled as he turns round, peering
down at the poor woman. "It's hardly the day fer rollin' in the mud - ye've
not hurt yerself, have ye?" He sounds quite anxious, and actually hobbles a
few steps forward without his staff to hold out one grimy hand towards Megan,
ready to pull her up. He doesn't quite seem to have worked out that his staff
was to blame for her predicament.

Tangled up in a bustle of limbs now (for her legs have certainly been twisted
strangely after their capture by the staff and also having to accomidate for
her fall- arms, too have been sent forward, but have done little in aiding
her before she finds herself face-forward in the mud...) "I en't rollin' in
the mud!" Megan snaps (apparently she still has her wits about her enough to
have a temper..) Now she rolls (ironically) over and sits herself up. "I en't
hurt.. just my knees are a bit funny..I think this is yours.." she says with
a frown- reaching across to where the staff lays- just a little way off from
her landing-point.

"Glad to hear that," Hugh responds, withdrawing his extended hand. "An' know
what ye mean about the knees - me own joints always creak in this sort o'
weather. Ah, /that's/ where it's got to!" Beaming quite genially at Megan, he
reaches down for the staff.

Bad move - this time it's the contents of the basket that go rolling, down
towards the bottom of the hill. "Me mushrooms!" the old man cries in
distraught tones, then looks back towards his companion. "'Scuse me, Mrs
Tasselberry-Thatcher. Spent a good hour picking 'em, an' then the rain came
on, an' ... one of 'em days. Give me a holler if you need me, eh?" With a
groan as he manages to lift the staff, and a world-weary sigh, he starts to
hobble away to collect his spilled treasure as fast as his old legs can carry
him.