Logs-Garbled Messages

Blacksmith's Shop
The blacksmith shop is hot and humid. The room is divided in half by a large
counter. The side you are on contains several chairs and displays of the
various products for sale here. On the wall is a large pricelist. You can see
a forge, anvils, and other smithing tools as well as another door on the
other side of the room.

Obvious exits:
Weapon Forge, Armor Forge, and Out

===================== Bree Time =====================
Real time: Tue Jan 06 02:15:29 2004
Bree time: Late Morning <about 11 AM> on Trewsday of Winter - February 15,1431
Moon Phase: First Quarter Moon

Breelands Weather
The late morning winter air is cold and dry around you. Snow piles on the
ground around your feet.
=================================================

Nearly lunchtime in Bree and again snow is falling from the sky and the air is
cold and bitter- following on from the newly dubbed 'coldest winter day' of
the morning before this one. Thus, the market is not swarming with people;
indeed! It is nearly deserted and the few people who have stumbled their way
there are scuttling about- wrapped head to toe in scarves and gloves and
mittens.

The inside of the blacksmith's shop may well have been an oven, what with the
heat comparitable to outside. So it seems strange that it appears even more
deserted than out in the snow-whitened market place. Deserted that is, save
for one figure browing over the various tools and things hung up on the
walls. Her hood has been removed from her head, and occasionally droplets of
water fall from the ends of her curly hair or the edges of her cloak,
foretelling of the blustery journey she must have undertaken to get here.

She's not alone for long. The sound of dragging footsteps and a huffing and
puffing outside the door herald the approach of Hugh Bramblefleece long
before the old man has fumbled the door open. When he does eventually push it
open, he stands in the doorway, snow lying so thickly round his head and
shoulders that he looks more snowman than human, and twists his head round to
yell back across the square, "Betsy?" followed by a quieter mutter, "Where
/is/ that child?" Freezing air whistles past him and into the smithy.

"Shut the door! You're letting cold air..." Megan is cut short as Hugh's yell
reaches her ears. Eyes widen slightly and sudden realisation spreads across
her face- "Mr. Bramblefleece!" she squeaks- not even having time for a proper
'Good morning,' or 'Hullo,' "You've left Betsy out in the snow?! Why, it's
near freezin' out there! She could be burried under snow fallen off a roof or
somethin'!" Megan has begun to rush to the door in an attempt to see
ginger-pigtails somewhere out in the white haze..

A large dark misshapen figure looms up against the open door, pauses, and
trundles in, only to lumber straight into the green-clad girl. A hand,
slightly shrivelled from cold, reaches from the wooly depths of the cloak to
unveil bleary eyes and a watery nose. "Pardon me," mutters Randel, stepping
further in away from the doorway's chilly blast.

No ginger pigtails are in sight. However, a little figure in a blue bobble-hat
is dimly visible through the falling snow across the square - and, more
importantly, a child's voice can be heard raised in merry laughter. "Coming,
granda," the little girl (from her height she might be about eight years old
or so, though her features are hidden beneath a yellow muffler, and her body
by a warm grey coat) calls out, skipping lightly between drifts of snow.
Suddenly a mischievous glint comes into her eye, and she bends to scoop up a
handful. A moment later it's flying towards the door of the smithy, and
whoever happens to be there.

Old Hugh, meanwhile, blinks in bemusement at the newcomer as she stumbles past.
"Mornin', Mrs Tass- eh, watch out!" Of course, the delayed reactions of age
mean that warning comes far too late for either Megan or Randel.

There are perhaps, too many things going on at once- the figure lumbering in
her direction, the delight at hearing Betsy's voice from outside (and
accompanying this: relieg), the snowball and finally (and much too late- for
the snowball has already smacked has clear in the shoulder; most of it
remains stuck there, and the rest falls to the floor) Hugh's warning. With a
mock frown, Megan moves further into the smithy- making room for the
bleary-eyed figure, brushing the snow off her cloak.

Blinking, Randel looks around the room, enjoying its toasty warmth. "Eh, Megan,
and good day, mister..." the Bree woman's brow wrinkles as though trying to
wring the old man's name from it.

"Bramblefleece. It's Hugh Bramblefleece," the old man supplies to Randel.
"Don't think I've met ye afore, Mrs-" The words trail off, though whether
it's due to lack of a name or the fact that he's now staring at Megan's
snowball-decorated shoulder with a scowl on his face is hard to say. "Betsy!"
This time the word is a quavering roar.

A moment later the small blue-hatted figure has reached the doorway. "Sorry
Granda - hello, Megan. Ooh, did I hit you?" She giggles. "It's awful cold in
here, isnt it? Don't you want to close the door?"

"Miss Randel," Megan replies with a slight nod- eyes drifting back to the wall,
as if there were something tantilising there that was oh-so much more
important than conversation... It's not until Hugh's second yell (and a brief
wince from Megan) that she draws her gaze back, and smiles brightly to Betsy.
"Hullo, Betsy.. Yes, you hit me.. you're just lucky my brothers en't here,
'else they'd be back out there bringin' a whole armful of snow back in to..."
Megan trails off- perhaps afraid of getting into trouble from Hugh, what with
threatening his Granddaughter with snow burial and all...

"Oh Bramblefleece," repeats the Bree woman blankly, but turns to smile at
Betsey. She shuffles over to look behind the shop counter, leaving behind her
melting snow in a wet trail reminiscent of garden slugs. "Got a message for
Mr Greenacre, I do," says Randel genially to nobody in particular, flexing
her fingers appreciatively. She looks around at the obviously
Greenacre-bereft shop, and turns to face the trio. "Is he in the forge?"

Hugh's weathered features crease into a 'polite' smile for Randel as he repeats
carefully, "Miss Randel. Nice ta meet ye." He eyes the trail of snow-drips
behind the woman and starts to brush self-conciously at head and shoulders
with the hand that's not holding his staff. Powdery flakes spray in all
directions.

Betsy, meanwhile, ignores her grandfather and the strange 'grown-up'. Her
little face takes on a worried look at the mention of Megan's brothers, and
she stands on tiptoe to whisper something into the woman's ear. "Megan - are
your brothers pipeweed thieves? Johnny and me saw someone hiding something,
down by the hedge ..." Ah, the innocence of youth.

Randel misses Betsey's surreptitious message as she has gone over to rattle the
door handles; she knocks on the forge doors, but does not look very hopeful.
"Mayhap he's gone to the Pony," she muses. "Smithying's hot work." With a
sigh, she pulls her cloak around tighter, and her hands withdraw back to its
comforting depths. "Reckon I'll go look there, then." She plods back to the
door and smiles her leave-taking to the group.

Brown eyes slide briefly to the back of the shop, and Megan offers Randel an
uncertain shrug. "Not all that sure.. Perhaps you'd call for him? I en't seen
him, but his shop were open, so I suppose he's somewhere..."

Megan smiles sweetly and innocently to Hugh as Betsy approaches her-
scrunching up her nose as she listens before finally giving a shake of her
head and whispering back: "Nah, they en't...They don't even like pipeweed,
and.. well, I don't -think- they would be...It's probably nothin' that they
were hidin'... " Megan sounds rather doubtful, now glancing up as Randel
makes her leave and raising a hand to wave, though much too preoccupied with
thoughts of pipeweed thieves and her brothers to say her farewells....

Hugh eyes his granddaughter suspiciously. "What's that about pipeweed?" he
demands of her worriedly, not at all mollified by her piping, "Nothing,
granda." "Yer far too young ta be thinkin' of smokin'. You don't touch it,
you hear? That's what Mrs Tasselberry-Thatcher would say, isn't it-"

Only then does he realize that Randel is in the process of leaving. "Eh - if
you do find Mr Greenacre, can ye let him know he's got customers waitin'?"
the old man requests of her hopefully. "Need a new shovel meself, what with
all this snow an' stuff ..."

Lifting a damp boot to nudge the door open, the messenger inches out
reluctantly into the biting cold; a flurry of snowflakes marks Randel's
departure, then the door swings shut again.

Megan nods quickly, and perhaps a tad too enthusiastically. "Oh yes, Mr.
Bramblefleece, but Betsy weren't thinkin' about smoking it... I think it's a
terrible thing to do though.. Smokin' and all...None of my family do it,
though da might have once or twice when he was younger, but he don't any
more.." she glances up again at Randel's departure, sending a frown (one
nearly as cold as the air outside) toward the open door- relaxing again as it
swings closed. "I was thinkin' on what you'd said Mr. Bramblefleece.. 's why
I was in here.. thinkin' about tools, if you remember.."

"But ... but I saw," Betsy protests, forgetting to whisper this time, then
glances from the frowning Hugh to the nodding Megan and amends quickly,
"Never mind." She slips her small mittened hand into Hugh's larger one,
obviously she's trying to soothe her granda now.

Hugh, meanwhile, watches Randel's departure, blinking as snowflakes catch at
his eyelids, and mutters, "Hope she heard that message. She didn't say so -
hmmph. Now," he turns round to Megan, "what d'ye think o' these tools?
Anything ye like the look of?"

Megan scrunches up her nose as she turns to look at the tools, before a
defeated sigh passes through her lips. "I don't know what they all do, or
what they're for or anythin'.. I never learnt.. I was always out with-
Adrian!" The name is said with a yelp of surprise as the door is pushes open
again and baggy hat, followed by jacketted body enters- the shining eyes of
the Tasselberry boy glancing about quickly- a mischevious smile settling oevr
his features as he takes in Hugh and then Betsy (but is there something of
the briefest moment's panic as he sees and recognises the little girl?
Perhaps- but it is hidden as he bows his head and sidles across to Megan, who
now glares at him with a frown, and shifts uncomfortably). "G'afternoon,
every'un!"

"Well, that's a turfin' spade - see how it's got that long shank ta cut the
peats? An' that's a pair o' farrier's tongs, an' ..." Hugh's recitative
trails off as Adrian enters, and the youth's smile is met by a brief scowl.
The old man takes a deep breath, however, and responds with a mumbled, "Good
afternoon," of his own.

Betsy's response is somewhat different. She gives a squeak of apprehension at
the sight of Adrian, and darts round to the other side of her grandad, as far
away from the lad as is possible (and away from Megan too, given Adrian's
standing beside her), murmuring something unintelligable and
miserable-sounding under her breath.

Apparently Adrian is as clueless as his younger sister as he makes no move to
alter his facial expression from the dopey and mischevious grin to anything
more fitting. "Whass'a matter?" he asks to Betsy as she hides- face amused
(the exact and complete opposite of Megan, who clearly /isn't/ amused). "Ohh!
I remember you! You ran off inter the hedge and got your hairs stuck in
there! No need to be worried- there aint no hedges 'round here!"

Betsy only shakes her head at Adrian's question, now murmuring something ending
in the word 'hair'. She glances apprehensively at a huge pair of shears
hanging on the wall, and tugs at Hugh's hand again. "Granda - lets go home."

The old man stares down at his granddaughter, a baffled expression on his face
... but then his jaw sets grimly. "No. You two got something ye'd like to
tell us, Megan an' meself?" He indicates both Betsy and Adrian meaningfully -
then adds a threat of his own to the youth. "If I find ye've been encouragin'
my grandchilder ta smoke pipeweed, I'll ..." Words don't suffice, and he
thumps the butt of his staff on the ground instead.

Two sets of brown eyes turn to look up at the shears, and Adrian's face is
cracked into a wide grin. "We didn't do it though did we!? Jacob got you out
safe and well /with/ all yer hair!" Adrian laughs. Though, at the threat, his
face falls serious: "I aint! I don't even smoke it myself! I don't like the
stuff! I aint never touched it! If she goes off smokin' the weed don't you
come lookin' to accuse me just acause I'm a convenient one t' accuse... I
don't even see what this has got t' do with anythin'! I come walkin' inter a
shop lookin' for my sister and I get accused o' somethin' that I don't even
know about!!!" He comes to a crashing halt as Megan reaches out and places a
calming hand on her brother's shoulder, though she says nothing- perhaps
there is no point arguing... perhaps she just isn't in the mood for starting
a fight; she's on unstable ground as it is already with the pipeweed debate
and her brother's presence, why rock the boat any more?

Old Hugh looks completely flummoxed at Adrian's response, and his gaze shifts
from lad to shears and back, completely nonplussed. "Aye ... well ..." He
shrugs helplessly, then turns his brown eyes on Megan as though to say, 'What
do /you/ make of all this?'.

Betsy, beside him, pouts up at Adrian. "But you said - said you'd cut all my
hair off!" Clearly she took that threat quite seriously - still does, for her
free hand reaches up to clamp protectively down on her bobble-hat. If the
would-be hairdresser can't reach ... She does at least add, pout lessening
just a little, "Granda, I don't smoke pipeweed! It's just one of those silly
things grownups do, you know. I mean ... I'm sure it's good for the
rheumatics an' all ..." she adds, young voice faltering again and her cheeks
colouring as she realizes that 'silly' might not have been the best word.

Adrian looks quite pleased withimself at seeing Hugh's response, though this is
already momentary as Megan shrugs lightly- looking between the three of them,
obviously quite puzzled herself. "I... well, I don't know exactly.. I must
have been in the Shire when all this happened, I suppose.." fingers now pinch
lightly at Adrian's jacket- a concerned expression on her freckled face.
"Either way, we'd best be headin' off.. Adrian en't quite well enough to be
out for so long, yet..."

Adrian, meanwhile, pauses and removes his own hat- nodding his head once
appologetically to Betsy- his own curls falling all about the place. "Nothin'
to worry about, miss. We didn't do no harm, and we weren't really goin' to
cut of your hairs. Aint no harm done, hm?" Now he is tugged to the door,
pausing once more to sit his hat atop his head and look back inside as Megan
too makes her farewells: "G'afternoon, Mr. Bramblefleece.. Betsy," a sweet
smile, and she ducks outside- waiting for her brother who, nods quickly to
Betsy's words: "It's true- she don't smoke pipeweed, she were just thinkin'
we were them pipeweed thieves 's all!" and- perhaps having made matters worse
for himself, he tips his hat and slips out into the snow, the siblings
hunching their shoulders and scuttling away from the Blacksmith's.

Hugh's face still holds an expression of bewilderment. "But Mrs
Tasselberry-Thatcher, your tools .. eh, well, good afternoon then." With
Betsy still clutching at his hand, he can't manage a wave, but he dips his
head in a nod instead to the retreating siblings. Then looks back down to his
granddaughter. "Pipeweed ain't silly, it's - uh, well, ye'll understand when
yer older. /Much/ older." He frowns towards the door, and hobbles in that
direction so he can shut it. As he does, his aged voice can still be heard,
querying the little girl gently, "Now then, Betsy, what's all this about
pipeweed? If ye've seen summat, ye've got to tell me." Then, more grumpily,
"Always thought those Tasselberry twins were up ta no good ..."