Logs-Lawn Thieves and Icy Steps

Stone Houses
At the base of the Bree Hill, about a hundred stone houses line the small and
winding road that clings to the lower reaches of the hill. Red brick chimneys
are built alongside of each house and several of these chimneys spew forth
smoke. A handful of skinny trees grow between some of the houses. Many folk,
both big and little, walk along the street or in and out of the stone
buildings, bustling about their business.

The sky is clear and the sunlight shines brightly. The late morning winter air
is cold and dry around you.

Obvious exits:
East leads to Garden.
Stone House leads to Foyer.
Lorekeeper Residence leads to Lorekeeper Residence.
Common House leads to The Common House of Bree, Common Room.
West leads to GER: Centre of Bree.

================================== Bree Time ==================================
Real time: Tue Dec 23 01:56:17 2003
Bree time: Late Morning <about 10 AM> on Trewsday of Winter - January 3,1431
Moon Phase: Waning Crescent Moon

Breelands Weather
The late morning winter air is cold and dry around you. The sky is clear and
the sunlight shines brightly.
===============================================================================

It's a fine crisp winter's morning, and the sun shines brightly in the sky
above, glinting off the frosty rime that coats the cobbles and lingers in the
hollows. It's past breakfast time by now, and already many of the folk of
Bree are up and about their business, hurrying up and down the road or
pausing in front of one particular house, the garden of which is ... denuded
might be the best word. The ice-rimed ground is completely bare of grass, and
bears only one decoration - a large, empty bucket sitting in the middle of
the lawn.

Suddenly the door opens, and elderly Hugh Bramblefleece emerges onto the stoop,
staff in hand and fleece wrapped snugly around him to keep off the cold. The
old man pauses, squinting up at the sunlight, and murmurs appreciatively,
"Lovely day. Fine weather we're havin' - WHAT!" This last word emerges as a
roar as he catches sight of the patch of bare muddy ground that only
yesterday was a neat lawn.

Merrily along comes young Megan, basket swinging joyfully in her hand as she
makes her way along from the direction of the market- a tune is on her lips
and she seems particularly jovial this morning. After all, the sun is shining
and all is good and well and... Megan skids to a halt at the sound of the
roar, now trotting over to Hugh's lawn- eyes widening in surprise (could that
be the hint of an impish smile?.. No, of course not) and curiosity. "Oh my!
Mr. Bramblestick! What on earth have you done to your garden! It looks a
perfect mess!" Brown eyes- still wide with astonishment look over the garden,
the bucket and back to Hugh. "Oh dear, look.. not a scrap of grass left! Not
in the whole lawn!"

"HOW DARE YE!" old Hugh roars to the world at large, drawing in a gasping
breath of cold air that sends him spluttering and coughing. "Not ... not me,
Mrs Thatcher," he eventually manages to gasp out to the approaching Megan. "I
tell ye, when I find the rascal responsible, I'll ..." His staff thumps
shakily on the ground, sending flakes of mud flying. "Which of ye did this?"
he demands to the goggling passers-by, a little less of a shout this time,
then rounds on one poor unfortunate, the grocer's young delivery-hobbit, who
happens to be pulling a little cart behind him. "Was it you?" He starts to
hobble angrily forward - except that the empty bucket is in his way.

Megan lets out a somewhat frightened whimper as she beholds Hugh's angered
wrath..."Not.. Oh, oh my! Someone pulled up all the turf from your lawn and
took it somewhere? Oh my!" Megan has now clasped a hand over her mouth,
taking a half step back as the old man makes his way down toward the road.
Now she glares angrily about at the crowd- eyes accusing as she looks them
over- each of them looking quite guilty as people do when they're trying to
appear innocent. Now she looks back to the lawn.. "Is that your bucket
there?" she asks- pointing, head tilting to the side curiously

The delivery-hobbit lets out a frightened squeak. "Wasn't me, sir, I knows
nothin', I swear it," he gabbles, turning to the other passers-by for
support. Most folk, of course, are finding things far too entertaining to
intervene (besides, doesn;t the little fellow look guilty, all flushed like
that?).

Hugh shakes his head, growling to the poor hobbit, "I don't believe ye. Let's
see what's in that cart- eh?" This last as his foot kicks against the wooden
bucket, sending it rolling towards Megan's feet. "Didn't see that," he
mumbles, head bowing for a moment, then focuses on the woman again as he adds
thoughtfully, "Not mine. Can ye see any markin's on it? Anythin' ta say who
it belongs to?"

Megan looks between Hugh and the hobbit- for a few moments keeping her mouth
shut, after all, she doesn't want to draw the attention to herself! Finally-
it appears time to intervene! "Come now! I don't think you can just go
blaming passer-by! He's just delivering his goods! I'd reckon whomever did it
is long gone by now!" she exclaims, now turning her attention again to the
bucket- bending down to pick it up and looking it over carefully as though
she'd never seen it before. "There's no markings or anything but.." now she
takes a half step back- feet crunching on a freshly cut up piece of turf.
Megan lets out an excited squeak as she steps off it- pointing down and
exclaiming- "Look, Hugh! I found a piece of your lawn! Look! Here on the
road!"

The poor delivery-hobbit is trembling as old Hugh looms over him, staff in
hand, and seizes his shoulder in a grip that's surprisingly firm for an old
man. "Take the cover off," Hugh growls, and the miserable hobbit-lad
complies, twitching the tarpaulin away from his cart to reveal ... parsnips?
And potatoes? Undeniably, there are no turves in there. An embarrassed
silence follows, the old man shuffling his feet awkwardly.

And then Megan's cry rings out. "I - er, guess I owe ye an apology, lad," Hugh
mumbles to the hobbit, who's still blushing right down to the roots of his
curly hair. "Why didn't ye say?" The old man relinquishes his grip to pat the
hobbit on the shoulder, then shuffles off to where Megan now stands. "Why,
bless me soul, so it is!" he exclaims, squinting at the ragged piece of turf.
"Ah, I'm glad ye have sharp eyes, Mrs Thatcher. Now," he looks up and down
the road, "d'ye think the scoundrel what stole me lawn left a trail?"

Megan is now busy clucthing the bucket and peering down at the one, somewhat
icy chunk of turf. Now as Hugh approaches, Megan smiles sweetly at him- a
smile that (she hopes) is full of hope... one that proclaims- YES! We /will/
get your turves back!! "Tasselberry-Thatcher.." she corrects, for what little
good it will do. Now poking cautiously at the turf with her foot, she looks
up along the road- then goes bounding on ahead- right to the opposite side
that Hugh's house is on. "Another one here!" And then on again- further
toward the middle now.. "And here! Who ever stole it looks like they were
drunk!" Now she stumbles on again- back to the other side of the road-
imitating someone quite drunk- "'Nother one here- look!"

Hugh's creased features lose a little of the anger and worry, and he murmurs
now, "Thank ye fer yer help, Mrs Tasselberry-Thatcher." Stuttering his way
through that double-barrelled name is a small price to pay for apprehending
the Turf Thief, after all. The old man strokes his beard thoughtfully as he
hobbles after Megan, drawing amused stares from the onlookers - well, except
the red-faced delivery-hobbit, who's trundling off back down the road as fast
as his little legs can carry him. Looks like the folk at the far end of the
Stone Houses won't get their fresh vegetables this morning. "Hrrm - I doubt a
drunk feller could lift t' whole garden by himself," Hugh muses thoughtfully,
then shakes his head. "Don't understand it."

Megan shakes her head quickly; "Oh no, Mr. Bramblefleece!" Funny.. apparently
Megan is suddenly able to remember Hugh's name now, too! "It's no problem at
all! It's a terrible injustice that someone's whole lawn gets uprooted in the
dead of the night!!" Now she hops along to the next patch of turf, which sits
on the path into someone else's house. "Well, they probably couldn't.. but
the way the path was swerving all over the road.. but look! Here's where it
leads.. and there's icy footprints goin' back in the direction of your house,
Mr. Bramblefleece! And.. Oh! Oh! Oh!" Megan exclaims- apparently lost for
words as she points eaglery to the front lawn of the house where a little
pile of turves sits innocently.. still, all of those missing aren't accounted
for.. yet.

"What?" Hugh stares appalled at the lawn to which Megan is pointing. "Wh- whose
house is this?" he manages to ask querulously after a long, silent pause.
"What do they think they're playin' at? Now, if ye'd give me that bucket I
could start ta collect - no." He halts in mid-speech, his hand still
stretched out for the bucket, and states slowly, "I'm a'goin' ta report this
to the Bree Guard. It's a Criminal Offence, that's what is is. And criminals
oughter be punished."

Megan approaches the house slowly- strange though, she seems to be keeping
particularly clear of the path. Now glancing back, she gives a gentle shrug-
"I think it's the house of the Thistlewools... Wilbert and.. uhm.. Anabel. My
mam and Anabel are good friends, actually.." Of course, none of this matters-
but since they're standing on the lawn of the supposed turf-bandits then one
may as well relay some connections they know with a 'celebrity'. As Hugh
requests the bucket, Megan goes to hand it over, though stops mid-way, as he
no longer wants said bucket. At his words though, the girl pales slightly-
turning away quickly and becoming suddenly very interested in the turf on the
ground. "Report it? You don't think you could just have a talk with Mr.
Thistlewool??" perhaps afraid of appearing guilty on her part, Megan snaps
her jaw shut, suddenly changing tack- "Well, I suppose it'd be best to report
it to the Guard! Uhm.. That is to say.. Well, folk who do this shouldn't be
allowed to-" A gasp, a massive breath of indrawn air that causes Megan to
nearly choke as she now bounds around to the side of the house. "Look! Come
here quickly Mr. Bramblefleece! I found them all! They're all stacked proper
just here, hidden around the corner, look! Look quickly! They're all here,
I'm sure!"

"Mister Thistlewool? The little fellow who can't remember his own name?" Hughs'
eyes glaze in astonishment. "I'd have ha' thought it o' him ..." He's shaking
his head slowly, and the hand that isn't outstretched is gripping his staff
very tightly - nerves? Doubts? "Best ta report it ta the Authorities, still,"
he states after a moment. "They'll know what ta do. Ye'll come an' give yer
account too, as a witness-?" It's at that point Megan darts round the side of
the house. "No!" the old man calls hoarsely, but it's too late. "Now ye've
gone and ruined any footprints there were," he states disgustedly, not a whit
of gratitude for the fact Megan's just 'found' his missing property.

"A witness? But I didn't witness anything- I was just here in the morning.. No
need to worry, we'll get all this fixed up for sure!" Megan exclaims, though
she's much more absorbed in the stash of turves she's just found... "Oh...
Oh, I'm sorry.. I didn't even think.. I mean.. well.." now Megan looks like
she's close to tears.. "I just saw the turves here, and I thought you'd be..
well.. you know..." now, she stomps back onto the lawn and stands there
unmoving (and somewhat sulkily- perhaps she was having fun playing detective?
Not that she's done much detective work; she seems to know where everything
is hidden, anyway...). "There aint any footprints, anyway."

"There must have been footprints!" Hugh proclaims, peering at the frosty
ground. Of course, the most recent ones are Megan's; hard for an old man to
tell if there were any previous ones. Megan's upset expression clearly
affects Hugh, for after a moment he mumbles, "Ye've been a great help, Mrs
Th- Tasselberry-Thatcher." There, he even says that peculiar name again! "An'
I'm grateful fer it, trust me." He plods across to where she stands (adding
his own footprints to the Thistlewool's lawn) and clumsily pats her arm. "Now
- d'ye think we should go down to the Constabulary right now? I'm feelin' all
shook up by this, mebbe not thinkin' straight," he admits.

Megan shrugs- looking down at the ground (and, for the briefest of moments, a
somewhat paniced expression crosses her face- perhaps she's spotted some
there?) "There aint any, cept mine..." Now she offers Hugh a gentle smile,
though one sympathetic. "It's really no problem, Mr. Bramblefleece.." So now
they're both getting each other's names right. Funny, that. "What a terrible
way to start the day- I can hardly imagine how you must be feelin'... Yes, I
understand you'd be quite shook up.. Maybe we should take you back to your
house.. make you a cup of tea to calm those nerves of yours... there's still
the matter of this bucket, though..." Now, one eyebrow is raised, and Megan
begins to snoop about the lawn- getting ever closer to the icy path...

It's midmorning by now, and despite the beautiful weather (cloudless sky above,
sparkling frost-dusted ground below) old Hugh Bramblefleece does indeed look
'shook up' as he leans on his staff in the middle of the Thistlewool's lawn,
with Megan beside him. A few turves sit in a little pile on the lawn, and a
trail of fresh footprints - Megan's, one might guess - lead round the side of
the house.

"Cup o' tea, that's a good suggestion," the crusty old man mutters now, clearly
unnerved by his present circumstances, and he takes a few tottering steps
back towards the road. But as Megan starts to wander round the circumference
of the neat lawn, he enquires, intrigued, "What're ye doin' now? Found
somethin' else, have ye?"

A slight nod- "We'll go make you a cup of tea then, I'll do it myself if you'd
like- you're certainly in no condition for making tea.. you need to just sit
down for a bit, I think..." Megan says, now scouting about the path and back
onto the road. "Hmmm.. Well, found something, yes.. Mr. Thistlewool's path is
all frozen up, see? And.. well, there's footprints goin' back to your house,
and this bucket here.. well.." now eyes- cautiously suspicious, are rested on
Hugh- "You don't have anything to do with this, do you? I mean.. a frozen
path is a nasty thing to find yourself walkin' onto, first thing in the
morning.. and.. well, it's not my buisness, but maybe you and Mr. Thistlewool
are quarrelin'? It'd make a lot of sense that he stole your lawn if you
were.. quarrelin', that is.. And, you can tell me if you were.. it'd help
solve the whole mystery of the thing, after all..."

Hugh's own brown eyes are outraged at this suggestion. "I'll have ye know we're
/decent/ folk in this street, Mrs Thatcher," he responds swiftly. "We don't
go behavin' like a pack o' children. An quarrelin'? Why'd I be doin' a thing
like that?" he demands irritably of Megan. "Barely even know the man. I was
goin' ta get him ta write a letter ta the Council fer me, but then I met him
in Combe - yer ma was there too - an' he couldn't even remember his own name,
the poor feller. Think he's not quite right in the head, ye know." One
gnarled hand rises to tap his own forehead, then he squints down at the
footprints. "I suppose the children might ha' played a trick - wait. Those
aren't child's footprints, eh?"

Megan winces slightly, as if Hugh's snapping at her caused her some kind of
pain.. "Sorry... I was.. I just.. it's just that.. Oh.. Well, never mind.."
Now Megan steps off the street and sets down the bucket- leaving it right
there in the middle of the road. "I heard he went on vacation from his wife
for a long time.. got back just before I left for the Shire." Now- somewhat
disinterestedly she looks across at the path, now standing on the road- hands
in the pockets of her cloak (which, ironically, is covering her new blue
dress...). "I don't know. Maybe. I can't see them. Anyway, I heard he used to
have somethin' to do with the council.. Maybe it was someone out to get
him..." Another glance back at the path, then one along the road- emitting a
gentle sigh. "Anyway, it aint got nothin' to do with me, all this.. none of
my buisness."

Hugh hobbles after Megan, his eyes fixed on the bucket. "There's footprints
right he- aaagh!" Of course, he would step on the icy path that Megan had
been chattering about only a few minutes ago. One foot slips, then the other,
his staff goes flying out of his hands and clatters to the ground, and the
old man himself simply lies there on the path groaning.

Walks do not happen upon mornings....or midmornings...No one really enjoys
going on them in the deader hours of the day when larks dominate the skies
and hawks suffer from meaty hangovers in the boughs of ginormous pines
amongst the Shaws which lie a way off...but birds of prey fly like the wind
with torrent. Eustace cannot fly, however angelic his appearance may seem to
female peers...yet to sprout wings beyond the metaphorical sense he gently
ambles along with a cloak drawn about him and a suspicious staff prodding
pieces of terrain...Eustace never leaves Bree at this time but to
escape...but escape what? Those with softer keener ears may note the caress
of his honeyed voice slandering foreigners...

Megan didn't quite see the immindent disaster until it was too late, and she
doesn't go rushing over to help the man up but wanders across slowly- only
/now/ putting on her most concerned expression and tone of voice- "Oh my! Mr.
Bramblefleece! I just got finished tellin' about that icy patch there! Are
you alright?! Do you need some help up? Or a healer?! Do you need a healer,
Mr. Bramblefleece?! Have you hurt yourself bad?!" a glance up, perhaps
seeking help, and eyes fall on Eustace for the briefest of moments- linger,
then perhaps decide he can't be any help in this situation and so turns her
attention back to poor Hugh.

Hugh's still groaning - which unfortunately masks the sound of Eustace's soft
murmurings from his old ears. Megan's louder query does reach him, however,
and he responds, "I - aagh!" Slowly he manages to sit up, staring round him
dazedly. "Every bone in me body hurts," he announces to the world, rubbing at
his forehead. "An' me hip - I'd ... ugh! ... I'd be much obliged ta ye if
ye'd give me a hand ta get up, Mrs Tasselberry-Thatcher." Ah. Sounds like he
wants to get on Megan's good side again. "Don't think I can walk down the
road on me own ... Mebbe ye can go an' fetch someone else ta help?" The
stolen turves are all but forgotten now.

Eustace watches the commotion ahead with gentle dignity...his face contorts
into one of mild confusion for a split second before he cares no more and
continues to trudge towards them slowly....his face hidden beneath the hood
one would be hard set to recognise him...His wily hands clinging hard and to
his pockets as the cold begins to set in. His shoulders shuffle as he nears
them finally...and nods his head..."What seems to be the trouble?" he asks
gently. His voice is as usual, soft and rich with the delicate balance of a
thespian...his stance strong and of heightened poise.

Megan's eyes widen slightly (though, is there a flicker of smugness at the name
Tasselberry-Thatcher?!) at Hugh's predicament. "Just don't panic there, Mr.
Bramblefleece.." Megan advises- despite the fact that Hugh's not really
panicing at all. "Oh dear!" Now Megan extends a hand, then another, to help
Hugh stand. "Can I help walk you back to your house or.. Quick! Someone help!
He's fallen over! And-" Megan lets out a surprised squeak as Eustace
appears.. out of no where?.. "He's fallen over- Help me take him back to his
house? It's just up the road a way.." Hm.. Megan certainly does sound sure of
herself, considering she's never actually been to his house.. "I think."

Hugh grunts as Megan's hands pull him upright, and wavers on one leg, trying to
set down the other but letting out another "Aargh!" as soon as his foot
touches the ground. "Can't ... walk ..." he pants - whether the pain is real
or faked is hard to tell, but he certainly looks in need of help to get back
down the road. "House is jist back down there ...Lucy'll look after me then,"
he mumbles now, gazing down the road a little way, and trying to shift his
arm round Megan's shoulder for support. "Where we came from .. eh, me staff!"
His eyes fill with alarm - and the staff's lying in plain view on the path
just behind him. Pity he can't turn round to see it ...

Eustace simply leans down and rolls up a cloaken outer sleeve so better to
control his strong arm...he outstretches it with fingers perhaps over
reaching and he waits for Hugh to take some kind of Initiative and lean on
him to revolt from ankle enduced pain....Eustace's eyes watch Megan for a
moment with doubt..."You say a street away...You think? Tell me Mrs.
Thatcher, have you ever actually met Mr. Bramblefleece before this egregious
event?"...Eustace temporarily takes his arm away as the staff is mentioned
and returns with it in hand..."Here you are sir." he says loudly...Oh the
beauty of the young conversing with the old. Always remember, if you speak
loudly, they'll understand..."Now...if you lean on me, we can get you back to
your hearth, hmmm?"

"Just down the road there," Megan says- motioning along the way. "The one with
no lawn." she adds- voice flat, somewhat unimpressed. At the question, Megan
snorts- "For one, it's Tasselberry-Thatcher, and two, Mr. Bramblefleece and I
happen to be good friends, if it's any of your buisness. I've known him even
since before I went to the Shire, thank-you very much," She rerots, as if
having just been accused of something terrible. "I know- D'you want me to run
to your home and get Lucy to come out and help you, or to set the kettle to
boil? There you go, Mr. Glover has your staff for you..I'll run down and get
Lucy!" and without another word, she's off- curls flying out behind her until
she disappears up a path and into a house, somewhere just along the road.

Eustace seems to have a fine understanding of how to communicate with old Hugh,
for as the actor speaks to him loudly and clearly, the old man's head swivels
round. "Why, thank ye kindly, sir," he says, reaching for the staff. "Lucy,
yes ..." he mumbles as Megan darts off down the road, quite forgetting to
thank /her/. "Now ... argh ... it's just a few steps." He leans heavily on
Eustace, as directed, and manages to shuffle forward.

Further down the road, there is the sound of a door opening and a shocked,
"What? Yes of course, I'll get a bed ready," followed by a bewildered, "What
happened to the lawn?" Sounds like Hugh's daughter Lucy has discoverd the
work of the 'lawn thieves'.

Eustace raises an eyebrow..."I know not, I care not...Lawns aren't really of
huge importance to me." he smirks, a little arrogantly perhaps. He guides the
old man to his daughter before offering her pater to her....not really
bothered as the old man has a staff for support...Eustace isn't quite as
helpful as first acknowledged, it seems.

"Thank ye - aagh! - again," old Hugh mumbles to Eustace, "- ow! Watch it now,"
he adds as Eustace looks set to let him grow.

The woman in the doorway peers at Eustace, looking more bemused than anything
else - her hands are flour-dusted, and as she reaches out to take a hold of
Hugh's arm particles of white float towards Eustace's stylish clothes. The
poor woman is too flustered to notice that though, and all that she gives
Eustace in return for his assistance is a hurried, "Good of you to help,
sir," before she has led old Hugh away. "Now, da, you just have a nice lie
down ..."