What
The Cleeve Crier rants about the condition the Shire is in.

Who
Hugo Bracegirdle (#25365)..........himself
Frodo Baggins (#29612).............Basil Baggins
Filby Pott (#29051)................Alouisious 'Twilby' Pott
Lotho Sackville-Baggins (#18781)...Pippin Took, Diamond North-Took
Lorial (#22219)....................Cleeve Crier
Bodobrus Took (#17065).............himself
Teradoc Burrows (#29921)...........himself

"Any sign of him?" enquires an excited voice as Basil Baggins hurries toward the group. "Honestly, I tried everything to find out whom it would be, but. . .no luck yet. . ." Glancing at his pocket-watch, he makes a slight face.

Overhearing Basil as he passes, Hugo changes course and approaches the Baggins from behind. "Why so keen to discover his identity, Basil, old boy? Got something to hide?" he smirks, patting the young gentlehobbit on the back when he is close enough.

An old hobbit wobbles up the road from the south... and promptly walks into a tree. "Pardon me, miss..." the fellow picks himself up and stumbles into the village, tripping occasionally and babbling continually.

Trying not to laugh at the old hobbit's tree-collision, Basil grins wryly. "Not any more so than *you,* I'm sure - though I'd like to buy him a drink or two if he says some of the things I've heard tell about one of our candidates. . . ."

"Ha!" snorts Hugo. "And it will... er, would serve them right. Old Will's not got fresh faced youth on his side, but he does have dignity, honour and good hobbit sense! Stick with what - and who - you know best, I say!"

Pippin appears on the scene, arms locked with Diamond. He carries a lantern with his spare hand, hoisting it upwards and casting an orb of illumination around the pair. "Hullo, all! It's a perfect night for the infamous Cleeve Crier to proclaim his woes!" He looks rather cheerful on this Halimath night, taking in the surroundings. He edges towards a tall lamppost in town, beckoning to the others, "Over here! I think this is where he will shimmy up the post and climb onto that platform." The Tooklander points towards a disk capable of supporting a hobbits weight, crafted onto the lamppost.

From a tall lamplight pole seemingly hiden by a bush of somesort, stands on the base of the pole a masked figure, who has gone un-noticed it seems, with a long furled cloak wrapping around the pole as the figure holds it's hand out to the crowd. Turning sideways to face the rose arbor it's face soberly looks out into the crowd of hobbits. "Hear ye! Hear ye! One and all, I have the most of stunning news. I with my entire splendor will tell you all. Free of charge 'tis my service for I, Cleeve, come only as a humble servant would, bringing forth words of utter disgrace that has been left upon the Shire.

Hugo blinks, "Good grief - entire splendour is right. I'm amazed he doesn't fly away like a kite in this weather, up there. Look at those trousers!" he says, to nobody in particular.

"Huh?" the elderly dimwit mumbles. "Whassa proclamin' Hilamith who..." He stutters and stumbles, finally tripping over a small log just outside the crowd. "Silly dog..." He seems rather comfortable, though, as he sits down on the 'dog' and watches the proceedings in a perplexed manner.

Climbing up to the platform, Cleeve begins his words of wisdom, while holding one of its gloved hands to its chest and the other strongly on the pole with a great, sigh the crier begins. Seeing a bell attached to the pole it rings it loudly with its long foot. "I will cry first of the horrid misfortune of certain hobbits wanting to become the mayor of this fare Shire. Have we all had one too many of Ruthie Twofoot's mushrooms? You know the ones I speak of, don't you all?" Pining the audience, Cleeve makes a smooth hand motion to each one present as the cloaked hobbit waits for any reply.

A shadowy figure approaches closer with each slow step they take. As they come closer it is revealed to be a middle aged hobbit woman, accompanied by a small child that holds on to her mother's hand tightly. As the pair approach the crier as well as the crowd that surrounds, Delilah whispers sharply to her daughter, "I expect you to mind your manners and not say a word!"

From his spot about twenty feet from the lamppost, Bodobrus Took begins applauding the Crier. "Let's hope he says nothing about the shirriffs," the Took comments to the hobbit standing to his right. After Cleeve delivers his first announcement, Bodo inquires of the hobbit on his left, "Are the ones we know of the mushrooms or the candidates?"

Basil laughs heartily, nodding to Hugo. "I'll say! But my, wouldn't I love to have a weskit like that. . . ." A bit of envy showing in his young face, he watches the crier with interest. "Hear, hear!" he calls, grinning.

"But I do not come to speak of mushrooms, but a deeper perhaps stronger, no, I dare say a more detrimental problem then eating too many bad mushrooms." The Cleeve Crier stands tall on the platform, as tall as a hobbit can stand, and points it's finger up to the air. "Yes! I speak of allowing Miss Willemina Took as the mayor of our fine Shire! Have you heard of such a disgrace! Why whomever would want a lady with a bow and arrow to make important decisions? Some even rumor that she prances about her smial, wearing little slippers on her feet! Nay I say the candidates are liken to those horrid mushrooms, dear friend!"

Appearing in the crowd as if out of nowhere, Teradoc Burrows watches the events unfold. He taps a nearby hobbit who just so happens to be Pippin and says, without tearing his eyes from the Cryer, "What's going on? What all has he said so far?"

Pippin covers his head as Willemina is ridiculed. He turns to Diamond, "Oh, poor Willemina! She means well." However, he seems to titter with curiosity as the Cleeve Crier continues to rant, "I suppose if he's poking fun at Willemina, then Berredan can't be far behind..."

"Little slippers?" laughs Hugo. "Surely some mistake."

Twilby mumbles something about mushrooms incomprihensibly to himself. "Mushooms... deritemtal... Took... Took! Bah, no good Tooks, lousy Mayors..." He stands up rather wobblishly, stumbling a few feet backward. "Tooks an' Baggins, gimme good old Whiffots an' Potts any day..."

A hobbit standing near Twilby offers the elderly fellow a boiled sweet.

Twilby takes the sweet and mumbles, "Thank 'ee kindly..."

"Well, I've heard of worse things than wearing slippers-- especially in the wintertime. Sometimes the bed linens just aren't warm enough!" Diamond sits down in a clump of leaves which has been raked together. Her yellow dress is offset strikingly by the dead, brown leaves.

Watching the crowd carefully, The Cleeve Crier, tilts it's head down for a moment, shaking it back and forth as if a bell. "Though there is one worse than that, for another lady, if you wish to call her such, wishes to run as well. Miss Ladyslipper Lightfoot! Has one of you ever seen or heard a more boring hobbit. Rumor has it she had a party, and everyone fell asleep within twenty minutes and there was lots of food there!" Pining the audience once again,The Cleeve Crier walks regally around the platform. Placing one foot promptly on the edge waiting for reaction from the crowd, before continuing with its cries.

"We had a party like that once" begins Hugo, speaking to Basil. "Lugo's twenty fifth birthday. Chef put too much brandy in the choclolate sauce - knocked those tweens out cold!" he guffaws.

Dalilah clears her throat nervously, not exactly happy with everything the crier proclaims. She struggles to get a place closer to the platform to see and hear better, but of course this is not easy. Child dragged behind her, she walks behind person to person, trying to find a window through anyone.

After waiting a few seconds for an answer, Teradoc shrugs and watches the Cryer quietly. He even yawns once as the masked hobbit. He chuckles at the various hobbits' shouted responses but is otherwise quiet.

"Wish I'd been *there,*" Basil nods to Hugo, chuckling. "I'd throw a party myself, but - " Catching sight of Dalilah, he shifts slightly to allow her a better place to stand, child in tow. "Good to hear. . .Lightfoot could bore the foothair off a fellow!"

"Are you all mad? Talking of parties and the like when we have these horrid times coming? Still holding on to the edge with his foot, The Cleeve Crier crosses arms and holds on to his arms with the gloved hands. In a glorified stance, the words continue to pour as water from a river from The Cleeve Crier's mouth. "What of our good for little incumbent Mayor? Why he can't even get a social group of merchants to endorse him! And do we not have morals here in the Shire anymore? Why Berredan Took? He has a criminal history! Will this mean he will let anyone just steal our cakes? Our pipeweed? Our freshly baked marita that comes straight from our own mothers recipe that took our wives two full days to make??" Holding his hand to his head, The Cleeve Crier begins to act as though faint falling back only enough for affect, and then standing up again, with a stern look apon his brow.

Looking around the crowd, Hugo claps a little, "Hurrah! Whitfoot for Mayor!" then stops as abruptly as he began, as nobody follows his lead.

"I heard Berredan's decided to step out of the race," Bodobrus mentions to the hobbit at his right.

"Better be careful, Bracegirdle - you know Whitfoot can't be far down the list - fine as he is, he's not exempt, you know!" chuckles Basil. "That or my cousin. . . ."

Pointing his finger down to Bodobrus, he comments quickly. "Well than it's a good thing I tell you, a mighty good thing indeed." Tapping his foot on the platform waiting for other comments. Holding his head in shame again, sighing once again with heavy breaths, The Cleeve Crier shakes his heavy held head. "Though this I tell you is not all that troubles the Shire, for within its tree covered exterior has a Thain's wife whose very teeth lay rotting in her very tiny head. I say how can we uphold proper hygiene when our Thain's wife doesn't care for her own? Though the troubles lie deeper, they do! That whimper of a girl, Rue Headstrong! Won't someone, anyone, please marry her and straighten her out? She makes a horntoad look pleasent."

Delilah nods graciously to the one who has given up his space and attempts to hear what the crier is saying. She is about to shout in agreement when the troublemaker of a child at her side whines in boredom. "Shhh, now!" she urges angrily and returns her focus to the crier.

The shirriff chuckles a bit, as he comments to the hobbit on his left, "That Rue. I arrested her once, did you know? Or she arrested herself, or somesuch."

"Tooks, Tooks..." the chronically befuddled hobbit continues to mumble to himself. "An' them Bassginges, an' Lightfoos... an' Headstrongs! That Rue... made a fool of my brother... silly Bucklanders..."

Pippin looks aghast at this comment. Standing up brusquely, he turns to the others, awestruck at the comment. "Hey, now! That's character assassination!" He shouts up at the Crier, "My mother has perfectly good hygiene, you hack!"

A dim shape appears at the edge of the crowd -- a small, dark impression against a backdrop of cascading leaves as they liberate from a nearby tree... and to that tree it clings. Not literally, of course: it merely leans upon the trunk of the tree, hood of the cloak it bears thrown over his head.

Hugo glances at Pippin. "... ... sugar" he whispers to Basil. "... ... problem."