A cool day; winds gusting gently against trees that are ripe with buds of spring. It is a beautiful day indeed, clouds of white, and shades of gray cover the sky with their billowy softness, like clouds on a bed of the heavens. For both hobbit gentlemen, and beautiful lasses, scurry too; and of course fro as well, in Frogmorton this morning. But not all are destined for a cherry morning, and a second breakfast. But something much worse indeed.

The hobbit that I am speaking about, is of course, Gravo Baggins. Quilts and sheets lightly about his form. High in fever is he, with drops of sweat on his brow, even with the compress - as cool and soothing as it is, about his matted hair. For pneumonia is what is wrong with this Sheriff, who happens to be a musician as well. Coughs shake his form, violently of course, and do not cease for many a minutes; thus he does not truly rest in the bed, but merely lay there between fits of coughing. It is a sad sight, for this hobbit has grown somewhat thin as well. His previous very hobbity form, replaced by skin and bones. Not even a troll would enjoy eating such a hobbit, that is in the condition he is in now.

A soft knock comes from the door of the Healing House, almost inaudible. Luckily one of the healers closer to the door opens it and admits the knocker, Mister Wiligar Took, in. "Hallo," the Took quietly says to the young healer, "I've come, if you don't mind, to pay my respects to those confined to the healing house, those brave souls who gave that greatest of assets, their comfort, to help the people of the Shire..." "Yes, yes," the healer interjects, tiring of Wiligar's longwindedness, "I'll inform the others of your arrival..."

For that healer does come around, telling Gravo, and some fellow sick hobbits of such a visit. It is not to long before Gravo gives a weak wave of greeting, not a true wave infact, just barely enough to be considered one. Though a cough interrupts this, destroying the greeting with an extreme predjuce of course. Coughes both harsh, horse, and violent, erupt with a vehemence from the lungs of this sick hobbit lad. It takes many a moment before he can even breath...

"Hmm, yes..." the Took muses quietly to himself. Making his way bedside Wiligar bows deeply and quietly says to Gravo, almost in a whisper, "Good-day, sir, 'tis good to meet you. I've heard of your exploits and your bravery, and I've come now to pay my respects." As he says this he places a small silver coin beside the bed.

A smile, though it is soft; weak to some, strong to the weak, it is there. A symbol of thank you, that is followed by an actual speech of thanks , "Indeed thank you for your kindness...but I was not brave, just doing my job is all." A chuckle, comes between bouts of fighting coughs from coming so violently. For he does succeed, it is not without much trouble. Though with a great effort Gravo actually does sit up, slightly that is; still he lays though. He speaks, "Where have you heard may I ask? I am...a trifle bit intrested."

"Where, you ask?" the Took thinks silently for a moment. "It was in the Chronicle, several weeks ago. Only now did I have a chance to come here. I read how several shirriffs were injured somehow, and I made up my mind to come and pay my respects."

The smile brightens, faintly though, but it is a brightening none the less. It does take but a moment for Gravo to speak, again it is in a weak voice, and quieted by the fight against coughing, which is an ever presistant fight, "Ah I see...I am glad they put me on the paper. Any news from Hobbiton? That is where my family is...and I am dreadfully worried..."

"Hobbiton, eh?" The Took pulls a newspaper and leafs through for a few minutes.

A nod, nay two nods, are all that come from the sick young lad, while the Took reads the paper.

The Took's face wrinkles. "Oh dear... there's a new tax... and my brother-in-law is under suspicion for selling illegal alcohol! Oh, this is a black day." Folding up the paper again Wiligar places it back inside his waistcoat.

For Gravo does ask a question of such news, "What is the tax for? Ale?!" He asks suprised, and rather shocked as well.

"Aye, ale it is... and all other drinks in the Shire. Oh, that Whitfoot is a fool. He should know that what he's doing will lead to more riots..." Wiligar Took frowns for a moment. "Though this, I'm sure, will pass."

Eyes wide, and shock fills these round saucers that have become the eyes of Gravo Baggins, in utter dismay does he stare. A stare intense and filled with awe of such a horrible thing, to tax ale is not hobbity, not even the longbeards deserve such treatment! He speaks, "That is horrible! I must do something about that.." But a cough comes forth, and shuts up this hobbit quite easily, for it is violent and long lasting.