Lockholes
You are in the old storage tunnels underneath the town of Michel Delving, the Lockholes. The tunnels are dark and narrow, branching off in a myriad of directions. Many of the lockholes are simply iron crates fastened with a metal door, while others are slightly more spacious (large enough to hold a hobbit, albeit uncomfortably). These have metal bars placed over the doors and are mostly filled with different types of junk, from old broken clocks to useless documents to old books ruined by water damage. There is a holding area near the entry of the lockholes themselves, which the shirriffs might use to keep an unruly drunk citizen or a stray dog. The sense of being underground inside the lockholes is nearly choking; the lack of windows keeps the tunnels suitably dim unlike a cozy smial, and moisture drips from the earthen roof. The only light in these damp and musty smelling tunnels comes from a single candle that sits on the Lockhole keepers' desk. The big wooden desk sits against the stone wall by the round iron door that leads out of the lockholes. A lone hobbit with a nametag reading "Shirriff Smallburrow" sits quietly at the there, writing with a long quill pen and keeping an eye on the happenings of the shirriff house.
Contents:
Robin Smallburrow
Obvious exits:
Out

Filby
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This individual is an old hobbit (he's so short... what else could he be?). This aged halfling is clad in an elegant red suit, a bejeweled pocketwatch often glinting from inside a pocket. Beneath his suit is a yellow waistcoat, and blue trousers falling down to just above his pale, balding feet.

The old fellow's face is a mass of wrinkles, his nose jutting out by a few inches, supporting a pair of small metal-rimmed spectacles. A pair of slightly pointed, "elvish" ears and a rather shiny bald head bordered by a tangle of wild white hair tops this strange little figure of a hobbit.
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Clodo
Average in height there stands a hobbit before you; cheeks ruddy and crimson in their hue, perhaps leading some people to beleive he is hot, but it is simply his skin's pigment. This hobbit's hair is thick and quite amazing in its curly tendensies. The golden buttons of his green tunic look as though they will soon burst from his unbeleivable stomach. Clodo's weight is indeed much, his bare feet standing on the floor firmly. He stands on average sized legs covered by blackened trousers. He is obviously a well-off hobbit, his foothair combed back neatly.

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RL (Arizona) time is Wed Feb 14 14:33:31 2001 (+time).
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IC time is about 9 AM on Wednesday Afterlithe (July) 22, 1422 S.R.
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IC Weather Conditions
The sky is completely covered by dark clouds, predicting the coming of a summer storm. Thunder can be heard in the distance on this Afterlithe day.
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~~~

From Shirriff House, The heavens predict a storm on Afterlithe the twenty-second; yet a multiplicity of Hobbits are still out-and-about in the ever-busy town of Michel Delving--chief West-farthing township, principal town to the Shire, and home to the Shirriff House and Lock-holes. Two or three Shirriffs laze about within the House; a few more come and go. The 'holes, however, contain fewer Hobbits than animals. It seems every stray dog in the entire Shire is located within the haven--and more than once or twice the ex-pets arise in revelrous barking, and the Shirriffs indignantly halt them with harsh words.

There is, however, two new patrons of this facility--neither beasts nor Shirriffs. The latest, enters presently.

Without as much as a rap at the door, Clodo Baggins--in full public regalia-- arrives into the Shirriff House, just as water begins to fall from the sky outside. "Hullo!" the politician exclaims instantly--much to the dismay of more than one of the Shirriffs. "Clodo Baggins, at your service! I've come to see Filby Pott, if I may---" And, without further ado, the young Hobbit scurries over to the metal gate which bars enterance and exit to and fro the 'holes.

"Oh Mister Poooott! Where are you?"

Huddled inside a very large metal crate imbedded in the walls of the Lockholes about four yards from the gate, the shamed Baron Pott sits uncomfortably, kept awake by the incessant barking of dogs and miaoing of cats. He shifts to one side to address his calling nemesis...

"Who is it? Can't you see I'm... occupied..." he moans, squinting throught the gloom. "Shirriff Smallburrow, who is it... Smallburrow?" He calls for Robin, but the Lockholes Keeper is not to be seen. "Well then, state your name and business, whoever you are. I'm sure I can squeeze you in for an appointment, but I am really quite busy..." He clears his throat and yawns sleepily.

From Shirriff House, "Oh, come on out, you old marrow-eater!" Clodo cackles from his position behind the bars of the Lock-holes. "It's just me! Clodo Baggins, of course--coming to see how you're feeling." Giving the metal gate another good shake, Mister Baggins causes a terrible clanging sound to erupt throughout the Lock-holes and Shirriff House. It also causes another chorus of barking, meowing, and general raccous from within the prison.

"Now, now, Mister Pott... no reason to sit around in there and develope the creak-joints! Besides, I've brought you a lovely treat!" Clodo adds, fishing in his trouser-pockets for a moment before retrieving a bit of pocket-lint (which he quickly discards), and a perfectly round seedcake.

Filby squints at the gate and shakes his head in disgust. "Oh no... not you again. You can keep your garbage, I'm not hungry." He yawns, blinking and scratching his head. "You know, it's really a shame my last attempt at putting you out of the picture failed so miserably. I really must hire more competent associates."

From Shirriff House, "Oh, bah, Mister Pott--honestly!" Clodo exclaims, though a smile on his upturned lips belies his true feelings. "No hard feelings--none! I want to be -friends-. Now, come out here and let's have a chat, shall we?"

"If you don't hurry," Mister Baggins adds--for insentive, "this seedcake may be eaten ahead of time! These Shirriffs look mighty hungry!" Clodo winks to the guards beside the barrier, and then peers back into the gloom beyond the Lock-hole gate.

Filby huffs quietly and turns his head to address Clodo. "Well as you can see I'm in no position to get out of my hutch here. If you want to chat you can do so from there." The aged hobbit removes his spectacles and places them in his pocket. "And you can keep your cakes. Knowing you it's likely poisoned."

From Shirriff House, Scoffing quite audibly, Clodo takes a large chomp from the cake in his hand, happily chewing for a moment before swallowing. "You know, Mister Pott... you -really- don't know what you're missing. I do beleive, that's the best cake I've ever baked! Ah well."

Wiping a few crumbs from his face, Mister Baggins takes a seat on the nearest desk-top, and says, "Come now, Mister Pott... we were -Mayoral- candidates. It has -nothing- to do with the present! -I- certainly hold no grudge... why don't we just put it all behind us?"

"Clodo Baggins, you alespot." Filby frowns at the fat little fellow, squinting at the gate disdainfully. "I'll put this behind me when, and not if, but -when- you're out of my life. Take your insults elsewhere, I'm in no mood for such tomfoolery."

From Shirriff House, "Elves and dragons!" Clodo replies, shouting into the musky Lock-holes, and removing from his seat on the desk. "I mean no such thing, and you -know- it, Pott! I came by to wish your foot-hair never fall out, and you accuse me of being no worse than a bearded, pipeless... bigfolk!"

Scowling, Clodo kicks the metal gate with his bare foot, generating another loud clang, and another chorus of barks and meows. Simultaneously, the Baggins, falls backward--straight onto his bum-- and grabs his right foot with both hands.

"Ow! Ow, I say! Blast it, Pott--you've done it again!" they young politician shouts, and scrambles to his feet--foot. Holding one walking appendage in hand, Clodo hops out of the Shirriff house.

"Curse you! Curse you, you... egg-spattered villain!"

"Go on, get out of here, Baggins!" shouts Filby, scowling. "And when I get out of here, -I will come after you-! Remember that, Baggins!" The old hobbit sputters, his nostrils flaring, and squeezes himself back into his crate, closing his eyes and muttering.

From Shirriff House, "Alright, hush now, Pott. I'll have no such talk in my Lock-holes!" shouts one of the warders beside the gate, and abandons to a desk nearer the door.