What
Filby and the rest of the Potts finally get around to mouring Wilby's death.

Who
Filby Pott (#29680)......himself, Wiligar Took, Balcho Pott, Matt Prudhomme
Paladin Took (#22742)....Berredan Took, Lodinar Took
Frodo Baggins (#29612)...Lindora Pott
Olfo Diggle (#16690).....Timpany Goldowrthy

Filby Pott

Before you stands an old, old hobbit. This aged halfling is clad in a rich-looking suit, a bejeweled pocketwatch often glinting from inside a pocket. Beneath a black suit is a white waistcoat, and black trousers fall down to just above his pale, balding feet.

The old fellow's face is a mass of wrinkles, his nose jutting out some two inches, supporting a pair of ridiculously oversized spectacles. A pair of pointed ears and a bald pate surrounded by a tangle of wild white hair tops this odd figure.

Lindora Diggle Pott

An elderly ladyhobbit, perhaps just above a hundred. Tastefully attired in a black crepe mourning-gown and bonnet, with tiny jet earrings, she stands just above two feet in height, her greying harvest-brown hair seemingly pulled up and tucked in a neat bun beneath the bonnet, the bangs just peeking out. A small but chubbily round face frames a small nose, bow-shaped mouth, and large brown eyes.

Timpany Goldworthy
The glittering gold of a once-beautiful beast lies hidden, but before your eyes no less: swollen, crimson lips; white powdered face. She is short--a hobbit, no doubt, with large, keen-blue eyes and nutmeg hair (which is, today, tucked up inside a large black hat. From the hat, falls a thin layer of black fish-net, which does little to hide the small, shiny beads upon her cheeks...

A diamond pendant falls from her neck, onto an elegant--but equally black--dress. Timpany's foot-hair is tied up in ribbons, though on this day, they are rather dark--navy blue, perhaps... perhaps black as the rest of her outfit.

Berredan Took

Berredan Took Standing around the height of the average Shirefolk is Berredan Took. Clean and well-dressed he looks, as if he were the Thain's son himself! The nicely-trimmed hair on his feet and head is curly and the color of dry soil. He wears a shirt of bright red topped by a blue waistcoat with intricate designs on it. Tucked into the right breastpocket of this fine-looking hobbit is usually a pipe and a flint-n-steel. In the other pocket one could more-often-than-not find a pouch of high-quality weed. Around his waist, Berredan wears a belt of brown leather, with a bright brass buckle, to hold up his tweed breeches. His money-purse hangs from this belt.

Lodinar Took
Around the same height as the average golden retriever, Lodinar is obviously a hobbit. Fat in the belly, round in the face, he gets his fair share of food. Shaggy curls of walnut-brown hair hang from his scalp, and the hair on his feet is trimmed short.

Today, he is wearing a shirt of green and slacks the color of moist soil. Both articles are quite old and worn, though they are carefully maintained. There are a few patches here and there on his slacks. Around his waist is a black, leather belt with a brass buckle. There is nothing special about it, other than the six pouches hanging from the strip of leather (three on each hip).

Sticking in his shirt is a badge made of brass. The word 'Sergeant' is written beautifully upon it. It is now obvious that Lodinar is officially a shirriff, and if the beholder has any knowledge of the Shire's shirriff system, he will know that the red feather sticking out of his forest-green, three-cornered hat labels him as a shirriff of the South-Farthing.

Wiligar Took

Wiligar Took stands before you. A taller hobbit, a bit over three feet, Wiligar is clad in an expensive dull red waistcoat and a pair of well-tailored green trousers. A silver pocketwatch and a white handkerchief can be seen in his right pocket. Wiligar's neatly combed light brown hair curls atop his head, his slightly pointed ears peeking out. His feet, brushed and combed, are well-groomed and well-cleaned.

~~~

It's a gloomy day in Hobbiton, the sky overcast and grey, rain drizzling from the sky. The cemetary is quiet as usual: just row upon row of small mounds and headstones. Not much is going on.

There is, however, a small pavilion off to the side. A group of ten or fifteen sombre-looking hobbits stand or sit beneath it. One might see a small object, about two feet in height, just off to the side and covered with a white cloth.

One hobbit is a little farther away from the gathering, though: an old halfling clad in a black suit and tails, sitting on a small stone. He just sits there, really, apart from the others, only occasionally looking up at the cloth-covered object.

He looks up. Looking over to a pair of other hobbits, one seemingly just a little younger than he and another much younger, and calls, "Balcho, Wiligar? I suppose this is all there is, then? Do you suggest we start, Mister Took?"

The other hobbit pulls a pocketwatch from a pocket and looks at it for a moment. "Well, Mister Pott, I suppose we might as well. This group isn't getting much larger; indeed, I'd say it's shrinking."

"Aye, Filby," the other oldster nods. "I'd agree with Wiligar. We'd best get going before the rain gets worse, brother."

"Agreed, brother." Filby gets up and walks to the pavilion, casting a glance back at the cloth-covered thing.

Lodinar comes walking up the path, the end of his staff digging into the dirt each time he thrusts it beside him. Approaching the small crowd gathering near the grave of Wilby Pott, he pulls his pipe out, preparing to have a mournful smoke.

One figure in the group - an elderly ladyhobbit - steps aside as Filby walks to the pavilion where the group seems to have gathered, offering a slight nod as she extends her hand gently to lay over his. "Filby. . .we're both so sorry. I know Twilby is thinking of you this moment, too, though he can't - " She stops, swallowing. "He - Wilby - was - such a nice lad. . .a better nephew than I had ever hoped to have. . . ."

Beside Filby, there stands another: a silent figure, as if stone, but if one were to glance upon the countenance of Timpany Goldworthy on this rainy Blotmath afternoon, a different story might be seen.

Indeed, her countenance is ruddy despite all the making-up, white powder, and her cheeks are stained of tears. As Filby stands, she too lurches forward a bit, but steps back, a pale tooth clamping upon crimson lips.

"Filby--" there comes a weak voice from the black statue--weak, but still deep: sultry, and full of emotion. "Y- you go ahead... I'll... wait... back here." The figures head bobs up and down, encouraging the old Pott to go on, while she re-takes his stone.

Berredan is one of those hobbits standing beneath the pavilion, an air of sorrow all about him. His pipe rests between his thumb and forefinger, smoke drifting sadly into the air. He turns his head and listens to what the elderly hobbit has to say to Filby. Without speaking, he turns his head back to concentrate on the hills of the cemetary.

Lodinar makes his way to the pavilion and finds a seat in there, his pipe now lit. "Yes, Filby," he says, "he was a good hobbit!"

Turning about to the ladyhobbit Filby nods sadly. "Dear Lindora, a pleasure to see you as always... and I'm sure Twilby would be thinking of Wilby and all the rest of us..." He pauses for a moment. "Well, if he could, that is..."

Filby turns his attention then to the younger lady now behind him. "Thank you, Miss Goldworthy... your efforts to help us have been much appreciated. I'm sure that... wherever Wilby is... he's thinking of you..." He turns back around.

"Thank you, Shirriff," Filby says to Lodinar, "I am to say the least glad you could have made it. And Master Took," he turns to Berredan, "you were a worthy opponent, and I am honored to have you here."

Finally to Wiligar he turns. "Thank you, Mister Took." He stands up rather straight now, and addresses all in a clear voice:

"Thank you all for attending, we are ready to begin. I shall speak a few words on the part of the departed; then a few others shall speak. At the end, I shall unveil my son's memorial."

A sob--quite a loud sob, in fact--comes from the darkly-dressed ladyhobbit at Filby's rear, as the aged Hobbit turns to address the small audience gathered. Then comes a bit of a sigh, quickly followed by more sobs, but indeed, no words.

Nodding, the trembling Lindora takes a seat near the front of the group, dabbing silently at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. . .though at the sound of the Goldworthy lass's sobbing, she sighs and rises, retreating to Timpany's side and putting a consoling arm around the crimson-lipped lass.

"Wilby was a good son," Filby starts, standing up and turning about to face all beneath the pavilion, "And I am sure that, should he be here today, he would have made the best head of the Pott family since the Old Pott. He is, of course, sorely missed by all who knew him. As my eldest son, he was, of course, to succeed me as head of Pott Manor... though I am sure that my next of kin, Mister Matthew Prudhomme, is no less competent." He gives a solemn nod to a hobbit standing beneath the pavilion, assumedly Matt.

Filby goes on. "I can only hope that my son had a full life. He had friends outside the family, of course, our dear benefactor Miss Goldworthy a prime example." He gestures to Timpany. "To quote a famous hobbit, I did not know him half as well as I should have liked, and I did not like him half as well as he deserved. Wilby and I had our disagreements, but I believe that everything between us has been laid to rest."

Filby sobs. For one of his social standing it seems rather odd, but he sobs nonetheless. "I am sorry... I suppose I am done." The aged hobbit looks aside sadly. "If there is anyone else who would like to speak on my son's behalf, please do so now..." He trails off and steps aside.

Only for a moment, Timpany gives a ruddy, tear-stained glance to the older lady-hobbit whom attempts to comfort her, and then concentrates once more upon the grass, and her own solemn sobbing. As Filby offers the chance for others to speak, she begins: "I--" in a weak tone--not at all her own-- before her words, too, trail off, and her glance falls again to the soaked ground.

Shaking her head sadly, Lindora pats Timpany's back patiently, lifting her eyes to meet Filby's for only a moment before returning their gaze to the seated ladyhobbit. "Ssshhhh, now, dear - be brave - for Wilby's sake!" she whispers.

Timpany glances up drearily--wearily-- to Lindora, eyes abnormally narrow. "You-- Wilby... Wilby would... would understand!" she exclaims in a rather violent mumble, and then breaks into more crying, her crimson lips trembling as her head is forced back toward the ground.

"My dear Miss Goldworthy," Filby turns about and walks slowly and quietly to Timpany, placing an old hand on her shoulder. "I know that my son was dear to you... as he was dear to us all. If there is anything - anything at all you have to say about Wilby, I would be most appreciative to hear it." He looks down sadly.

Again, Timpany gazes upward, this time to Filby. Her eyes narrow a bit before widening--and she nods. With her arm, she wipes the moisture from her eyes, and wearily stands, facing those in the pavilion.

"Wilby was... a... a good gentelhobbit... " she begins weakly, and then with growing strength: "He... he and I had... quite a relationship... together... and... I hope that... wherever he is--whatever he's doing... I hope... he's... happy... "

The Goldworthy lass' voice fades, and she slowly falls into general sobbing, retaking her seat upon the rock.

Shaking her head, Lindora purses her lips slightly, but pats the lass's back sympathethically. When she looks up at Filby, tears cloud her large brown eyes, and she says nothing, only dabbing at them with her handkerchief once more.

"Thank you, Miss Goldworthy..." says Filby. "Now, I suppose I shall unveil the memorial..." He stands up straight and walks over to the cloth-covered object. "This was made by the good smith Adam Hornblower, a long-time friend of the family. The letters in it were carved by another friend, Thelor of the Blue Mountains, a capital dwarf if there ever was one. And now, the monument to my son..."

With these words Filby removes the cloth over the object. It is then clear what it is: a cylindrical shaped stone pillar, carved rather roughly. Atop is a flat stone plaque, words chiseled into the rock. The words read:

Wilby Pott

1376 - 1421?

Awoke one day, lost his way.

May he rest in peace, wherever he lay.

Berredan stands, wiping his eyes, "I'm going to go have a seedcake in Wilby's honor!" He waddles down the path.