Post by Bradley Mossyfoot on Dec 5, 2008 18:22:55 GMT -5
Walking into the bustling atmosphere of the Golden Perch in Stock, you notice a blond, curly-headed hobbit sitting alone at the end of the bar. His deeply tanned skin frames his not-so-new Bounder's hauberk, hinting at a life of endless patrols within this beloved countryside. He sits slumped over on his stool, leaning comfortably against the wall to his right as he slowly drums the fingers of his left hand against the polished oaken surface. His right hand is tending to a mug of ale on the bar in front of him, though he doesn't appear to be at all interested in it's contents. Instead, his eyes fix intently on it as he traces small lines and patterns in the condensation forming on the surface.
His deep cerulean eyes look glassy and distant as they follow water droplets sliding down the mug, crossing over his finger's previous pathways and bringing chaos to the design he had created. He watches as each droplet takes a different path down the mug, some combining with others and some pooling around the base. He stares with a bewildered expression and mutters to himself.
"So many things...I do not understand..."
Noticing your observation of his activities and feeling mildly embarrassed, the hobbit breaks himself from his trance and glances over his shoulder at you; the rumor of a smile barely cracking the firm corners of his mouth.
"Oh uh... he...hello friend....mmm...what's...what's your business?"
His words stumble out at first then quickly improve as someone suddenly awakened from slumber. His voice is deep and commanding, especially for a hobbit, yet has a soothing quality that seems to match his general demeanor. He looks mildly bemused by your presence, and realizes after a moment that an eventual introduction would probably be appropriate.
"Ah well...I suppose we all have our own business don't we? All have our own paths to travel, places to go, people to see..."
He pauses at this and you notice his eyes turning inward again as they slowly return focus to the droplets racing down his mug of ale. Without breaking his gaze, he reaches down to a satchel hanging from his waist and produces an intricately carved wooden pipe and an almost comically over-sized pouch of Longbottom Leaf. With nearly instinctual movements, he fills the pipe and takes a long draw before finishing his statement, which is spoken through closed eyes and a cloud of acrid, yet sweet-smelling smoke.
"...and things to do." His eyes slowly open, return to you, and refocus. "My name is Scudamor. Scudamor Overbrook, Bounder of Buckland. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He pantomimes a bow with his head and shoulders as he speaks his name with a surprisingly aristocratic intonation. Then without further comment, he places his still-burning pipe on the bar and turns back to his pint to resume his obviously important task of tracing lines in the water and watching the droplets fall. Having come back to his inner world, you hear him mumbling under his breath again.
"Different paths...all different paths..."
You decide that this fellow, though he appears kind and at least somewhat polite, is probably best left to his business.
His deep cerulean eyes look glassy and distant as they follow water droplets sliding down the mug, crossing over his finger's previous pathways and bringing chaos to the design he had created. He watches as each droplet takes a different path down the mug, some combining with others and some pooling around the base. He stares with a bewildered expression and mutters to himself.
"So many things...I do not understand..."
Noticing your observation of his activities and feeling mildly embarrassed, the hobbit breaks himself from his trance and glances over his shoulder at you; the rumor of a smile barely cracking the firm corners of his mouth.
"Oh uh... he...hello friend....mmm...what's...what's your business?"
His words stumble out at first then quickly improve as someone suddenly awakened from slumber. His voice is deep and commanding, especially for a hobbit, yet has a soothing quality that seems to match his general demeanor. He looks mildly bemused by your presence, and realizes after a moment that an eventual introduction would probably be appropriate.
"Ah well...I suppose we all have our own business don't we? All have our own paths to travel, places to go, people to see..."
He pauses at this and you notice his eyes turning inward again as they slowly return focus to the droplets racing down his mug of ale. Without breaking his gaze, he reaches down to a satchel hanging from his waist and produces an intricately carved wooden pipe and an almost comically over-sized pouch of Longbottom Leaf. With nearly instinctual movements, he fills the pipe and takes a long draw before finishing his statement, which is spoken through closed eyes and a cloud of acrid, yet sweet-smelling smoke.
"...and things to do." His eyes slowly open, return to you, and refocus. "My name is Scudamor. Scudamor Overbrook, Bounder of Buckland. It's a pleasure to meet you."
He pantomimes a bow with his head and shoulders as he speaks his name with a surprisingly aristocratic intonation. Then without further comment, he places his still-burning pipe on the bar and turns back to his pint to resume his obviously important task of tracing lines in the water and watching the droplets fall. Having come back to his inner world, you hear him mumbling under his breath again.
"Different paths...all different paths..."
You decide that this fellow, though he appears kind and at least somewhat polite, is probably best left to his business.
