Featuring (both Shirefolk Hobbits): Filby and Samwise as Acanthus.

Michel Delving: Residential District
You're in the northern part of Laburnum Bend, a quiet district with many nice, ordered hobbit holes on either side of the road, and beautiful rowan trees tower high into the sky at regular intervals. A few hobbit children dash through the shaded street and disappear into one of the nicer holes.
Contents:
Acanthus(#29517VMp)
Obvious exits:
North leads to Western Rose Lane.
Southeast leads to Laburnum Bend.
Mayor's Hole leads to Mayor's Hole.
Grubb Smial leads to Grubb Smial: Sitting Room.

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RL (Arizona) time is Tue Feb 19 10:59:33 2002 (+time).
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IC time is about 3 PM on Trewsday Wedmath (August) 2, 1425 S.R.
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IC Weather Conditions
Rain falls from the sky, dampening the land with a constant stream of cool precipitation on this Wedmath day.
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Filby
He's old, withered, and only barely over three feet in height: anyone who thinks all Hobbits are happy and peppy little folk certainly never met this fellow.

Dominated by a large, long needle-nose, his face is a yellowed mass of wrinkles and liver spots, drawn tight over his cheeks, chin, and scalp but wrinkled in great folds beneath sharp green eyes and thin white eyebrows. His lips are cracked and pinkish before his decaying wooden dentures. His pointed ears support a small pair of thick, metal-rimmed spectacles, and to top him off (quite literally), what part of his head visible under his black felt top hat is quite bald, reflecting light after the fashion of polished metal. Straight white hair falls down to just above his shoulders.

His thin, emancipated body is seated perpetually in a wicker wheelchair, a high-backed contraption with two wide wheels and another, smaller pair in back for balance purposes.

Clothed in a white waistcoat with a chin-high collar and gold buttons, a black suit, and black trousers, this venerable Halfling's shoulders are covered by a shawl woven of white yarn with light green trim; his lap and most of his legs are hidden beneath a blanket of similar weave. His balding feet have been slipped into a pair of black leather shoes to ward off colder temperatures.

He smells faintly of stale tobacco.

Acanthus
Here stands a large hobbit woman with flaming red hair. She is pleasantly plump, in all the right spots, and quite comely as hobbits. Her face is round like the moon, with pink cheeks, and a pair of bright blue eyes. A little mouth, cherubic, is puckered in a sweet smile. There are dimples on both of her cheeks. Bright red eyebrows line her eyes, and match the exact hue of her curly, long hair. Most of the long hair is pinned up in places, though a few of the locks look as if they're falling out of place.

Her attire is rather nice, and implies that perhaps she is a hobbit of good fortune. A long dress, the color of the middle of a daisy, falls down to her well groomed feet, and is tied about the waist with a lovely green belt. She wears a brown shawl around her shoulders which looks to be made out of an expensive silk-like material. Around her neck there is a long chair with a large amber stone on it, set in a complicated leaf setting. On her fingers there are many rings, some of which look very old...

~~~

Oh drear! The day is damp and rain dribbles down drains and drenches the world in its descent. Most hobbits find rain to be a most combersome trial on days when, by all accounts, it should be sunny! However, here, there is a hobbit lady--and she is walking with purpose toward Pott Manor--there is a large umbrella in her hand. Her grey eyes seem rather fixed upon her goal, and her lips are set firmly. Red hair peeks out from her large brimmed hat. Off in the distance, a carriage, presumably one she has just exited, rolls away...

Stopping before Pott Manor, Acanthus Bolger--for that is who she is--takes a moment to look at her surroundings. Then, with a nod, she reaches out and knocks upon the door--three times. Then, she waits.

For about half a minute, nothing. The knocks die dully into the quiet of the dank. But then a male voice, old and cracked, with a measure of bitterness thrown in breaks the silence.

"Who's there, and what do you want?" growls the person inside. "If you're selling something, we don't want any."

"Mr. Pott?" asks Acanthus, tilting her lead to the side slightly. She raises a well-trimmed eyebrow, and a subtle smile lifts one side of her lip. "I am Acanthus Bolger--I was told that perhaps you and I might find some common ground to stand on. I've brought some seedcakes for you, and thought we might share a spot of tea on this dismal day," says Acanthus. Her voice is confident, and perhaps a little low-timbred for a female, but she shows no fear, for certain.

"Acanthus Bolger? I've never heard of any - no, wait," the voice pauses a moment, thinking. "Ahh, yes, you're that reporter who so vocally preaches morality and virtue among youngsters, eh? A regular 'stick-in-the-mud', as some young Hobbits might say." The clicks of several locks being undone can be head from within. After a moment, the door cracks open, and a pinched, bespectacled face, wizened by time, peeks out at the lady.

"That said, you're 'my kind' of Hobbit. Do come in, Miss Bolger," says Mister Pott slyly. "I'll gladly share tea with one such as yourself."

Acanthus grins, but with braced excitement, as she proceeds into Pott Manor. She lets her eyes gracefully move about the room, and produces a few seedcakes from the folds of her long cloak. "I think 'stick-in-the-mud' is a kinder, gentler way of putting it, Mister Pott. Truly, I have heard names much *stronger* used in descriptions of me. You are too kind," she say, her lips pressing together in something of a smirk. "How are you this day, Mr. Pott? I fear there is a bit too much rain, but other than that... it isn't so bad. I've been traveling by carriage for a few days now... sometimes it is nice to be on a quiet, open road."

The foyer of Pott Manor is a low-ceilinged hall with straight walls and a shaggy carpet, lit dimly by the light of a single candle on a end table set to one side. A set of rickety stairs lead upward in darkness to the bedrooms, while a glass-panelled door leads into a darkened living room; a low archway leads into the dining room, from which the dull glow of a half-lit chandelier emits. There are no windows. Dust covers everything, and cobwebs hang in the corners.

Filby, leaning heavily on a cane, takes a moment to latch the five locks on the front door, then turns again to Acanthus. "Welcome to my domain, Miss Bolger. I'm as fine as I can be expected to be on a rainy day with stiff joints and a lame leg, almost no hearing one ear, and eyes going slowly blind, thank you," he says with a mirthless smile. "And you?" He begins to hobble toward the arch to the dining room, not standing around for the answer.

Acanthus herself nods as Mr. Pott talks, and keeps up pace behind him--though that, perhaps isn't that hard to do. She takes note of the little details of the room with her eyes, and walks about, eyebrows up. "I'm fine today," she says at length. "I have some business to attend to in Michel Delving--law matters. It seems I've upset some people, you see. I wanted to have all my assets covered, and whatnot, just in incase someone threatens to take me on in a legal way. It's amazing to me how a simple matter of *truth* can be so misconstrued. It's high time the young hobbits take a good look at themselves, and if I have to be the one to show them the mirror, than so be it. This behaviour would never have been tolerated in my day."

"Indeed," mutters Filby as he enters the dining room. It's better-lit than the foyer, though that's not saying much. The floor is a dirty white tile, many cracked in some places. Pictures of Pott family heads of the past line the walls. A few doors are set in the walls, leading to the kitchen, pantries, and cellars. A long table dominates the room, and it is there that the candelabrum is set, three out of five candles lit. There are about six chairs set around the table, but only one looks to have been used at all in the last year or five, and it is there that Mister Pott carefully seats himself; the others are covered in a thin layer of dust.

"Please seat yourself," grins Filby, motioning at a chair nearby. "I don't get nearly enough visitors these days. Well, wanted visitors, at any rate." He chuckles. "Well, well, I couldn't agree more with you, Miss Bolger. Youngsters these days are pitifully headstrong, secular, and careless. I've lived through three or four generations, and each has gotten progressively worse than the last. A disturbing trend, if I may say. And that fat fool Whitfoot does little to help the situation, with all his inane feasts and parties and such, encouraging the very rabble that plagues our time. It's time indeed a mirror was held up to the collective face of the Shire, and I must respect the Hobbit who takes it upon him - or her - self to hold it up."

Acanthus sits herself down slowly, arranging her skirt. She hangs her cloak on the chair, and leans her long umbrella against the table. Putting the seedcakes on the table--they are rather lovely seedcakes, at that--she nods fervently to Mr. Pott. "It is truth that you speak, Mr. Pott. There is corruption on every tier of hobbit society, and it is swiftly moving. Even my family, who were once a wonderful example of the upper crust of hobbit society, have fallen by the way. My cousin, Wren Bolger, is a journalist--a journalist who believes in just glossing things over... in reporting happy news. Someone must stir the mud at the bottom of the lake--and I do. I have no qualms doing it. Some accuse me of gossip and spreading lies--what they fail to see is the importance of these issues. If things continue on as they have..." Acanthus sighs, shaking her head. "I simply don't know. On the bright side--my articles sell papers--and that's the most important part." She smirks.

"Oh, indeed, I quite understand your position," says Filby, grinning. "Wren? Odd name for a Hobbit; a Bolger especially. Reminds me of my own young in-law, that Prudhomme chap. I can't imagine what good old Odovacar would think, his kin going about so. Now, Odovacar... he's a Hobbit a few youngsters could stand to learn a lesson from. Knows the value of the florin." The patriarch takes a seedcake and breaks it in half, nibbling slowly on one half. "Gossip and lies, indeed. I don't see any of that in you, if I may say so." He grins again. "They've said a good deal worse about me, of course. I'm sure you remember the travesty that was the last Free Fair. I go so far to ensure the Shire a trustworthy, clear-minded Lord Mayor with a knack for trade and respect for our neighbors in Bree, the Buckland, and the mountains to the west. But instead they choose the fool Whitfoot and the unthinking policies of isolationism that have bound our people since the demise of the old Kingdom. And what do I get in return? I'm placed in the Lockholes for several months to be taunted by the public." He sighs, annoyed, but regains his composure a moment later. "We're two of a kind, Miss Bolger, if you understand. Wanting only the best for the Shire, but persecuted for it."

Eyes shining, Acanthus nods enthusiastically. "Precisely that, Mr. Pott--precisely. I have taken it upon myself, through the art of journalism, to show the Shire the warts that are waiting just under the view of the public. Or not so out of view! The things I have seen have made me ashamed to live in the Shire--that a society has let itself degenerate so much that I can hardly recognize them. Tradition is being lost. And in return for my truly heartfelt criticism, and true love and desire for us to right the wrongs, I am ridiculed!" Acanthus's cheeks now have a tinge of crimson to them as she continues in her speech. She takes the other seedcake, and breaks a corner off of it. "I have known of your efforts, Mr. Pott, and I believed in you. You have been persecuted for our Cause--for that I give you my utmost respect." With that, Acanthus puts a piece of seedcake in her mouth, and nods fervently.

Filby smiles broadly, showing a glimpse of yellow wooden teeth. "Why, coming from you, Miss Bolger, that is truly flattering." He sits forward in his chair, still smiling. "I count myself quite lucky to have the support of yourself; in these days there are few I can count on. With the likes of Whitfoot, that fool Clodo Baggins, the upstart Clayhanger, whatever his name is, there are few I can trust. A shame how morality is wasted on Hobbits these days. As long as Dwarves and Men continue to be treated the way they are, - curse Baggins and his 'Patriots', destroying trade - as long as 'revues' continue in the gambling halls of the Brockenbores, I fear I can't sleep a wink at night."

"I am so glad I came here," breathes Acanthus, as if a great weight had been lifted from her. I believe gentlehobbit who referred me to you was attempting to insult me. He said I was 'as bitter as Filby Pott'--and it got me to thinking. I knew I was going to be headed to Michel Delving, and I thought I might stop by. I think I am going to set up another center of operations here where I can have an office, and keep an ear out for the political going ons that happen. Budge Ford is simply a horrible place. Frightful. I can't associate myself with those people anymore. My entire family has turned their backs on me--but truly, it's the Brandybucks that are at the heart of much of our recent problems. They frighten off the Breefolk with their antics--and did you *hear* about one of the Brandybucks traipsing about the Shire with a --what are they? Gamgee I believe is the uncouth surname of this servant family from Hobbiton. It's shameful."

Shaking his head in disdain, Filby sighs. "Ahh, yes, the Gamgees. How unpleasant, their kind. Especially that Samwise chap. That boy's had the nerve to speak up to me - without being spoken to first, no less! - every time I'd passed through Bywater. And the way he associates with that oddity of oddities, Mister Baggins. Shameful. Pathetic little insect. He'll never account for anything in this world." He removes his spectacles and, with a handkerchief taken from a pocket, wipes his face free of sweat. "You must excuse me, Miss Bolger... just the thought of such audacity can enrage me." He tucks the cloth in his pocket again and places his glasses on his nose again. "And the Brandybucks, indeed. I have great respect for Master Saradoc - as any Hobbit should - but some of them, especially his son, Meriadoc, are terribly irresponsible. And the Tooks! The richest family in the Shire, and the most scandalous as well. I shudder when I think of young Peregrin ascending to Thainhood. A sad state of affairs the Shire is in, indeed."

"Indeed!" says Acanthus, eyes widening, and nodding along with Mr. Pott's rantings. "And don't worry--it's good to be riled up. That's the way I must be in order to write clearly. Sometimes I'm so enraged I don't know what to do. Do--" she pauses, and reaches into her cloak, and retrieves a little pad of paper, an inkwell, and a feather pen. "Would you mind if I used a few of your quotes in my next article? I won't use your name if you don't want... but I think your words are worth being saved. And you're right about Master Saradoc... I think his son is after my cousin Estella, and the thought just frightens me. He needs to reign in that stallion of his--gallavanting all around the Shire as if he owns it! It's ridiculous."

"Why, I would be most honored if you would take it upon yourself to quote me," Mister Pott says, smiling like a cat. "It's time, I'm sure, that the Shire heard what I had to say. I've kept too quiet since the last Free Fair." He finishes the first half of the seedcake he'd been nibbling on, and pokes disinterestedly at the other half on the table before him. "Young Estella?" he says then, catching the words only now. "The aspiring cook, Rosamunda's protege? I daresay, I fear for both families..."

"Aspiring, yes--but if she continues with the way she's been, her guests will be expiring. I pray she stops dillydallying with these ridiculous notions of cooking, and stops doting on that Brandybuck. She's making a bad name for our family. We don't need to work. And if she can't cook she best as well just hire some underling and let them do it," says Acanthus, venom in her voice. She shudders. "I never again want to even come near spotted pudding." Clearing her throat, Acanthus dips her nib into the ink of the well, and starts scribbling away. "It's high time the Shire realizes that my opinions are felt by many."

"Indeed, my good madam, you'll find a good many citizens of the Shire share your opinions; they are simply afraid to let their voices be heard for fear of backlash from the very fools we've discussed so this afternoon." He shakes his head again. "I might suggest you seek audience with Missus Boffin of the Nobottle Temperance League, for one. And the good Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, of course. Perhaps even Thain Paladin himself, though I fear with pressure from his deplorable offspring and his shrew of a wife he's gone terribly soft in recent years. Several members of the Overhill Ladies' Club share my opinions, too, I'm sure." He smiles.

Looking up at a clock hanging on one wall, he raises an eyebrow. "Well, well, it appears that the time's come for my mid-afternoon nap. Surely you won't mind being on your way? Feel free to undo the locks on your way out; I'll lock them again on my way upstairs."

"Certainly," says Ms. Bolger, standing, and putting her cloak on again. She caps her inkwell, and puts away the pad and feather. "You can keep the seedcakes--and I hope you don't mind if I drop by again later this week? I have started to come up with a grand idea I would very much like to run by you if you don't mind," she says, grasping her umbrella. "It has been a true pleasure this afternoon--I thank you for your time and patience, Mr. Pott. You are indeed, a marvel."

With that, Acatnthus Bolger makes her way out of Pott Manor, with a strange, satisfied smirk on her face...