Disclaimer-These characters don't belong to me, I just get to take them out
and play with them on rainy days. Original fictional characters and any
mistakes are mine.
Note-Story begins in August, 3018 (Third Age)
Prologue
The sun was just peeking over the eastern hills. The late August morning was already warm and hinted at the steamy heat that would hang over the Shire later in the day. A sturdy hobbit figure strode confidently through the field, the leathery leaves of pipe weed slapping at his bare feet. The soil was wet and dark from last night's rain. Evenly spaced rows of the golden crop stretched as far as the eye could see across the gently rolling hills of the Southfarthing. The summer had been one of the most bountiful in memory. It would soon be harvest time and thousands of leaves would be laid up in the drying sheds to cure.
Domfast Stooptoe continued walking to where the field was bordered by a lively stream and turned to hike north along the bank. Soon he came to another field, covered in the detritus of harvested crops several seasons old. He crouched down and took up a handful of the earth. It was wet from rain but not as dark or rich as that in the fields nearby. He crumpled it through his fingers, sniffed it briefly and let it fall back to earth. This field would need another season to recover the nutrients leeched from the soil by the thirsty pipe weed.
He stood up, brushing the soil off his knee breeches. The clothing was exceptionally fine for a farmer walking his fields. A dark blue velvet coat with silver buttons, gray embroidered waistcoat and a fine lawn shirt with lace ruffles at the cuffs topped his well-cut velvet breeches. His mother secretly thought the deep blue set off his dark chestnut curls quite nicely.
Dom brushed a bit harder, hoping to hide any sign he had failed to resist the siren's call of looking over his fields this morning, as he had every day since his father had given over this land to be his own. His mother would have his hide. He'd best stop at the well and make sure his feet were clean and brushed by the time he ventured through the round kitchen door of the commodious Stooptoe farmhouse.
He started back across the fields. The sun was now completely up and time ran on. He would not normally have been too worried about his mother's opinion of his appearance but he had to allow that this morning she had a right to be vigilant. After all, he had a wedding to go to.
Note-Story begins in August, 3018 (Third Age)
Prologue
The sun was just peeking over the eastern hills. The late August morning was already warm and hinted at the steamy heat that would hang over the Shire later in the day. A sturdy hobbit figure strode confidently through the field, the leathery leaves of pipe weed slapping at his bare feet. The soil was wet and dark from last night's rain. Evenly spaced rows of the golden crop stretched as far as the eye could see across the gently rolling hills of the Southfarthing. The summer had been one of the most bountiful in memory. It would soon be harvest time and thousands of leaves would be laid up in the drying sheds to cure.
Domfast Stooptoe continued walking to where the field was bordered by a lively stream and turned to hike north along the bank. Soon he came to another field, covered in the detritus of harvested crops several seasons old. He crouched down and took up a handful of the earth. It was wet from rain but not as dark or rich as that in the fields nearby. He crumpled it through his fingers, sniffed it briefly and let it fall back to earth. This field would need another season to recover the nutrients leeched from the soil by the thirsty pipe weed.
He stood up, brushing the soil off his knee breeches. The clothing was exceptionally fine for a farmer walking his fields. A dark blue velvet coat with silver buttons, gray embroidered waistcoat and a fine lawn shirt with lace ruffles at the cuffs topped his well-cut velvet breeches. His mother secretly thought the deep blue set off his dark chestnut curls quite nicely.
Dom brushed a bit harder, hoping to hide any sign he had failed to resist the siren's call of looking over his fields this morning, as he had every day since his father had given over this land to be his own. His mother would have his hide. He'd best stop at the well and make sure his feet were clean and brushed by the time he ventured through the round kitchen door of the commodious Stooptoe farmhouse.
He started back across the fields. The sun was now completely up and time ran on. He would not normally have been too worried about his mother's opinion of his appearance but he had to allow that this morning she had a right to be vigilant. After all, he had a wedding to go to.
