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A Most Disturbing Notice!

Tags: Nate,  Dawson,  Nauthcel,  Treasure tree

Short Summary: On a rainy morning in Bree, the contents of an indecipherable notice pinned up in the Market Square become the focus of debate. Is the blacksmith really closing up shop? And where is Nate's missing son? Surely that dirty Ranger Nauthcel must have something to do with it all ...
Date (real-life): 2011-06-30
Scene Location: Bree: Market North
Date (in-game): April 3053
Time of Day: Morning

North Market(#4804Rto)


This section of Bree comprises Market North, on a street running north-south. To the north is the Great East Road and the well-known Prancing Pony. South are more shops and stores, as the market continues on in that direction. This area is quite noisy from the many traders, vendors, and other folk about. The smell of fine food drifts through the market, attracting more hobbits than Big Folk.

A light drizzle trickles from the sky. The midday spring air is cool but pleasant around you.

Obvious exits:
 Round Door leads to Tunnelly Pipeweed Shoppe.
 General Store leads to General Store.
 Blacksmith leads to Blacksmith's Shop.
 South leads to Bree Market - South.
 North leads to At the Sign of the Prancing Pony.

----

Bree Time

Real time: Thu Jun 30 15:18:28 2011
Bree time: Midday <13:55:24> on Sterday of Spring - April 22,1453
Moon Phase: Full  Moon

                              Breelands Weather                               
The midday spring air is cool but pleasant around you. A misty rain comes down from the day sky.

----

April is here, and true to its reputation. That is to say, a blustery wind sends fine rain-spray washing over Bree's inhabitants, deceptively mild and soft yet drenching nonetheless if one stands out in it for long. Most of the marketgoers are hurrying past, collars turned up, hoods pulled over heads or in a few cases (those persons possessing the least common sense) brollies blown inside out. One, however, has paused in front of a large notice, jaw agape. Nate Nuthatch is broad-shouldered and built like a bear - a wet bear, today. Likely he's walked all the way from Archet without thinking of putting on a coat. His ruddy brow is furrowed and one meaty hand scratches his damp head with a loud rasping sound as he asks the world in general: "Just what's this 'ere s'posed to say?"

[Nauthcel(#19666)]
    With hoods up and faces covered against the downpouring of the rain, few identities can be recognized. Thus, Nauthcel moves about like any other of the Breeland citizens. As he passes through the market, he hears the rhetorical question of the bear-ish man. Turning his head, ashen eyes squinted slightly to see through the ceaseless droplets, the Ranger also takes in the notice.

[Witch-king(#28583)]
"What, can't you bloomin' read, lad?" comes the throaty voice of another fellow abroad this day. Large, portly and with jowls pinking in the chill breeze, Dawson Mickletrot the pipe-weed vendor squints at Nate from beneath his ledged hand as he holds it to his brow to shield his eyes from the downpour.

"It says that the Blacksmith is closing down. Can't blame the poor chap; if the ponies don't pass through, there aint no business. And those Dwarves haven't been seen for months. I wonder what they're all up to."

The broad-shouldered fellow catches sight of the turning head, for he reaches out to rip the notice from its place and hold it out to Nauthcel. Whatever it once said, now the impression gained from the mess of running ink and soggy parchment resembles most a smeared handprint.

Blithely oblivious to this, Nate turns his head to grunt at Dawson. "Not much call for it up- hey, what d'you mean closing down? What about that new axe he was making me? Never had a chance to collect that. And how come Harry ain't been putting up notes about Missing Persons?" He glowers at the pipeweed vendor as though he alone were responsible for the iniquities of the Breeguard.

[Nauthcel(#19666)]
    Nauthcel's gaze changes focus from the posting to the man that has approached. After the two men had spoken, the Ranger remarks, "What is to say that he went missing? He may have closed up shop for other reasons." While is voice is calm, his expression shows a deeper level of concentration.

At this, Nate rounds on Nauthcel. "Not the blacksmith, you cabbage-head. My son!" He swipes rain from his brow and takes a closer look at the tall fellow he's addressing. "Hoi, aren't you one of those Ranger blokes?" The word 'Ranger' is uttered alongside a grimace of disgust.

[Witch-king(#28583)]
Indeed, the word stirs a reaction in Dawson also, who turns about to squint at Nauthcel before taking a pace backwards. "Aye, he looks like one to me. And I'll tell you what, I'd half-expect one of them to be behind it!" The obviously rude nature of his words apparently does not seem to bother Mickletrot; indeed, he even goes on to then to say:

"Though, you do know good weed when you see it, as a rule..."

[Nauthcel(#19666)]
    Though hostility is direct toward him, Nauthcel replies in a relaxed tone, "I am one of those whom you call Rangers. Yet, I would caution you to be wary of generalizations. They never give the most accurate definition of a person." Changing the subject, the Dunadan asks the bear-ish man, "When did your son go missing?"

Nate exchanges a conspiratorial glance with Dawson. "Last week," he answers grudgingly, then gives the self-confessed Ranger a beetle-browed stare. "Reckon you know that already, like as not some of your folk're behind it. Always poking around, they are. Who else would be after the treasure ...?"

He's not making a great deal of sense. One of the passers-by, a stout well-swathed lady, takes one look at the Archetman and murmurs to her companion in well-bred tones of pity, "Such indecency. I heard his son ran off with all his money and is wanted for a criminal!"

[Witch-king(#28583)]
At this Dawson gasps, and peers from Nauthcel to Nate and back again. "Treasure, you say? What treasure is this?"

[Nauthcel(#19666)]
    "What need would I have in treasure? I carry all that I own and more goods would only weigh me down. Maybe one day you will know..." At these words, Nauthcel turns and departs from the company of the two men. As he walks away, he shakes his head but does not say a word.

Nate blinks at Dawson's question. Everyone's heard of his Great Find - haven't they? "The one as I found-" he begins, and then stops, squinting. "It was like this, see. I was out cutting trees, only one of them the roots came up, an' there was a whole pile of stuff! I took a sackload up to the Pony to show folks. Too much to carry, though." His honest face is regretful. "So's I asked that boy of mine t'help me bring it ba-" He breaks off, gaping after Nauthcel like a stranded fish. "Was it summat I said?"

[Witch-king(#28583)]
Stepping forward, Dawson lays an arm around Nate's shoulders, if he will allow, and leans in conspiratorially. "Perhaps he just wants to go fetch the remaining treasure for himself. But now, lad, let's be careful here. You don't want to go blabbing about it all over town. How much was left, would you say?"

Nate is far too perplexed to protest at the invasion of his personal space. He listens, fidgets, mutters, "I dunno." But then at the last question he pushes himself free, shaking his head frantically. "That's what I was just telling you, Mister - Mister Trotter, was it? There ain't none of it left. Not a single spoon - an' my boy Ned gone too. He's-" he stumbles and chokes on the word, then gets it out. "-been kidnapped! Held to ransom, I shouldn't wonder ..."

[Witch-king(#28583)]
The brow of the pipe-weed seller furrows at this, and he squints. "Then we'd better get you over to the Breeguard, and see what we can do about it. If anynoe's heard a word about your son's wherabouts, then they'd likely have told old Goatleaf. Come along, sir, I'll show you the way.."

At this, Nate turns a pitying look on Dawson. "I /went/ to the Breeguard," he says bitterly. "I /told/ Harry, so's I did. An' what do I get in return? A kettleload of fussing over some broken bench. Here we are, one week on, an' he ain't even put up a proper notice!" He glances down at the smeared-grey piece of parchment in his hand and hastily crumples it up into a ball. "I've half a mind to give him a piece of my mind!" That contradictory statement made, he stomps off without Dawson's aid.

As though his presence were a thundercloud itself, the rain eases. Folk start to emerge from the shops and houses, a few of them heading for Dawson's cart. Is the blacksmith really closing? With no notice to back the claim up, stories may get a little garbled ...


Date added: 2011-07-27 08:47:44    Hits: 78
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