TOR2: The Tale of Periwinkle Proudfoot

It is the year 2965 of the Third Age and the Shadow is returning. Twenty-four years ago, an alliance of Elves, Men, and Dwarves defeated a horde of Orcs and Wild Wolves, under a sky darkened by Giant Bats, inaugurating a new era of prosperity for the Free Peoples. But two decades is a long time for peace to last, and in many dark corners of the earth a shadow is lengthening once again.

Rumours of strange things happening outside the borders of civilised lands are spreading with increasing regularity and, while they are dismissed by most as fireside-tales and children’s stories, they sometimes reach the ears of individuals who recognise the sinister truth they hide.

These are restless warriors, curious scholars and wanderers, always eager to seek what was lost or explore what was forgotten. Ordinary people call them adventurers and, when they prevail, they hail them as heroes. But if they fail, no one will even remember their names.

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TOR2: The Tale of Periwinkle Proudfoot

Post by silverfoxdmt73 » Sat Feb 25, 2023 12:11 pm

This is the story of Periwinkle Proudfoot.

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TOR2: The Tale of Periwinkle Proudfoot

Post by Jon » Mon Feb 27, 2023 10:25 pm

In Michel Delving’s post office, Wibertus Adalhard Burrowriver warmed his sizeable toes by the open fire. Also, he was preparing his after-lunch snack consisting of grilled apples wrapped in bacon and some pieces of black pudding on a stick. A couple of eggs were sizzling in a three legged frying pan, and the mouth watering scents of everything had already began to fill the big and crammed but not untidy room.
He took a quick look out through the window, half covered by flowery curtains that had hung there since long before he had rosen in rank to post master, many years ago. The rain was still sloshing down outside, hindering his gaze from reaching but a few feet through the downpour. Was there something moving just outside?
He almost jumped out of his seat when the door bell rang. The sturdy door opened and closed, letting a gust of damp chilly air, making him shudder despite the heat from the flames infront of him.
Mailman, or rather mailwoman, Periwinkle Proudfoot shook the rain from her hat, sprinkling drops of water all over the floor, before hanging it up on the hart horn hanger beside the door. Her soaked raincoat soon hanged beside it.
“Good day, Postmaster”, she said and gave him a brisk nod that made the two braids recoil around her sandy-blonde head. “All mail delivered and done, sir.”
Postmaster Burrowriver looked up in Periwinkle’s round face, smiling and apple-cheeked with two big brown eyes and its freckled pug nose in the middle.
“You’re late,” he gruffed. “Overstayed at Bag End? Lost yourself in that mad hobbit’s outrageous fantasies again?”
“No, sir, no mail for Mr Baggins this time, sir. And just as good. The Bywater is flooded at Hobbiton so I had to make the Needlehole roundtrip. Set me back a little. Very sorry, sir “
She didn’t seem very sorry, but it was hard to stay angry at the young hobbit woman for long, for some reason, even when she deserved it. She was one of his best mailmen after all. All things considered.
“A little? It’s noon! Even if this forsaken weather makes it seem more like twilight. It’s not natural., it’s what it isn’t.”
The last part he muttered more to himself than Periwinkle as he lifted the frying pan out of the fireplace, removed the brochettes of apples and black pudding from their hooks above the flames and dumped them unceremoniously in the pan on top of the eggs.
“Well”, he said and fished up a monogrammed napkin, that had seen better days, from his vest pocket. After wiping his fingers on the yellowed fabric, he stuffed it in his collar, covering a just minuscule area of his considerable girth.
“You’re here now, and that’s what’s important.”
Mailman Periwinkle nodded.
“Very true, sir.”
She looked round the room, searching.
“If I can just get the bag for Greenholm I’ll soon be on my way, sir. No time to waste.”
The postmaster picked up a skewer with a bacon-clad apple quarter and blew on it.
“No,” he said, eyeing with great interest the strips of crispy bacon dripping with fat that hugged the steaming golden brown apple.
“Not today. I’ve already sent Molgy down south.”
Periwinkle paused.
“Molgy, sir? In this weather? Didn’t he... protest?”
The postmaster chuckled.
“Oh, yes.”
“Poor Molgy,” Periwinkle muttered and scrunched her brow. “You could’ve waited for me, sir. Even if I started a couple of hours after him I probably would’ve arrived before he did, sir.”
Postmaster Burrowriver nodded.
“I know, but I couldn’t. Because…”
The armchair under him creaked as he leaned back and reached in behind the counter. He produced a stiff yellow envelope with the address in green ink from behind the gleaming dark wooden bench. He leaned forward and held it up in the air towards Periwinkle.
“I have a very special delivery for you, Miss Proudfoot.”
The mailwoman’s big hazel eyes widened.
“Oh!”
“Indeed. This will go to a…” he read directly from the envelope, “Mister Barliman Butterbur, in the town of Bree.”
The postmaster stuck the intricately folded and wax-sealed paper into Periwinkles outstretched hand. She stuffed it in her messenger bag that was slung over her narrow shoulders and nodded so her braids danced around her brow again.
“ I know the fellow, sir. Owner of the establishment The Prancing Pony, sir. Met him a few times, actually.”
“Good, good.”
Periwinkle looked up again after having secured the latch to the mailbag.
“Shall I deliver some returning mail on the way, sir? I’ll pass by… hmm…”
she started counting on her fingers, “Little Delving, Nobottle, Needlehole, Oatbarton, Brockenbores, Scary…”
“No, no, no,” The postmaster interrupted, “no returning mail this time. This is express, Periwinkle, highest priority. This letter goes as fast as you can manage to Bree and Mister Nutterbyr, alright? No supper at Bag End, no spying at elvenfolk who happens to wander by, and no ale drinking or tale tellings at the Green Dragon this time, eh?”
He gave her a stern look.
“As fast as you can manage, understood?”
“Yes, sir. Understood sir. On my way, sir.”
With a rustling sound, Periwinkle put her raincoat over her dress, and shoved the wide brimmed hat down on her head, and with a bell-ring, the door opened and closed, and she was gone.
The postmaster shook his head as he stared after her. Then he took a bite of the bacon-wrapped apple and sighed with pleasure, not only because of the tasty juices that filled his mouth, but also that it wasn’t he who had to walk for days on end in this forsaken weather, and out of the Shire. Who knew what could happen outside the Shire. Luckily we have Peri, he thought. She’s a strange one, that one. But sometimes a little strangeness is what’s needed to make the world go round, I suppose.
He smiled absently, took a gulp of beer from the tankard beside him, reached for another skewer and began to think about other things.

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TOR2: The Tale of Periwinkle Proudfoot

Post by Jon » Mon Feb 27, 2023 10:46 pm

Periwinkle Proudfoot
Periwinkle Proudfoot
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