[ Whoever has been spreading stories about him and, and exaggerating them to the point that the younger ones feel something akin to wonder when looking at him, well, those fib-tellers need to stop. It's overwhelming. Embarrassing. To think that he, a simple Baggins, would be a center of some grand tale, bah. Least to say, the whirlwind of meeting dwarf after dwarf after dwarf, who all apparently have some preconceived ideas of who he is, has been... enlightening. Tiring? Yes, most definitely tiring. In what followed, he may have spent a great deal of energy in glaring at his best guessed culprits, but unfortunately for Bilbo, the ire of a hobbit does not have the strength to endure and he inevitably settles into the joined company, albeit a touch timidly at first.
But then there's ale. And food. And more ale.
Hobbits are creatures of comfort and there is no simpler comfort than that of a good meal and a bottomless flask. Bilbo can hold his own well enough and has, on occasion, with visits to the Green Dragon, but the mix is, of course, different than what he's accustomed to in the Shire, with a potency that's stronger than he ought to have given it credit for. He indulges. And indulges some more. The fact that those around him seem especially keen to ensure he is never left wanting only contributes to him always having an ale in hand. And really, by the end of it, he's not all that concerned anymore about what stories have been circulating about him. In fact, it's rather humorous. Everything is rather humorous now that he thinks about it. Sitting there on a log, he finds himself grinning faintly and quietly – at first – snickering to himself. He shifts though and then there's a lapse that has him leaning back some, which is – somehow – too much, and he just about loses his balance, but then the dwarf beside him – bother, now what is his name again? – gives him a helpful slap to right him forward.
Oh. Yes. Thank you.
… Did he say that aloud? He hopes he did, because he surely owes what's-his-name his gratitude. ] —Thank you. [ By the look and the following laugh, Bilbo slowly realizes that, yes, he probably already said it once. Ah, well. He looks to the fire then and seeing the flicker of color suddenly gives him the idea that he is very much too warm. Skin flushed in a way more attributed to overzealous drinking, Bilbo feels... clammy. Constricted. Broken, disjointed thoughts can only see the warmth of the fire being to blame, so of course the obvious solution is to leave...? Yes. That sounds correct. Except, where is he meant to go?
Planning is not his strong suit at the moment and the inner wondering is forgotten within the next breath. Instead, he merely pushes himself to weak legs and as compromised as his proper sensibilities are, he thinks nothing of placing a hand to what's-his-name's shoulder to steady his footing. He's still clinging to his cup as he – eventually – sets to walking, or perhaps stumbling is the better word. At first sight of a dwarf without a cup though, Bilbo presses his own into his grip, pats his hands, as though encouraging him to take the drink, and then he mumbles something about that being a good lad. Even though, chances are, the dwarf is Bilbo's senior. Nonetheless, that's no matter because he's walking, yes walking. To... to...?
His bedroll? Now where has he placed that...
Probably further away from all the noise? Somewhere with, with privacy. Being rolled over on by the allotment of dwarves sounds quite uncomfortable, so surely he would have tried to avoid that. The reasonings are, honestly, not even that clear. It's more of a steady thought of away that has him heading for the outskirts and the light of a pipe in the dark. Thorin. And just like that, he feels warm again. Giddy on a feeling that has the tips of his fingers tingling and his steps growing messier in the way they stomp over twigs and brush. ] There you are. [ Syllables a tad slower than normal and twisted in a way that's all too telling, Bilbo is, in a word, oblivious to it, merely coming to a stop. Wavers, sways, as though his body can't comprehend the need to pause. ] I've been—... looking for you? [ No he hasn't. He hasn't? What was he looking for then? Thorin seems like an appropriate thing to go looking for, if he does say so himself. ]
no subject
But then there's ale. And food. And more ale.
Hobbits are creatures of comfort and there is no simpler comfort than that of a good meal and a bottomless flask. Bilbo can hold his own well enough and has, on occasion, with visits to the Green Dragon, but the mix is, of course, different than what he's accustomed to in the Shire, with a potency that's stronger than he ought to have given it credit for. He indulges. And indulges some more. The fact that those around him seem especially keen to ensure he is never left wanting only contributes to him always having an ale in hand. And really, by the end of it, he's not all that concerned anymore about what stories have been circulating about him. In fact, it's rather humorous. Everything is rather humorous now that he thinks about it. Sitting there on a log, he finds himself grinning faintly and quietly – at first – snickering to himself. He shifts though and then there's a lapse that has him leaning back some, which is – somehow – too much, and he just about loses his balance, but then the dwarf beside him – bother, now what is his name again? – gives him a helpful slap to right him forward.
Oh. Yes. Thank you.
… Did he say that aloud? He hopes he did, because he surely owes what's-his-name his gratitude. ] —Thank you. [ By the look and the following laugh, Bilbo slowly realizes that, yes, he probably already said it once. Ah, well. He looks to the fire then and seeing the flicker of color suddenly gives him the idea that he is very much too warm. Skin flushed in a way more attributed to overzealous drinking, Bilbo feels... clammy. Constricted. Broken, disjointed thoughts can only see the warmth of the fire being to blame, so of course the obvious solution is to leave...? Yes. That sounds correct. Except, where is he meant to go?
Planning is not his strong suit at the moment and the inner wondering is forgotten within the next breath. Instead, he merely pushes himself to weak legs and as compromised as his proper sensibilities are, he thinks nothing of placing a hand to what's-his-name's shoulder to steady his footing. He's still clinging to his cup as he – eventually – sets to walking, or perhaps stumbling is the better word. At first sight of a dwarf without a cup though, Bilbo presses his own into his grip, pats his hands, as though encouraging him to take the drink, and then he mumbles something about that being a good lad. Even though, chances are, the dwarf is Bilbo's senior. Nonetheless, that's no matter because he's walking, yes walking. To... to...?
His bedroll? Now where has he placed that...
Probably further away from all the noise? Somewhere with, with privacy. Being rolled over on by the allotment of dwarves sounds quite uncomfortable, so surely he would have tried to avoid that. The reasonings are, honestly, not even that clear. It's more of a steady thought of away that has him heading for the outskirts and the light of a pipe in the dark. Thorin. And just like that, he feels warm again. Giddy on a feeling that has the tips of his fingers tingling and his steps growing messier in the way they stomp over twigs and brush. ] There you are. [ Syllables a tad slower than normal and twisted in a way that's all too telling, Bilbo is, in a word, oblivious to it, merely coming to a stop. Wavers, sways, as though his body can't comprehend the need to pause. ] I've been—... looking for you? [ No he hasn't. He hasn't? What was he looking for then? Thorin seems like an appropriate thing to go looking for, if he does say so himself. ]