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Hey. Ya f'gure out how ta work this thing yet? [He doubts the fellow has a lot of experience with this kind of technology.]
Yes, but I don't see why folk don't just come and knock. All neighbors here, aren't we?
Not sure a lotta us are that neighborly. [Sweeney hates it when random people show up at his door.] But if ya give me yer cabin number, I'll come knock.
[There's another moment, because he has to check.]
One hundred and thirteen. The round door.
One hundred and thirteen. The round door.
[Sounds easy enough. Probably even if he's drunk at the time. Not that he is now, but it's statistically likely at some point in the 30 days.]
Be there in ten.
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Which he is, prompt as ever.
Huh. Round door. Definitely delivering on the description. The frame is a little low, but Sweeney supposes that makes some sense with the fellow's stature. He raps on the wood three times.
Be there in ten.
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Which he is, prompt as ever.
Huh. Round door. Definitely delivering on the description. The frame is a little low, but Sweeney supposes that makes some sense with the fellow's stature. He raps on the wood three times.
When Sam opens the door, he's standing on mossy stepping stones, a tidily kept herb patch behind him. He looks up at Sweeney, and looks dubiously at his own door. "I'm happy t'have you in, but I think we might as want to stay in the garden here."
The sight makes Sweeney's eyes go wide, and there's a long moment while he's just staring at everything in wonder, crouched halfway through the door.
"Sweet fuck. You got an outside." The Warden's cabins he's been in have been amazing; multi-roomed spaces, but they are still that. Rooms. This is...something different. This alone would be worth graduating.
"Sweet fuck. You got an outside." The Warden's cabins he's been in have been amazing; multi-roomed spaces, but they are still that. Rooms. This is...something different. This alone would be worth graduating.
He steps back and gives him more space. It's not large, the garden he's got here, but it's comfortable, fragrant and cool with a breeze that whispers of distant trees. "It's the dooryard, for Bag End back home." And on the other side is the Hill, with another round door set into it. This one's worn and blue, where the one from the corridor is green. "Or it's a copy, any road." Sam tilts his head at the lathe fence, just holding back climbing bushes. "I'd never let those grow so tall, but they aren't there. The fence is a wall, right enough, and so's the Hill. They just don't look it."
Sweeney crosses the threshold and straightens, still in clear delight at where he's found himself. His eyes dance over the various flora. He steps closer to them, but doesn't touch anything.
"These real? Or they...well, whate'er the Enclosure makes shit outta?" The potential is inspiring.
"These real? Or they...well, whate'er the Enclosure makes shit outta?" The potential is inspiring.
"S'pose they're real." Sam snips off a sprig of thyme with his thumbnail, offers it to Sweeney. "I've been cooking with them and all." Which reminds him. "Oh, have you a seat there," he says, nodding to the bench by the fence, between two twining rosemary plants. "And I'll bring the tea out here."
He does his best to minimize his look of fascination, but it doesn't do much to help. Sweeney takes the herb delicately, unable to look away from it as he moves to sit where directed. But then there's rosemary, too (which he has more experience growing). A quick peek up to confirm that Sam's inside, and he rubs a leaf of it between his thumb and forefinger without actually plucking it.
Sweeney lifts his hand to smell the oils. Real thing, almost certainly.
Why can't he just fucking graduate?
Sweeney lifts his hand to smell the oils. Real thing, almost certainly.
Why can't he just fucking graduate?
There are perhaps a dozen different herbs, planted by patches, with the tall spikes of garlic scattered throughout; hyssop and savoury, more kinds of rosemary, common sage and lemon balm, basil and spikenard. The daisy-like flowers of chamomile float above a patch of sitherwood, and mint and lavender crowd the windowboxes together.
Sam's back in a few moments, bringing a tray. What a hobbit calls tea, anyone else would call a hearty lunch, even considering the difference in scale. He sets it on the end of the bench, happy to sit on the mossy ground himself. "Help yourself, there's another pie if we do for this one," he says, pouring his own cup.
Sam's back in a few moments, bringing a tray. What a hobbit calls tea, anyone else would call a hearty lunch, even considering the difference in scale. He sets it on the end of the bench, happy to sit on the mossy ground himself. "Help yourself, there's another pie if we do for this one," he says, pouring his own cup.
OH.
There's no way the Admiral is going to show enough mercy to assign Sam as his proper Warden; it would be too kind.
His eyes dance over the offerings. He's confident he could clean all of this on his own, but the fact there's so much, both in amount and diversity, is wonderful. But he knows better. He laments not being prepared or he would have brought nicer food. He'll have to make due.
Sweeney reaches into his jacket and pulls out two apples tucked in his large hand, and sets them on the bench next to the tray. His hand back in, he produces a wheel of cheese, wrapped loosely in a tea towel; it's missing a chunk, but it's what's on hand. Lastly, a small satchel filled with odd candies from Flotilla. Sweeney's found that candy is generally well met for trade here.
There's no way the Admiral is going to show enough mercy to assign Sam as his proper Warden; it would be too kind.
His eyes dance over the offerings. He's confident he could clean all of this on his own, but the fact there's so much, both in amount and diversity, is wonderful. But he knows better. He laments not being prepared or he would have brought nicer food. He'll have to make due.
Sweeney reaches into his jacket and pulls out two apples tucked in his large hand, and sets them on the bench next to the tray. His hand back in, he produces a wheel of cheese, wrapped loosely in a tea towel; it's missing a chunk, but it's what's on hand. Lastly, a small satchel filled with odd candies from Flotilla. Sweeney's found that candy is generally well met for trade here.
Sam's brows go up, pleased at the apples. He hadn't any, and the ones in the greenhouse seemed to have... claws. The cheese and sweets are likewise welcome. "You didn't have to bring anything, but that's right kind."
Okay, they have food, they have tea, they've talked about the garden, and there's no weather. So it must be time to talk business.
"You know I 'aven't done this before."
Okay, they have food, they have tea, they've talked about the garden, and there's no weather. So it must be time to talk business.
"You know I 'aven't done this before."
Sweeney's brow crinkles as he peeks up from the tray to Sam, muted confusion in his features.
"Then you've got me fooled. Don't think I e'er been served so nice a tea." Then something else comes to him, and he tilts his head in question.
"Or ya talkin' 'bout the Wardenin' thing?" Because of course he hasn't.
"Then you've got me fooled. Don't think I e'er been served so nice a tea." Then something else comes to him, and he tilts his head in question.
"Or ya talkin' 'bout the Wardenin' thing?" Because of course he hasn't.
Sam's shoulders ease, with a bit of a chuckle. "Wardening. Been making my old Gaffer's tea since I can remember, though my Rosie says it's a wonder I haven't starved him. But where I'm from, the only wardens I know of is those elves in Lórien, who keep folk out of their wood. Though maybe it's not so different, since they're the ones who know all the paths and where's safe and all. Guides, to folks as need it."
"Guessin' we don't run in the same circle of elves. Ones I know are a bit more likely ta see folk pulled off the path." He wets his lip as he glances back down to the food, trying to figure out what to start with.
"As far as I can tell, there inn't a universal way ta warden. More 'bout bein' yerself or some shit." One shoulder shrugs.
"'specially while yer tempin', seems ta be mostly a 'make sure they have what they need an' stay outta trouble gig. Punish them if they misbehave." Sweeney peeks back up.
"Though I've ne'er seen a proper list of rules, much less the assigned punishments fer that shit. Only one I'm sure on is 'no killin''." He rolls his eyes. "E'eryone seems ta agree on that one." Which Sweeney thinks is kind of dumb, given the 'not staying dead' bit, but whatever.
"You got any specific questions yet? Or ya still workin' on dealin' with the general level of bullshit?"
"As far as I can tell, there inn't a universal way ta warden. More 'bout bein' yerself or some shit." One shoulder shrugs.
"'specially while yer tempin', seems ta be mostly a 'make sure they have what they need an' stay outta trouble gig. Punish them if they misbehave." Sweeney peeks back up.
"Though I've ne'er seen a proper list of rules, much less the assigned punishments fer that shit. Only one I'm sure on is 'no killin''." He rolls his eyes. "E'eryone seems ta agree on that one." Which Sweeney thinks is kind of dumb, given the 'not staying dead' bit, but whatever.
"You got any specific questions yet? Or ya still workin' on dealin' with the general level of bullshit?"
"Do you have what you need?" he asks, looking at him over his tea. The delicate cup looks a little silly in Sam's work-worn hands, and will look like a toy in Sweeney's.
As wee as things are, Sweeney has no complaints. He's not a big tea drinker, but he certainly doesn't mind it for the sake of being social. The question earns a shrug of his head.
"I do a'right." He slowly exhales while he plucks up a biscuit.
"Shit I need is too 'xpensive ta ask fer." Sweeney sucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I ain't got that kinda capital. Just lookin' ta earn it." His head tips, weighing another point.
"Course, I've been with temps fer nearly two years. So yer likely ta run inta folk with more pressin' needs as shit goes on."
"I do a'right." He slowly exhales while he plucks up a biscuit.
"Shit I need is too 'xpensive ta ask fer." Sweeney sucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I ain't got that kinda capital. Just lookin' ta earn it." His head tips, weighing another point.
"Course, I've been with temps fer nearly two years. So yer likely ta run inta folk with more pressin' needs as shit goes on."
Edited (Additional text) 2022-07-29 20:16 (UTC)
"You open to telling me what it is you need without asking for it?" Sam asks, tilting his cup at him.
"There's a Lucky Coin. My Luck; all wrapped up in it." His jaw flexes slightly, and he keeps his focus low, on the food.
"My Luck's fer shit 'til I have it back, but right now it's in Dead Wife's chest, keepin' her up an' movin'." It's clearly tied to a good chunk of self-loathing.
"Adm'ral's got my magic tamped down. Need that back, but without my Coin, I'm a walkin' disaster." Sweeney rolls his eyes at himself.
"An' I gotta curse." That has a far deeper shame. "Where the Mad comes from." His hand lifts enough to imply 'in my head'. He's managed so well to keep free of the moniker, but he knows it's on the roster and his ledger page, so Sam clearly already knows it.
"My Luck's fer shit 'til I have it back, but right now it's in Dead Wife's chest, keepin' her up an' movin'." It's clearly tied to a good chunk of self-loathing.
"Adm'ral's got my magic tamped down. Need that back, but without my Coin, I'm a walkin' disaster." Sweeney rolls his eyes at himself.
"An' I gotta curse." That has a far deeper shame. "Where the Mad comes from." His hand lifts enough to imply 'in my head'. He's managed so well to keep free of the moniker, but he knows it's on the roster and his ledger page, so Sam clearly already knows it.
The Luck doesn't make sense to Sam until Sweeney says magic, and then his expression clears. Magic accounts for all manner of oddness and strange goings on, plainly.
"I've seen madness," he says, after a moment to get past 'Dead Wife.' "The sort as makes a fellow a stranger to himself, or if not a stranger, certainly no friend. Like that?"
"I've seen madness," he says, after a moment to get past 'Dead Wife.' "The sort as makes a fellow a stranger to himself, or if not a stranger, certainly no friend. Like that?"
"Not a stranger." Sweeney's lips press. It's not a favorite topic. He swallows and licks his lips to part them.
"I weren't always a Leprechaun." A slow sigh escapes through his nose. "Been lots'a things, lots'a lives. They...stack. Bleed. I...get lost in myself. Memories." Sins. He hopes that makes some level of sense to the stranger.
"I weren't always a Leprechaun." A slow sigh escapes through his nose. "Been lots'a things, lots'a lives. They...stack. Bleed. I...get lost in myself. Memories." Sins. He hopes that makes some level of sense to the stranger.
He really has to ask someone what a Leprechaun is. And it probably should be Sweeney, but not just right now.
Briefly, he pats the pocket of his vest, but he's left his pipe inside. Ah well. He just wanted it for something to do with his hands.
"Is it the getting lost as is the curse? Or all the folk you've been?"
Briefly, he pats the pocket of his vest, but he's left his pipe inside. Ah well. He just wanted it for something to do with his hands.
"Is it the getting lost as is the curse? Or all the folk you've been?"
"The gettin' lost bit." He shrugs and wets his lip.
"The other folk are part of the package." Which now that he thinks about it, certainly don't help. Maybe it is the curse. Or at least some of it.
"The other folk are part of the package." Which now that he thinks about it, certainly don't help. Maybe it is the curse. Or at least some of it.
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