[Anguirel]

A cold wind would caress the hair of the Shirelings at their drinks as the door opened again. A young fellow quite tall by Hobbit standards, wearing a woolen cloak, joined the gathering. No sooner had he shut the door behind him than he tumbled over, having apparently missed the step. To those that knew Artifondo Dwellover, known by his friends and family as "Fellover", this was no very great surprise; and it did not take Artifondo himself unawares either. He lifted himself to his feet with surprising dignity. Getting up was a skill he had learned to perfect over the years. Unfortunately, remembering things was not; and he almost immediately forgot why his father had sent him here at all.

Something about the artichoke crop, perhaps? It almost always was. Pellinco Dwellover of Bywater was captivated by the peculiar plants, and could bore for the Eastfarthing on the subject of their marketing prospects.

"Mark my words, Fellover m'lad. One day there'll be wagons full of artichokes travelling all over the Shire, I tell you; to Tuckborough, Hobbiton, Michel Delving; and I don't see, when it comes down to it, why we shouldn't sell 'em to the Big Folk too. They'd go down a storm in Bree, from all I've heard tell. And as for the lordly folk in Annum...Ammun...Annam...er...that city up north, why, they'd breakfast, lunch, and sup on them. And each and every wagon of artichokes will bear the name Dwellover on its canvas. Does your heart good, eh, lad?"

It didn't do Artifondo's heart any good at all. The thought of running Dwellover Artichokes Limited one day, as his father's firstborn son, made his blood run cold. For a start, he couldn't bear the sight of them. Not only were they ugly and bitter, but they had made his early childhood unbearable. "Artichoko!" his schoolfriends had teased. "Artichoko!"

But more importantly, Artifondo had ultimately rather more noble and romantic aspirations. He had scarcely been able to walk when the Travellers had returned, but the memory was deep and indelible; the excitement and glory in the air. It was associated in his mind with a kind of elvishness that he had only seen in the Party Tree; and to this end he had tried to learn a little Sindarin; but his mind always wandered; he loved the poetry only as much as he detested the grammar.

Ah yes, now he remembered why he was here. Ask the barmaid if her employers would consider stocking artichokes to go with the famous Green Dragon stews. Artifondo gave a derisive snort. Would he ever be free of these oppressive vegetables?