Looking quite large and brutish, Stipes sat on the trunk of a fallen tree. Cradling his face into his hands, he let out a most awful cry. The forest was still and silent in the easy morning, little pieces of dust or small creatures fluttered about in the beams of sunlight coming through the foliage.
Golden glowing patches of grass danced with the breeze in a humble tango, along with the melody of jubilant chirping birds.
The birds rested on his heavy mind, little peckers pecking away at the calloused fingers and hard skull. Indeed, his head was throbbing and his fingers burned to wring their necks if he could do so without crushing their tiny heads first. But a gentle giant resided in his eyes, dark and abysmal.
Sitting still, Stipes Virga could be mistaken for a bundle of old trees trying to nourish new life, even breathing did not stir his enormous sedentary presence. Long messy hair of a brilliant mossy green spurted from his head, and it was a right beautiful color too, all flowing and healthy if it were to lack forest debris. In a huff, he had plopped right down to melt his migraine, it was like having two old biddies tolhocking him with their canes. It wasn't at all healthy for the surroundings when such a considerably sizeable man was irritable and frustrated.
Stipes let out another moan, and it was coarse and rough like worn leather against pavement. He swatted his huge paw at a storm of bees, causing them to scatter haphazardly.

Swimming -for all the world as a leafy sea-horse does through the seas- the root-golem Melilot wended and wreathed her way through the shafts of light, and the tree-halls of the woods, and invoking her ally to beasts power, she sidled up to bluebirds and nightengales, she nosed beside the badgers, she nudged alongside the drawsing viper. Quite content to let her have her leash -as it were- and indeed lustily whistling, the Hobbit-At-Arms, Ferdibrand Rumble ambled behind her with his hands stuffed into convenient pockets his Liradan Leathers had conjured seemingly for the exact purpose. Indeed the diminutive warrior was a marvel to behold in his own right, with twin dwarven axes, Biff and Buster, hanging from his hips, and his old but lovingly tended Liradan Leathers gleaming goldenly in the limpid glow beneath the tree canopy. His leather helm had slipped jauntily to one side, half-covering one eye, but he was too happy, as he was, hands in pockets, to bother straightening it.
The hobbits bond with Melilot had continued to grow in its fullness, but never so completely as during their extended stay at the Temple of Nature, Cuidhrinost, where the noble Lords of the Liradan, the Foeiron, had accepted Ferdibrand like one of their own, and tutored him in the works and marvels of their hands and hearts. Thusly Melilot had gained, through her bond with Ferdibrand, not only the power of speech, but the ability to use his gift of flight. Her legs had largely atrophied in the mean time, and she had grown gorgeous leafy protrusions with which she half flew, half swam where she willed. She had grown -as a character- into a remarkable curiosity, and was able to carry their shared perception into the most remarkable places: even into the deeps beneath mountains, where the most secret whispers of tree-roots can be heard.
Now she seemed to move with a certain purpose, as if she had sensed something, or seen something which delighted her deeply. Ferdibrand could read her excitement in her colour, which changed, now, with her emotions. Every colour from autumnal yellows and reds she could turn at will, and every conceivable shade of green or brown. She weaved her way amongst what appeared to be a tangle of gnarled old trees now, breathing through her almost telepathic power of breath-sense thought images of delight, and welcome, as if trying to coax the trees to waken.
Ferdibrand stood with his hands on his hips, leaning his head against the edge of the shield he wore strapped to his back at all times
"Here we are Melilot, my lovely. What have you found here? What's got you all excited about a half-dead old tree my pretty?"

(OOC: sorry for the short post, I got a burst of inspiration right before I went to bed, but I had to get up early this morning and I was regretfully removed from the computer at so few words x.x)

Stipes heaved a sigh which shook is entire being as though a strong wind were passing through, wood chips and broken pieces of everything ruffled in his hair with the sudden release of his breath. Something was tickling him, he had heard it coming with his monstrous ear, buzzing through the forest, and he tried to ignore it like the rest of the insects, but this was no insect at all. Whatever it was, it fluttered about Stipes as though he were a questionable work of art.
There were feet, boots crunching in the leftover yellows and reds of the fall; and a voice accompanying the fluttery root-golem, as Stipes had thusly identified it.

~~~
"Here we are Melilot, my lovely. What have you found here? What's got you all excited about a half-dead old tree my pretty?"
~~~

Stipes adjusted himself to look at where the voice came from, his big black eyes peering out from beneath the rubble of his hands. The ground gave a light tremor under his magnificent weight as he moved.
It was a little hobbit, at least most definitely little from his enormous view. His long arm reached for the ground to balance his half-rotated body. The earth beneath shook slightly once more.

"I'm a bit more than a 'half-dead old tree', boy," Stipes spoke slowly, enunciating his words carefully through rough and huge lips. Speaking in a fast manner quickly confused his mouth most days, unless adrenaline allowed it, he needed to take it easy.

"I am called Stipes Virga, what is your epithet, my friend?" His speaking voice was soft, but harsh; It echoed off of nearby trees at an inaudible volume. Surrounding pecker birds flocked out of the immediate area surrounding Stipes, and gave hope of clearing his headaches.

Of all the Kins of Hobbits that wander the world -or according each to their wont, those who expressly do not, the Hobbits of Aginwood were somewhat unique. Indeed they stood like all other Hobbits, shorter than dwarves, and were sturdily built with visibly good-natured features: rosy cheeks and heads of near-woolly curling hair in shades of earthy brown, and auburn -very seldom exotic black, and even more seldom gold or blonde. They had long and clever fingers, apt to craft and gentle things, and ripe voices which they used freely, without artifice or guile.
The Hobbitry of Aginwood -which in their manner of speaking means Next-to-the-Forest- lived indeed upon the edges of the wild and perilous Misty Forest. The darkling forest-halls were the source of much of their wealth, and of much that endangered their small and orderly country. Indeed the Anginwoodlings were the only Kin of Hobbits to keep a Standing Army -if that expression is not an exaggeration. The Hiffers, and Biffers -or the Archers and Axers as it were, were kept more than busy in the defence of their home, and many of them -perhaps qualifying their title as soldiers- died bravely and far too young as a result of their duty.
But then Aginwood is very close to the Dwarven-Realm of Anon-En-Groth, and many of the Aginwood youths were sent, or went willingly into the keeping of the King Under the Mountain to receive training in the craft of war, and many other marvellous things -the full list of which will not here be related. Thusly, perhaps something of the Dwarves had rubbed off on the Aginwood Hobbitry over the generations, not that a single one of the Aginwoodlings could grow a single hair of a beard; but they knew the craft of war intimately, and were more terrible than their diminutive size might belie; indeed they took some pride in their war-craft, and the Hiffers, and in particular, the Biffers were held in such honour and high regard as the humble Aginwoodlings were wont to attribute even to a mountain of gold. And indeed, as has been touched upon briefly, the Aginwoodlings -perhaps through their long-standing alignment with the excellent and admirable Dwarves Under the Mountain, had become imbued to the last of them with a smaller, or larger extent of magic. Not the down to earth kind that all Hobbits are born with, that enables them to slip away at the earliest sound of bigger and more bumbling beings. But true Magic, in the most fabulous sense of the word. The stuff of wizards, and of heroes and martyrs of legend. Whether this is the reason why Aginwoodlings are drawn -making them peculiar to All Other Kins of Hobbits- to do out Adventuring; or whether that they are willing to go Adventuring is why they have grown into the possession of Magic -only the Gods know. But there it is: The Aginwoodlings were special; true Hobbits-At-Arms; Great Adventurers and Warriors of These Bad Old Days. And Ferdibrand Rumble -in spite of a slightly delayed departure from the nest, as it were- was in his own lifetime a hero. The Tale of Ferdibrand and the Sweetmeat of Knowledge was retold nightly at bedsides; of Ferdibrand the Fleetfooted and the Thousand Wolves of Estolad the song was sung nightly in every tavern across Aginwood. Ferdibrand and the Pathless Woods; Of Ferdibrand the Fire-fly and the Great Wyrm the early rumours were being whispered -as the truth, and the embellishments, gently simmered to a settled account.
Ferdibrand of course gave no impression of any such grandeur. After a lifetime of trying to establish that his childhood nickname had been outgrown, and that his right name was indeed Ferdibrand, our excellent Hobbit had come full circle, and only ever introduced himself as Dibs.
There were few he had told, and fewer that understood the primordial power that lived within his neat and tidy frame; but Ferdibrand -and this power indeed made him feel Ferdibrandish was the Last of the Iuithiolvar, the Plant-Weilders, those in whom some trace of the power that animated the Ents had been entrusted.
Thusly even as the tree-titan stirred from it's slumber, Fedibrand was not dismayed. THere was nothing he had ever feared from any plant, nor from any creature of or from plants. And looking up into the titans eyes, Ferdibrand could discern the glimmering lights of a gentle creature, of a giant of long contemplation and long-enduring suffering.
"I'm a bit more than a 'half-dead old tree', boy," said a resonant voice, as of a choir of warriors in a great hall. Ferdibrand beheld the face crack into animation through his own eyes, and those of Melilot. Seeing the exfoliated bark -if that is what the titans flesh was- crack and peel away from the living moving stuff beneath. In the gaps and crevices, as with any ancient tree, innumerable living things had taken root, or made their nests and homes, and Ferdibrand felt a pang of anxiety for them, having quickened their host out of the necesary slumer they needed for their homes to go undisturbed. "I am called Stipes Virga, what is your epithet, my friend?" The titan asked.
Now that's a caution! Ferdibrand mused to himself as he swept off his gleamingly well-tended leather skull-cap, sweepingly bowing before the titan. I've never heard of no Being of the ancient world named like that! I wonder if this Stipes isn't the likes of one of Iuithiolvar who has soaked up too much of the tree-power, and been turned into one?
Keeping his wits about him, in case the name of Stipes was no more than the name of the tree-titans latest victim-come-meal, he answered in the ancient tradition of dragon-riddle speech. "Call me Guest, mighty one! Or Tree-friend if it pleases you! And the little one, who delights in you, my root-golem, she is Melilot."

Now dwelling in a bit less rubble, Stipes was looking at the little hobbit calmly, the small bit of surprise and anxiousness from being startled so that had hidden behind his large, dark eyes had faded. Now there sat a bleak bit of humor in anxiety's place.
By becoming a mobile creature now, the measureless number of living things that had made their home upon him in a fairly short amount of time came to scurry down his body and search for a new domicile somewhere closer to the ground, one that would hopefully not spring to life just as they became comfortable. There were some little critters who had fallen off with the mass of his overgrowth which had peeled itself away from his body haphazardly. Unfortunately, sitting in one place too long did that to him, a thick, healthy bark started to grow over his flesh, and it made it all the more difficult to move about beneath it. No doubt some of the fallen bark had crushed and killed a small number of little organisms that hadn't had time to flee from his decay. Such a thought had used to make Stipes feel slightly solemn inside, but at this point, he was well accustomed to said events.

The hobbit before him had pondered over his name, and shown an immense respect by taking off his cap and bowing before Stipes and his mighty form. It was bad for conceit, Stipes could not be sizeably humbled by much, but things like bowing were so terribly difficult to avoid feeling high on a pedestal for.

"Call me Guest, mighty one! Or Tree-friend if it pleases you! And the little one, who delights in you, my root-golem, she is Melilot."

The little hobbit spoke so humbly, but with the audacity to show such respect, Stipes imagined he had reason to receive such great respect himself, hidden somewhere amongst his own feats. He was small, sure, but he held himself well like a hero, or some one whom deserved the utmost praise.

"It is a pleasure, little Melilot," Stipes said as he waved a free finger in her directing as though in greeting, "And you, guest as you have said it, please do tell me your true name? I am most curious, and I will not eat you, I swear." He had turned his attention back to the hobbit, with his bold feature now visible from beyond the bark-like appearance of before.