Peregrin Took

Peregrin Took hails from the Westfarthing, born of the noisy, restless Took clan. He spent his boyhood bouncing between endless birthday feasts, blackberry tarts, and listening to elders recite seven generations of kinfolk. Family scrolls and musty books never held much appeal for Pippin, though. He was always far keener on finding out what lay just beyond the next green ridge, whose hedge guarded the plumpest mushrooms, and what sort of curious beasts stirred near the edges of the Old Forest after twilight.

He stands barely waist-high to a Man, but carries enough restless energy and cheek for three. Pippin is forever tumbling headlong into scrapes—forgetting to return a wheelbarrow borrowed for an afternoon, or volunteering to paint a palisade only to stage a full-scale battle with overripe pears alongside his mates. Still, nobody ever stays cross with him for long. A bit of grumbling, a dismissive wave of the hand, and someone is already refilling his pint of ale, for a fellow simply cannot be gloomy around Pippin.

In conversation, he is quick, spirited, and delightfully unpredictable. He might squabble for forty minutes about the proper rind on travel cheese, only to jump up and declare they ought to set out this very minute: the moon is bright, the road dust has settled, and rain is bound to pour by sunrise. He listens with wide-eyed, genuine interest, tossing in well-meaning jokes and laughing at his own folly. Passing an hour chatting with Pippin over a pipe is easy enough, but following him right out into the wide world is even easier.