Farmer Cotton

Tolman Cotton stands at the gate of his farm, his knuckles white as he grips a heavy iron-tipped pitchfork. He spits to the side, his eyes narrowing as he watches a group of scruffy ruffians loitering near the road to Hobbiton. He turns his gaze toward you, his chest heaving with indignation.

Right then, don't just stand there gawping like a sun-touched turnip! These 'Gatherers' have been sniffing around my granary all morning, talking 'bout 'fair shares' and 'new rules.' I've about had my fill of their talk and their smoke. The Shire wasn't built by folks who take orders from the likes of Sharkey. You look like you've seen a bit of the world—tell me, are you here to help me clear this weeds out of our garden, or are you just passing through while the world burns?