Yes, I’m very actively writing, rather prolifically given my limited time.  But a quick OOC note while I do.

So I have a 5 year old daughter.  And I had this bright idea of employing my improvisational RP skills in telling her a bedtime story.  And I selected Tom Bombadil and Goldberry to be the central theme.  I managed in craft an original explanation of who they were, when they where, etc, as to not scare my little girl with the less friendly truths of The Old Forrest.  This story was well received.  So I did another, and another.  This until her mother rolled her eyes and half complained I was making her life hard, because my girl kept asking questions about the stories when I wasn’t around.

Sometime, I’m going to loosely recount those stories here I suspect.  One never knows.

Meanwhile, The Book of Thursby is developing into an advanced outline.  Light on developed chapters, but increasingly rich in structure.  I’ve fleshed out the basic timeframe and such from Benjimir arriving ashore from a patrol, with several characters introduced, through being ordered to Gondor, then back to Dol Amoroth, to his venture north to Eriador.  There, the story develops.  I’ve got one specific approach I really like, and am RP’ing among kinsmen now, to “play test” the idea.  We’ll see where it goes.

“Those seeking to sow fear are often most susceptible to it.” - Benjimir of Belfalas.

The Hobbit reached up to hand the reigns of the horses to the tall men. “Thank you Nob.” Benjimir nodded to the halfling. His horse was a spotted grey mare, with white socks, the blanket beneath the saddle was of an array of autumnal colors. Seaspray was the name Benjimir dubbed the mount, as its color reminded him of the ocean foam and mist from years serving aboard what ships remained of Gondor’s navy. “Please see to my room Nob,” Benjimir said, as he and Victormir mounted their horses. “and that would infer changing the sheets, not simply turning them over laddy.” he finished, turning Seaspray about, and leading his brother out of The Prancing Pony’s stable square.

The brothers rode at an easy pace towards the South Gate of Bree. Benjimir continued to explain his chosen title for the growing band. “The Enemy works in shadow, whispers. Seeking to undermine strength from within, rather than assailing it openly. It seeks to fill people with dread and sap their will to resist. Yet, it knows that it is not able to move unchecked, even in Eriador. I believed our foe was of the eldar days. I believe that still. I sought a name which would give it pause, but not reveal all about us.” Benjimir said, glancing at the alley leading west from Merchants Square. “We turn towards the west before each evening meal, to remember Numenor, Valinor beyond it, and the greater unknown which none there to here can know.” The days sun had receeded in the west, and the gloaming hours were upon Bree. “As the old Emeny assails Gondor in the south, as so these evils beset the north. If we cannot hinder our foe in the south, we might yet check its kindred threats here in the north. And in time, maybe our road will take us home, in victory, or in force, as so to attain it there.” Victormir gave a look of understanding. He, as all the children of Tinafalas were well versed in the Lore of Numenor, and like many among the men of Gondor who drew their bloodlines back to it, they held the lost isle in high reverence. Its memory was a living one. The glory of men from that realm, even those who fell into shadow before its end, were powerful memories. Yet the use of the name was not to be done lightly. “Benjimir, will our brothern take well to our use of that name?” Victormir intoned his valid concern. If the men of Gondor could openly speak of their own Lore, there were others, the Dunedain, Rangers of the north, whose blood ran as pure as any in the southern kingdom. They walked still among the lands of the north. They were small in number, but potent in opposition to the Enemy. They would surely grasp the meaning of the bands name, just as the Enemy might. “I have taken council enough to be able to say they understand out intentions. Verily, we are on our way to gather news from one of the wardens from Anuminas.” Victormir flared a brow, impressed.

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“Bree was at the crux of a very different conflagration than what was absorbing the southlands, and by then, Rohan. No massed ranks of Orc or Easterlings assaulted the hills or people. Rather, more insidious enemies were taking root in the land, spreading from north and south concurrently. It was long before we understood two different fires were casting those Shadows.” - Benjimir of Belfalas

“I am dispatching Alderanir to take up a post in the Shire, most likely in Micheal Delving.” Benjimir stated between mouthfuls of spit roasted Chicken. “I’m surprised. You are not going to send him as an emissary to the Elves in Imladris?” Victormir asked his elder brother. “Tinafalas will go to the Elves. Alderanir has a diplomats touch, but I believe he will be best suited in keeping watch among the Halflings. Tinafalas is a historian, and the Elves will appreciate that his dwelling among them will be one of joy as much as by his brother’s commission.” Victormir nodded.

The Thursby family possessed strong ties to many outposts of commerce, not the least of these had root in the Elf Haven beyond Ered Luin. It was by sea and through the ancient Grey Haven, that the five younger brothers of Benjimir had come to Eriador some months prior to their meal in The Prancy Pony. Tinfalas had sent his eldest son to gather news of the northern lands of Middle-earth. He had known much already, as news from merchants filtered through the increasingly perilous roads. That Tinfalas gave command to his eldest son to go was to shield Imrahil, Prince of Belfalas. It was not his wish that the Steward of Gondor know of, or the origin of the sortie. Little would be made of the Thursby family sending sons to guard the source of their wealth. As merchants and vessels departed for the south, letters with secret dispatches meshed within the meaning and lay of the words of accounting and bills of lading would go with them.

In this way, Benjimir had sent word of much that was transpiring from the desolate lands of the old Witch Kingdom, to the edges of the Misty Mountains. After some three years, Tinfalas called on Benjimir to undertake a new task. He was to work in what ways he might, to forestall any move of the Enemy towards the south. Open war in the name of Gondor was not possible. No mandate from the Steward existed, nor would it in the future. Were one to exist, few in Eriador would recognize its validity so far beyond the White City. Likewise, any move to gather an army might provoke the Enemy to move openly against the unprepared peoples of Eriador. Thus any open display of arms must be in the name of another, and must be subtle. To the end of serving his new mandate, Benjimir summoned to him the five younger Thursbys.

“Aldy to the Hobbits, Tini to the Elves, what of Aubrenir, or Neveriland?” Victormir asked at length. “Aubre’ will be off to treat with the Elfs in Luin and the Dwarfs beyond. I trust in his skill at sea, and have already dispatched him south with the Scimitar I showed to you all at our last meeting.” Benjimir glanced towards the doorway to the hall beyond. Their dinning room as an anti chamber near the Hobbit entrance to The Prancing Pony. “Neveriland I am placing in your charge, preferably to remain with or near Tammere Hall, to see to our interests in Bree-land. Yourself, I intend to work in my sted, between Tammere and the north.” Benjimir finished, hoisting another hardy bit of chicken to his mouth. “By your command. Now what of Numenor?” Victormir returned to the question he had been asking for some weeks, relating to the title of the banner under which Benjimir had gathered their band.

“Westernesse and dread my brother. Westernesse and dread.” Benjimir replied.

“A farmer might gather much with a sickle occupying but one hand. But verily he would harvest a greater bounty wielding a scythe filling two.” -Benjimir of Befalas.

“I loath Halberds.” Benjimir offered absently to his younger brother Victormir, as they pass through the door of the hall of crafting merchants. He tucked the length of Dayshimmers shaft in the crook of his mid-arm and drew back the smithies oil cloth. The hall was home to the greater part of the craftsmen of Bree. Such being the case, many were passing through the hall, and Benjimir felt at ease reviewing the new leather strapping about the gripping, and dulling wash that aided in preventing gleams of light from flashing off the weapon.

“So the tale of praise you regaled me with was in reference to another weapon?” Victormir replied, smirking as they continued to walk northward through the market square. “It is a peasants weapon.” Benjimir said, unrepentant of the seeming contradiction to his heaping praise on the Halberd he now slung over this back. “Yet, in these northern lands, that seems fitting.” he continued. “They adorn barrow and barn-shed alike. They are plentiful.” Benjimir nodded to the hobbit merchant they neared, her tent stacked neatly with crates of fruit. He produced several copper coins from a purse under his drab green cloak, and exchanged them for a pair of apples. “I’ve not needed to sling such a heft on my back since I first stood a post at the tower gate.” Lamented Benjimir, flipping an apple to his brother. “And then at the least, I did not need to walk all over this Middle-earth with one.”

Ben had questioned the name of the Halberd, unsure its meaning. The smithee whose handywork he carried was Synnova Aethewyn, whom he had met in Bree. She was among a band he had fought alongside with some months prior to making his sortie to the Weathering Hills. The Red Arrows, as they called themselves, the title coming from the token sent between several Kingdoms in the south, signifying a need in a time of war. Founded by Imraheth, kin to the Prince Imrahill of Belfalas, the fair skinned woman had ventured north for much the same purpose as Benjimir. Yet, the two had never crossed paths, the former being drawn back to Gondor and the fortress city of Dol Amoroth by some still unknown reason. The Red Arrows grew worn in body if not spirit, as pitched battle cast a shadow across the company. Ultimately the band largely parted ways, each to calling of their kin or skills.

A new mandate arrived from Tinfalas near this time. Thus, Benjimir had struck out to marshall those who would rally about him, equipped with a formidable Halberd, the strength of his families commerce, and an imperative.

“Very well then, it is a peasant’s weapon. But the name you have choosen to attach to this fellowship of ours is anything but peasantry.” Victormir offered with a flared brow. He opened the door to Bree’s most noted Inn, The Prancy Pony. “Indeed, it is not.” Benjimir replied, walking through the door to the aroma of ale, pipe weed, and roasting foul.

“Any sufficiently skilled craft, may seem to another as magic.”

–Benjimir,

The Orc swung hard and without discipline. Benjimir evaded the blow with a curt bow. Thrusting his Halberd through his right hand by the shaft, letting the heft of the blade drop, he placed the weapon flush along his back in anticipation the next blow. The Orc was not a captain of his troop, but his size and fury in battle gave him stature among his kind. They were alerted to Benjimir’s assault after the camp watcher was felled with a shrill cry. It was out of habit that two lesser Orcs followed behind him as he roared towards Benjimir. And it was out of fear that the lesser Orcs fell back from their leader as his first errant blow carried the driven scimitar in an arch too near to their own necks. The second blow fell as an epilogue to the first, as the Orc carried his blades momentum through, landing the weapon with a high pitched clash against Benjimir’s Halberd shaft.

Benjimir would have known the Orcs blade was not notched, even had he not heard pitch of the clashing metal. By the sting the meeting weapons reverberated through his arm he could tell there was no mark that would be found. He noted this in a flash, then shifted his weight forward, launching a hard kick at the hilt of the Orcs scimitar. The power of the blow, which still stung Ben’s arm also loosened the Orcs grip. The kick separated the weapon for its owner. Ben fell back, the Orc surging forward in rage, not minding to recover his lost blade. Ben drew the head of the halberd around, close to his mid section, planting the shaft into the ground behind him. His retreat concealed the planted shaft, much as the Orc obscured what came next to his companions. As the Orc lunged down, arms stretched, the pike of the halberd met the seam of the chest plate and the fell beast drove itself onto it. Ben heaved his shoulder against the already dead Orc so that it fell to the side, allowing him to pull the Halberd’s shaft free of the ground.

The second two Orcs, advancing again even as the first fell to the ground were dismayed but unable to halt their advance before Ben emerged around the falling body of the first and launched a sweeping attack against the nearest.  Cutting cleaning through the first, he pressed his attack, struck a follow up blow against the second. Their bodies landed on either side of the massive fell heap they followed.

Benjimir listened to the sound of the Orc bodies collapsing to the ground without even turning to watch. A smirk cross his face as he lifted the Halberd close to inspect it. No notches to the blades, nor even a scratch to the heavy shaft. The very metal seemed to repulse the black blood of the slain Orcs, as it drew into thin vains and dripped from the finely smithed edges. “Dayshimmer it is then,” he said, thinking back to the name given it by its creator. Running his thumb along the shaft, the absence of crease or notch darkened his mood as he considered the now concluded fight.

He turned towards the fallen Orcs and walked to the scimitar of the first. Shouldering his own weapon, he kneeled down and picked the blade. The shape and weight was right. Unbalanced as usual, with too much heft on the top of the blade. A crude design, sharp and angular, typical of the make. But his attention was drawn to the blades edge. It was wholly un-notched, with a bright sheen that extended a thumbs width into the flat of the blade. The blade edge looked like snow atop a dark mountain, pure, free of the impurities of the poor quality iron typical of Orc craftsmenship. He inspected the weapons of the other slain Orcs and found they shared the same features. These were not of the same tribes he had fought in the northlands along the Greenway.

Benjimir was no Dwarf, much less an Elf when it came to the crafting of weapons. Yet even his own skill told him this was not the work of an Orc Smithiee. Certainly at least, it was not the work of Orc alone, and the thought gave Ben pause. The only conclusion possible disturbed him more than all the foulness he had seen in his travels from Dol Amorth these past several years. Ben forced himself out of his dark pondering and lifted his eyes to the surrounding hills. Orcs kept to the shadows when camping or hunting, disliking the light of day. But men would keep to the high ground when doing so, and they were now a concern.

The Analects and Collected Journals of Benjimir

and a

History of Deeds and Contributions

of the

Thursby Family

During the Late War of the Ring.

As compiled by Tenifalas Thursby.

F.A. 107

To begin I wish to establish my voice in its place among the chorus within this volume. I was named Tenifalas by my mother, and am the eldest, and to my knowledge, sole male heir of the late Benjimir of Belfalas. This work contains my fathers assorted journals and notes, spanning from his period of service to the Prince, through the late War of the Ring. In addition, it compiles stories from those with whom my father served in fellowship and arms during those times. Where multiple accounts of given events exist, a narrative is presented to convey the details.

Early in my distant kins time among the Numenorian colonists in Middle-Earth, the sire name of Thursby was taken, to honor the first family with whom our blood mixed. The Thursby line, being a family of craft and trade since before the fall of Numenor, never held right to land nor authority. Rather, its reputation was built on the renown of vessels built by our kin and the wealth earned in commerce with Middle-Earth. The time of the Lost Isle and forefathers of the Thursby family line are not subject of those volume. Yet, both bear direct influence in its rise in Middle-Earth, and by way of that, contributed to the command which sent my father to Eriador and so to war.