There are a story I ain’t ready to tell yet, but it promises to be a horrible one, if only cos them black squirrels gives you horrible indigestion, no matter what spices you uses… or so I hears. That ain’t right. HORRIBLE.

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Storytelling and music were the main draw at the Shire Faire held by Daro A Maetho in Michel Delving.

We were treated with tales of the evil elf Jazlyn and the settling of the Shire, the fantastically told lore of the Dwarves, and the poignant tale of the girl and her horse.

A tailor could make a killing selling new gowns and robes at such a Faire! Nothing like the little faux pas of showing up to a party in the same dress as another woman… Oops.

Tanned hides, musical instruments, and finely crafted weapons were being sold at the faire as well… until someone attempted to “sell” Nevaros, the maker of said musical instruments and weapons, to whomever might bid upon him.   He was not the last one to be “sold”, either!  Whether the highest bidders ended up using their prizes for labor, protection while travelling in terrible places like Moria or the Ettenmoors, or companionship, was up to them.

Unfortunately, the Bounders would not permit any matches of skill to take place within the Bounds, so there were no sparring matches this time.

I am definitely looking forward to a next time!

I thought he were some sorta brigand from the South, but not the FAR South, when I first run into him… or a corsair, mebbe, since he were talkin’ about the work he did on a ship (though it din’t sound like the kinda work that were voluntary).  There were a hobbit what helped him on the ship, an’ that were what brought him to Bree-town, I guess, his lookin’ to find him for a proper thank-you.  And then he started lookin’ for answers about his parents, since at least one of them were from the North.

He cleaned up real nice, though, so it ain’t no surprise that one of them transplanted Bree-town lordlings heard a rumour about his parents and started askin’ if he were lookin to “conquer Bree.” HA!  My sides still hurts from hearin’ bout that.

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I ain’t sayin’ what we was doin’ there.

I ain’t sayin’ what we was after, neither, ‘cos it ain’t missed!

Not yet, leastwise. But I is takin’ wagers on what we was doin’ and what we was after and whose it were.

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Sinkin’ in the Lone Lands before the Bridge, there are a red swamp full of more red. Red muck in pools of red next to ruins stained red in a red fog under a red sky.  Why, even them trees gone red, prolly from sinkin’ their roots into the muck and eating up the blood of fallen fighters until their leaves are bleedin’.

It sure ain’t done them much good, since them has gone all twisted and angry on a diet of war and the Dead. There ain’t no reasonin’ with them — trees or the Dead — except with light and fire, I found.  And I got both.

I heard from an elf that it use to be a place with sweet laughin’ water which weren’t all bitter and gloomy, but I ain’t gonna drink that water now. Even settin’ foot in it is somethin’ awful.

There musta been a lot of fightin’ there for a long, long time, for there to be so much red there. Spooky… but it do make for a story to scare a body sittin round the campfire!

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Tonight Bree saw a horde of rampaging chickens swarming through the streets. They reportedly felled one hobbit outside of The Prancing Pony before being chased out of town with a cry for the culprits to be tarred and feathered, or at least tarred.  Among those chasing the fowl creatures north were Nevaros (seen below doing his best to intimidate the birds) and Mapleros, both Wardens, and Lilyberry who was of course only heeding the call of her empty stomach.

Unfortunately, the birds escaped into the wilds with their trail being scratched out somewhere south of Trestlebridge, and the intrepid hunters gave up their wild goose chicken chase.

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If you ever seen someone fightin’ with two blades at once, you knows it ain’t good to stand too close — they makes a spinnin’ flashin’ wall of blades round them, and bits of things spatter all over anyone in range.  It are messy.

What I don’t get is how they ain’t choppin’ their own feet off when they do them wild attacks! Practice makes perfect with minstrellin’, but it seems like there ain’t much room for error if you accidentally hacks off your own limbs during practice.  I’m stickin’ with my pony-tenderizing club* and not ever juggling blades, I thinks.

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“…no theme may be played that hath not its uttermost source in me, nor can any alter the music in my despite…”

One hears a lot of songs from livin’ round elves; them elves got a song for everything, whether it be chores or food or merriment or ancient history or dream-tales or all of them mixed up, which is what happens when I tries to learn a new song when I is eatin’ or drinkin’ and listenin’ all at once — let me tell you, the Tale of Leland’s Lunch sounds mighty odd when it’s sung to the tune of the Lay of Luthien!

Fortunately they (well, them that don’t hides away from curious hobbits) is quite patient when it comes to teachin’ music, and they is always eager to sing a song over, and over, and over, and OVER again, hopin’ that someone else will catch all them secret nuances that they puts into their Mastery of Minstrelling.

Ain’t a half bad way to learn a few new songs, livin’ round elves.

Part of that ancient history they sings about goes into something some of them calls Ainulindalë or the Music of the Ainur, which if they is to be believed, were the beginning of everything.  Music. I ain’t sure I believes it, myself:  The stuff of Arda being spun out of the Music them Ainur learned in the Timeless Halls from Grand Ilúvatar, and battling harmonies between the Great Choirs and all? It seems a bit beyond me, even were I to live to three hundred years to get my head around that, and that ain’t likely.

Truth and ancient history or dream-tale, it still do make for a good song!

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I’ll let you all decide what are goin’ on here!  Were he bein’ led into a trap? Or were I backin’ out of one?

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A few days early, but…

RALLY!

Finally!!

I dragged Nevaros and Alyesse to Angmar to help me slaughter everything in sight (except, of course, Nev and Aly).  We started with the Duvardain, but after a few hundred we’d had no luck.  Alyesse dragged us to the Ram Duath, and she worked on the orcs while Nev and I mowed down the Morroval.  No luck with the flappy ladies, either.  After a few mad rounds of orcs, it struck me with bitter certainty:

Collecting pages for Rally! was just like collecting holocrons in Star Wars:Galaxies for the Meditate/Waistpack collections.

I hated working on those collections.

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