Another Bastard Child of Tolkien

[Paka]

Squire Jasmine Writes Home

Dear Ma,

Work as a squire is going well. As Master Thane says, “We just deliver pieces of paper.”

Admittedly this delivering of writs has allowed me to see some almost all of the cities in the Jade Forest. I walked the musty halls of Deeproot, spent the night in the Oath Keep, eaten till I was stuffed in the Hightree Shire and walked the cobblestone streets of Ladymist, or as the locals call it, the Lady.

Of all of them, the Lady is my favorite. It is everything I thought being away from home would be, magical, mysterious and so very old.

Lady M’Randa is a kind mistress and serving her remains an honor that I work hard to live up to.

Tell my brother to work hard and you send word that he is coming along well I will bring him a special treat from the streets of the blessed Lady.

All my love,

Squire Jasmine Smith





Dear Widow,

In armor, with a sword on my hip and a shield strapped to my back it is impossible to forget that I am Squire Jasmine Smith. It is all of those days in between, wearing nothing but cotton breeches and a tabard when I feel like a small-town girl with mannish shoulders who has never been kissed.

Master Thane says, “We just deliver pieces of paper,” but he is just making light of our perilous lives. Adventuring with Hobbits means that a lot of time is spent merry making and eating, keeping thoughts of death at bay.

Your staff remains in my care and is a treasure. It reminds me not only of my humble roots but also that others have left home before me. Suddenly, I feel that I am a part of a great tradition, a secret society of sorts.

As a fellow society member it is my duty to tell you how I have put your staff to use. I killed my first living man less than a fortnight ago. I put a few ghouls to the sword but killing them didn’t feel like anything horrid. They were demons of a sort and deserved to be sent on.

I killed an Orc. They ambushed us in the morning as we left the Lady. It was one of those glorious mornings, birds were just singing and the sky was just becoming blue. The cowards hit us with crossbow bolts from rooftops and one hit Lady M’Randa so hard that I am not sure how she remained on her feet. If being a knight means that one must stand fast through pain like that then I will remain a Squire for some time yet.

The Orcs were part of a city gang called the Nightfangs; foot-soldiers charged m’lady from both sides. I swung your staff like a hand and a half sword. The fool wasn’t wearing a helm and his skull made a noise like wet wood giving in to a dull axe.

Oddly, I expected the bastard to get up and continue fighting but that didn’t happen. While Lady M’Randa explained the situation to the Watch, I piled the bodies, as was my duty. Seems like a brutish use for your fine apprentice's staff.

There are other situations I have been witness to from the dungeons of Deeproot to the Wedding Highway to the Orcish ghettos of the Lady.

If I should die, please try and explain to my mother that these past months have included more magic and life than all of the years before.

Yours,

Squire Jasmine Smith

 

[Black Omega]

Very nice, keep up the good work. I especially liked the Storyteller but they've all been interesting.

 

[Grover]

Bump!
How are people ever going to find this wonderful story hour if it is languishing on the third page?

 

[Paka]

Thanks

Thanks for the bump. I'll post a new story or two in the next week or so.

Again, thanks, it is really nice to know this is read.

P-

 

[Paka]

Randall's Winter Missives

[His handwriting is simple, used to putting marks in a ledger,
keeping track of the Tisgood Sheep.

He wrote love-letters to his wife long ago when she lived in the next county and still writes her love poems from time to time. Sometimes he would show them to you and ask advice on their compisition. Even his love poems seemed mundane to you but you helped him. It was one of the rare occasions wherein Randal bit his tongue and kept his word-hoard shut. His simple handwriting has just a touch of romance, a swirled capital letter here, a tilt there. Thank the poetry to his wife for that.

The words are drawn crudely, by Silver City Bard standards but he reminds you of home and for a second you ache for the more urbane and rarified Elvish company of the Silver Cities and even a Hobbit of the High Court Shire will do.]

Dear Randall,

I have sent a letter every time I have had to take the herd or the
wool to the city for a merchant festival.

I don't like the cities, too many shiftless artists about. You
know how it is here in the Silver Cities. I hope the Jade Forest,
a humble, hard working people, have had a good effect on you.

I could use a good hand when i get home.

I can only hope that my brotherly jibes translate with a smile
over my face on this parchment, as i never had any gift with words as you always did.

I can only hope that the shady looking men who I gave all of my
letters to have reached you. They were particularly smelly humans with ink shoved under their skin but they said they were going to Goldleaf and that was close to the Jade Forest and so my missives have travelled with them along with some gold to ease their passage.

I am giving this letter to a strange old coot. He is called the
Rilion Mandegar Nihilowen [Strange Owl Man] by the Elves he
travelled with. It seems an odd title for Elves to give a Man.

He is waiting for me right now. Doesn't seem to be doing anything much. Just sitting there.

Still, I like him well enough and trusted my instincts on the
matter.

He wouldn't accept my coin, though.

I'll slip a wool sweater into his bag.

Ma is the same as ever. She bakes and cooks enough for the Tisgood family and the dozen or so cousins it takes to shepherd the flock and then she bakes some more. I don't know where she get's her strength but we could all learn something about strength from her.

Leslie Cherryling asks for you often and tells anyone in listening
distance how you sang her a love ballad in Draconic one night and how she didn't understand the words but literal understanding is over-rated or some such sheep hooey.

I didn't have the heart to tell her that you sang her an excerpt
from the Wedding Epic of Tiamat and Bahumat because I only heard it in Halfling tongue once and the ending was hazy to me.

I see to remember it not ending well at all.

Silly girl.

Pa's gout is worse and he can't ride at all and can barely walk the
pastures anymore. He still runs the books as his mind is still
sharp as a tack but he has tons of free time now and drove Ma mad for a time.

He has decided to write his memoirs. I have enclosed a copy I made of what he calls, "his most adventurous moment," because he thought it was a good idea whwen i suggested you had a copy of it. It isn't Dawson Hightree facing down the Troll King but it is our Da's finest hour, or so he says.

The title of this memoir changes everyday. We await the new title he has dreamed up at dinner. Tonight it was, "My Time With the Sheep" but Ma thought it was too dull. A few weeks ago she hit him with a wooden spoon when he announced to the table that his new title was simply, "Flocked for Life."

I hope all is well with you in the Jade Forest. We hear all kinds
of rumors of Dragonic madness, war and strife, Troll Nations and
Dead Gods.

I'd hope your stories will keep you well away from all that
nonsense.

Love,

Alex Tisgood

156 Silver Reckoning
1224 Gold Reckoning

 

[Paka]

Randall's Response

Dear Alex,

I hope you get this letter. I did get the letter you sent with the "strange owl man" as the Elves called him but I’m sorry to say that I received none of the others. I believe theman was a Paladin of Ulula, a benevolent Owl God worshipped in these lands – the mightiest of their Paladins fly upon the backs of giant owls in battle. Quite amazing, actually. He might have heard about me or somesuch, or maybe Ulula brought that letter of yours to me. I’m not much a fan of the Owl God, or most Gods in general, but if they get my brother’s mail to me maybe they deserve a song or two. Anyhow, we are under a blockade from the Gold Empire so everything basically has to be smuggled in.

So I’ve got a gig playin’ soupchin. I hooked up with our cousin Thane. Best keep that under your hat – Trumbles and all. He really does have a problem with promises. Miranda the Green Night and Skier Jasmyn fill us out. Sometimes the ex-sheriff of Hightree plays with us, Dustin (dirtier than a goblin, but does all right with the dogs). We call ourselves The Green Heralds and we’re wintering in this little hole called Ladiemyst. We even played for the Duchess a few times. I’m making good money and even getting a bit of a name – there are all kinds of rumors that you might hear. Probably easiest just to answer them with a polite nod if it’s a foreigner type, but feel free to set any family straight.

It was really nice to hear about Ma’ and Da.’ Somehow, I didn’t receive the story of our Da’s finest hour with the sheep and all, but wondering about what that could be is makin’ me more bonkers than the smell of Auntie Cinnamon’s cookies. Please send me another copy when you can.

I gotta’ say that mentioning Leslie Cherryling really brought up some old memories. Most folks thought Alison Berrymuffin was the cutest, but Leslie Cherryling had eyes that could charm a Dragon and a nose to match. And that chin! I remember that night you were talkin’ about. She must be married and baking pies for the cutter ceremonies by now. I’ll bet her kids are A-dorable.

The whole thing nearly brought me to tears to tell you true. Not Leslie, really, but the whole thing about home. The choices we make… I often miss the Silver Cities – the folks here just aren’t the same. There is Hightree, but, well, it’s Hightree. We don’t even get up there much. Sometimes I get homesick terrible like. On the other hand, here I am novel. Special. A big fish for a "half-man" (as the longlegs call us); while at home, there are dozens of bards just like me, or so it seems. Here I have a chance to be somebody, while at home, I am just anybody.

Anyhow, on to better things. This small time huckster here, Smallgus is one of my better fans. He’s a snappy chap and but he has the ugliest crow of a familiar you never saw. I think the bird is part wolverine. One thing they do have here are really excellent pies. If I could only send you a bumbleberry by owl… heh then I’d know I really lived in a kingdom.

Take care Alex. Your letter will keep me warm all winter.

Love,

Randall

 

[Paka]

Trailer for future games...

"For we are come now to the edge of doom. Here those who wish may await the oncoming of the hour till either the ways of the world lie open again, or we summon them to the last need..."

J.R.R. Tolkien, Fellowship of the Ring


The Lands are ruled by Dragons.



In the Silver...

Dwarves mine and Elves scheme.



In the Gold...

Senators adjust to their political existence when their Emperor is awake from his centuries long slumber.

Legions are ferried from one front to another as Dragons and armies grrow restless and bold.

A young girl buries freshly blooded magical swords in the ground and makes her way towards stormy mountains.




In the Green...

The Jade Forest is hectic with activity. Owls can be seen almost every night, flying between Deeproot, Ladymist and Ulula.

A mighty host sleeps at the feet of the Lady, waiting to meet the Golden Legions.

Trolls and Orcs stand by their bridges, awaiting another attack from the Chutu Ilka, Golden Doom.

And the Green Heralds are scattered.

The Green Lady has asked the Heralds to go south, deep into the Jade Forest's oldest wood. There is a hidden fortress there, where the Horned Lady met with dignitaries from the Eastern Lands. She has asked those that remain to use the maps in her libraries and find the Turpan Keep and make sure that it is safe, should she need to make use of it in the future.

But will the Green Heralds go or will they follow their hearts and track down Squire Jasmine who they lost when they were captured by the Gold?



In the Red...

A Red Dragon sits a Halfling on his knee, "Did you know that there is a place where the bodies of Dead Gods float? Tis true, my Little Skald, true as murder.

Cities are built on the backs of Dead Gods. What a sight that must be. To see a city built on the corpse such a creature.

One who saw that would have even a Dragon's envy.

This graveyard plane breeds the most brutal warriors ever known. These warrios are ruled by a merciless Empress who was crowned by a cabal of Red Dragons and ever since then, she has always paid my Color their proper respect.

Any of the Red can send an emissary to her and be allotted a Legion of her finest soldiers, who will serve for a year and a day.

My hordes are strong but, as you might well imagine, we are lacking in strong political minds. I am asking you to go forth and act as consultant to my delegation.

You will go the the Dead God's Plane and demand the Empress grant me and my clutch their Legions.

When you have delivered this Legion to me we will discuss the terms of your dismissal.

Think on it, little one. Your stories are excellent and you tell the tale of How Pug Stole Fire as well as anyone I have ever heard but how long can it last? How long till you die in some foolish escape attempt are knifed in an alley or in an ogre's cooking pot or worse? How long?

Think on it. I expect your answer in the morning."

 

[Rune]

The goodness continues! Sounds awe inspiring, Paka!

 

[Paka]

Our Funeral Ritual

Our Funeral Ritual

We have no temples, no holidays, only a handful of rites and rituals that I know of. Funerals happen to be one of them. Usually we get caught in an improper form and are murdered as was the case with this one.

Word is that the family had to pay a heavy ransom to the orc tribe that ended up with the body. He was caught in the form of an orc chieftan. The chief's wife caught him. Odd, loves rarely catch us.

Loves usually project their expectations so loudly that they are easy to hear, easy to use. Even making love can be easy because lovers project their thoughts like screaming babies. Yet another sign that love makes one's mind weak.

I have never been in love. But once I had to assume the form of a forty year old dwarven boy. It become obvious that this boy, was in love with an engraver across the street. I asked an elder who I could have known that with no long term contact with the boy or no journal to work from.

The elder told me that we, like water, tend to fill the containers we are put in. The love was me filling the container, finding the truth in that form. It is clearly possible that the boy, before me, didn't know that he was in love with this engraver with her long bronze hair and square face.

Rumors have spread throughout the funeral concerning the death, the battle, the killers the final forms the dead assumed: sailor on a Silver City smuggling barge, dolphin, shark, dog, orc chieftan of the Goldoathed tribe, pixie.

Those who have bothered to show up are wearing the generally wearing the clothes of their last form. Those of us in between long term forms are wearing bulky cotton robes. They would be itchy if we were prone to such things.

Three children run by playing tag shifting from one form into another. One of the children assumes the form of a large in order to pin the other child down and growls, "You're IT."

The cat's parents chastise him, not only for shifting at such a somber occasion but for making a cat talk, "Cats only rarely talk. Mistakes like that get us killed, child."

"If it were a familiar or a hellcat or was awakened by a druid it might talk. It might."

The parent grabs the precocious child, still in cat form, and sneers, "Hellcats don't talk."

The cat sighs.

It is not that we just look alike to other races. Truth is when we are all our true forms (whatever that means) we all look alike. Moving on from one form to another erodes any sense of importance the physical world might have.

The priest would deliver the speech if we had such things. As it is a parent drones, "We shall call our fellow Doppleganger by name for the third time, sending his soul to the next form. Whatever form that is, we know that he is ready to play his role, to find his place and become what needs becoming."

"Amen."

In unison we say his birth name for the third and final time. Once at birth, once at adulthood and now a final time. There are a possible five name-sayings but this one only reached three.

There's no shame in that.

While being johan, a sailor on a Silver City barge, contact was made with the green heralds. Apparently they were heading into Sun's port. Our Gold Father would not have liked this, not at all.

Undesirable contact was made. johan's form was discarded.

Enter the dolphin.

The green heralds made their way to shore on a small rowboat.

Enter the shark.

They made it to shore by use of a weak Elemental. Among them was a wizard of no mean skill.

It was obvious the green heralds were making their way to shore.

Enter the dog.

Along the shore was an orcish tribe. The chief was done away with while he urinated in some bushes.

Enter the orc chieftan.

The Ggreen heralds made their way to the orcish tribe along the shore, unable to avoid being seen.

They travelled with the orc chieftan and his first wife.

Our Gold Father has a deep hatred for these green heralds and this failure has not gone unnoticed. Reports were made as often as can be expected.


It is unclear what finally happened. We only know that was a pixie when he died. Pixies are popular escape skins.

Humans write rest in peace on some of their grave markers. I always thought that was an odd thought, to be wished such a thing. Peaceful times are not happy times for me.

I saw this one, this one who died, once assume the form of a five year old human child, a notoriously difficult age and race. The form was a little girl with hair to the side, pigtails, they say. This pigtailed girl played with other children in the market for hours and was as carefree as was proper. She then politely told them she had to return to her parent's home and made her leave. This is my only memory of johan the sailor, the shark, the dolphin, the dog, the orc chieftan.

I bet if you skimmed the mind of any of those, even the meanest animal you would have found shark thoughts in the shark skull. I hope this thought is a correct and proper one to have at one of our funerals.

The broken body is broken up, given to heads of the families to be disposed of and once that ritual is done we leave, returning to the lives that we inhabit.

 

[Rune]

I like the Doppleganger culture that you've established. Very alien.