Post by coltsfoot on Nov 29, 2008 19:34:10 GMT -5
I'm taking up a quill to write this at the insistence of Cay. She's a bit daft to ask for my story since she was there for almost all of it, but there are some missing bits she might want to know.
I have a love of learning unlike most of my idiotic sort. Cay can write a little too, but I surpassed her in smarts when I was very small.
To start with, I find almost all Hobbits to be jolly and moronic creatures who have no concerns but their own comfort and likely deserve to die from their own laziness and neglect. I have every right to say this because I wasn't reared among them and have a bit of perspective when looking at my frivolous race.
I grew up with the clan of Braem Wing, near Archet in the inn the Man ran. My Hobbit "Da" left me with a stranger to settle a debt when I was still in swaddling, or so I've been told. And Braem's wife couldn't let me stay in the hands of a traveling merchant. She wanted to see me raised up right, not that her intentions did me much good.
I spent my time as a bairn as a member of the family but as an outsider too. I was one of the litter but also in debt to the Wings for their kindness. I wasted long hours tending the garden, mopping floors, and doing assorted other things in servitude. I learned to do all sorts of brainless chores but did them only to the extent I had to so I could slip away for a few moments to pester my brothers.
My older brothers were a happily ignorant bunch of raucous boys. They spent afternoons sparring in the lot behind the barn; they were spared from the endless work in the evenings to play about with swords and bows and all manner of pointy and appealing objects.
I was barely able to stand on my own when one of my middle brothers, Kessler, gave me my first blade and bow as a bit of a joke. My sword was a clever little Dwarvish knife that my brothers carefully kept for me. It was left by my "Da" when he gave me away. The blade was scaled perfectly for a Hobbit child. I think sometimes their motivation for arming me was for me to dispose of myself by clumsily falling on my own blade or ricocheting an arrow into my own belly.
By the time I was losing my first set of teeth, I could hit a straw man with an arrow as well as my brothers. I was a bit of a sensation among the local farmers that scratched out a living near the inn; Braem collected tidy purses on bets against my accuracy with the bow and held suppers for the nearby peasants to come and watch me spar with my brothers, who were far more than twice my size. I always lost in sword-work and came out in the end bruised and bawling in fury as the audience watched my failure. But who wouldn't want to see a tiny fire-haired creature attack a grown boy with a miniature blade? The comedy was at my expense.
My mother constantly chided me for my shortcomings as a lass, another failing I've never remedied. The presence of Hobbits was almost unknown in that quiet corner of the Bree-Fields and she had no clues as to what the proper customs and mannerisms were for my sort. She forced cut-down dresses on me and I threw them into slop buckets and smoldering embers and dragged out the clothes my brothers wore in infancy. Punishment was frequent and just; at night I lay in my bed beneath the attic eaves nursing fingers raw from stitching mountains of homespun tablecloths and paring bushels of apples, my two least favorite tasks. I will never be a seamstress or a cook.
Ceallian, my sister of sorts, was the youngest of the Wing children and three seasons my senior. She was easily molded into a proper country lass and was always my basis for how I SHOULD behave. She was never scolded for burning a pot of taters because she wanted to get just one more moment of combat in with the boys. She had a modest bedroom of her own on the second floor of the rambling house; her father doted on her like she was born to reign as Empress of Sweetness. Her siblings and I were bunked together in the attics, myself in a tiny cubby set aside next to the kitchen chimney. I coveted her bedroom with envy approaching rage, but what would I do with a silver mirror on the wall and homemade lace curtains?
We never ventured far from home, Cay and I. I never saw a real village or more than a score of folk in one place until I was nearly fifteen years of age (according to my knowledge, since no celebrations have ever been held for a Birthday no one knows). Caellian spent uncountable hours in the saddle of Braem's aged mare investigating the woodlands that surrounded the inn, but always within a distance that could be retraced to home within a few hours. I was petrified of horses and trailed her as best I could on foot, my saggy little boots making my feet soft with time. That is another oddity I gained from my time with Men, a penchant for shoes and boots. Hobbits unshod are targets for aggressive stomping or a stray arrow planted in their tender ankles in a battle.
During our adventures in the wood, I learned all of the names of the plants and trees in our part of the world. I learned to read at almost the same time I learned the delicious art of archery and ripped through any written word I could scavenge like a whirlwind tears apart a traveling carnival's waggons. With the aid of a handwritten copy of a tome detailing herbs and flowers, I named them all for Caellian. Later, when she found a plot of land to till a bit, my knowledge was valuable to her as she mastered her craft.
Time wore on as it tends to do when life is plain on the surface and tumultuous beneath. I still had no grasp of niceties or manners when the inn was raided and burned. I balked and ran to sleep in the barn at night when our mother scolded me for rudeness and piled upon me demands for apologies to the offended party. I preferred to think of myself as forthright rather than simply rude.
A better description than I care to record here of the destruction of our quiet life can be found in Cay's telling of her life. Simply, we were homeless and with no relatives within a matter of less than two weeks. The world around our haven had been changing for some time and now the complications of the great War had touched even us.
Ceallian's great betrayal of me and a lifetime of laughter from both family and strangers at my earnest struggles to always vanquish my enemies left me a bit.. bitter, should I say? When we parted ways at the edge of Bree-Town I crept into the fields and watched the high West Gates for two days and a night for Ceallian to emerge, missing me so terribly she would brave the unknown world to seek me out. At dusk on the second day I gave up on her for what I believed was a lifetime; no sign of her fair hair or distinct walk left me utterly alone and unready for traveling the open roads.
I had a small bag of provisions, some flimsy cloth armour on my back and a new ragged haircut for function over style, a battered bow and my precious dagger when I set off for the Shire. I didn't know where else to go or who to ask for advice as I crossed the Brandywine and saw the green grass of my homeland for the first time I could recall.
I had no coin in my pockets and made a horrid mess of things every time I tried to speak to another Hobbit. I wandered and explored the Shire for months, sleeping on doorsteps and in lonesome leantos stocked with hay. Slowly I learned a little about my own kind, about the silly lifestyle they coveted in ignorance of the perilous balance that protected their well-being.
One evening I found myself forgotten in the Great Smials amongst a treasury of knowledge that I never imagined Hobbits gathering. I'd never seen so many books and scrolls in one place and was in paradise; I spent that night and many others, whenever I could creep in, nodding off in dim firelight with a book crushed beneath my head as a pillow. I was never discovered by the keepers in the Smials. I met my first companion there, however.
Drarry was a sneaky sort of Hobbit who had a habit of picking up any object that wasn't in the clutches of those around him. Or so I assumed with my limited experience with Hobbits or folks beyond the realm of the Wings' inn. He was still in his 'tweens and making a path for himself towards riches and comfort; somehow he found me tolerable and we traveled together for some time. We were actual friends, something I'd never had before. In his words, we eclipsed each other, me with my mightiness and feral lust for a good fight and he with his creeping ways and tactical gift.
Finally I wore our relationship to frayed and ragged tatters with my pretty habit of insulting those I care for. We had a disagreement on our first foray into Bree-Town and I called him a lass. Those were my last words to him before he disappeared into the Old Forest, which he feared passionately, and was lost in a den of tainted wolves for all time.
After losing Drarry, I was not any more disposed to show people kindness than I was in the past. I met a companion of Ceallian's very much by accident and developed a soft spot for Dwarves. Mister Lemilinus was kind and wary of me, exactly how he should have been. Our travels together were only brief but through him Ceallian and I began to learn of each other and exchange apologies.
When my journey took me to the Lone-Lands, I had picked up a few allies of my own that I kept always at a range appropriate to my line of sight with my bow. My companions were handy in a battle but I trust no one; my friends were so only because my temperment had not prompted me to plant an arrow in their necks when they slept. We had a fragile truce at all times.
On a respite in Bree-Town, I visited the Prancing Pony for the first time. I was bordering on panic when I stepped into the common room; this was a foreign place to me where I was very, very small amongst the traveling warriors who gathered there. I turned in my bounty and shot out the door as fast as I could manage. On the steps of the tavern, I was stopped by a voice.
Ciaphias Wormwood was another rather unusual specimen of a Hobbit. He was covered in glimmering gold and silver plate and bore a massive sword that was easily as tall as he. I instantly disliked him immensely, hiding in all that armour that I called his "turtle shell." He challenged me to show him some kindness and I wasn't able to. His struggle to match me and brush off my constant scalding words infuriated me beyond measure. After some curt conversation, I agreed for a reason I will never fathom to meet him again in the Foresaken Inn. Not for help, mind you Gentle Reader, because I fight my own fights alone and share my rewards with no one. I refused his assistance for months until my road took me to Angmar.
On my travels my path crossed with Ciaphias’ many times. At one point I even tried to fight him over a small insult and he refused the privilege. He was always running towards death on the fronts of the Free People’s army so our talks were always brief. I grew to actually find myself missing him when he was in battle and became convinced that he would die of stubborness and idiocy on the front lines. I developed a fondness for this weary Hobbit who desired sleep and a meal more than riches. He saw that I was indeed a lass, albeit a highly unusual one, and encouraged my use of my wit rather than the use of pots and pans and embroidery needles.
At last my search for bounties lead me to Angmar. I knew the lands there were scorched and evil beyond my abilities to conquer but I had no choice. Although I tell folks that I have no honor, I have a little sliver that dictates that pride will not let me back down from a fight. An errand to Morfil and the killing of the rancid creatures that hide in that dismal cavern bound Ciaphias and I together in a surprising, but not really unexpected, fashion.
I offer to shoot people as a courtesy, part of being forthright above all else. There’s always the chance that I will lose my temper and take it out on vulnerable bodies around me so my companions need to be wary of this. I warned Ciaphias dozens of times that he would die at my arrow or blade but he paid me no mind, thinking me a silly lass with too many pointy things at her disposal.
We were overwhelmed by the Orcs deep inside the caves of Morfil. Ciaphias hacked a path to safety for me through them and in the confusion and blinding torchlight I launched dozens of wicked barbed arrows.
Outside the entrance to Hell, we collapsed in exhaustion for only a moment. A Warg scented me and flew from the brush around the cave; one arm a limp joke, Ciaphias slaughtered it in a single blow before he fell to the unkind dirt. He was unconscious and bleeding from an arrow in his ribs. I was desperate; this was the one soul I cared for that had never done me any wrong. I called on a magic I never knew I had and swept us to the sweet quiet of the Shire and my little house in the span of a breath, another oddity I never imagined would be in my life, by calling on the blessings wrought in the strange Elven runes engraved in my quiver and the saddle of my pony, Torla.
Ciaphias needed a healer. But we had no time to wait for Ceallian’s arrival with her little bag of potions. He tore out the arrow on his own. It was familiar to me. With a moment’s inspection I realized that I had shot my Guardian with my own arrow and the tip was buried deep within his ribs. Only the shaft could be removed. The barbs had caught hold of his flesh hungrily and would not let go.
Deciding to leave Ciaphias to the skilled care of the wise healers of Rivendell, I cut off all connections to him. I avoided his visits to my house and burned his letters in my hearth without opening them. He sent gifts and begged for one conversation but I refused. In my pride I almost killed him. I was better off without, dare I call it so, love.
Finally I yielded to the warrior’s wishes and spoke with him at his home in the Shire. He was to return to Carn Dum with his troops and did not predict living to see me again. The stone idiot asked me to marry him right there in his yard with me standing there like a drenched muskrat, weeds in my hair and mud on my underclothes from my daily swim.
I said yes. Likely because I thought I’d never see him again but also because he longed for something to return to, to keep him moving through the fray with some hope that there was light and happiness in the world. He was mad to seek this reason in me, but I accepted his offer.
Then Ciaphias made the stupidest decision he could and changed our relatively peaceful existence forever. When his company was ambushed by forces he did not recognize, he fled the battle and crept back to Bree and to me. He was a deserter from the Free People’s army and to stand trial for treason; the assault and obliteration of an entire troop was blamed on Ciaphias, who was called a spy and a traitor by his commanders.
We had a wedding that was well-attended and lauded for weeks. The only reason we found the courage to have such a party was the presence of our Kinsmen, a group of companions brought together by Ceallian to aid each other and turn to one another for comfort. We were well-guarded with the help of some hired eyes and that was the last time we showed ourselves in public for a long time.
We waited patiently, me clinging to wildernesses to earn my keep and he longing to return to battle but unable because of a massive reward on his head. After a long and aggravating respite, Ciaphias and I began to visit the civilization we loathed until we were banned from it.
((A work in progress! To be updated. Caspia's story has grown and changed tremendously and I'll fix this up asap.))
Cay once told me that my path would be both terrible and beautiful. The daft lass was right
I have a love of learning unlike most of my idiotic sort. Cay can write a little too, but I surpassed her in smarts when I was very small.
To start with, I find almost all Hobbits to be jolly and moronic creatures who have no concerns but their own comfort and likely deserve to die from their own laziness and neglect. I have every right to say this because I wasn't reared among them and have a bit of perspective when looking at my frivolous race.
I grew up with the clan of Braem Wing, near Archet in the inn the Man ran. My Hobbit "Da" left me with a stranger to settle a debt when I was still in swaddling, or so I've been told. And Braem's wife couldn't let me stay in the hands of a traveling merchant. She wanted to see me raised up right, not that her intentions did me much good.
I spent my time as a bairn as a member of the family but as an outsider too. I was one of the litter but also in debt to the Wings for their kindness. I wasted long hours tending the garden, mopping floors, and doing assorted other things in servitude. I learned to do all sorts of brainless chores but did them only to the extent I had to so I could slip away for a few moments to pester my brothers.
My older brothers were a happily ignorant bunch of raucous boys. They spent afternoons sparring in the lot behind the barn; they were spared from the endless work in the evenings to play about with swords and bows and all manner of pointy and appealing objects.
I was barely able to stand on my own when one of my middle brothers, Kessler, gave me my first blade and bow as a bit of a joke. My sword was a clever little Dwarvish knife that my brothers carefully kept for me. It was left by my "Da" when he gave me away. The blade was scaled perfectly for a Hobbit child. I think sometimes their motivation for arming me was for me to dispose of myself by clumsily falling on my own blade or ricocheting an arrow into my own belly.
By the time I was losing my first set of teeth, I could hit a straw man with an arrow as well as my brothers. I was a bit of a sensation among the local farmers that scratched out a living near the inn; Braem collected tidy purses on bets against my accuracy with the bow and held suppers for the nearby peasants to come and watch me spar with my brothers, who were far more than twice my size. I always lost in sword-work and came out in the end bruised and bawling in fury as the audience watched my failure. But who wouldn't want to see a tiny fire-haired creature attack a grown boy with a miniature blade? The comedy was at my expense.
My mother constantly chided me for my shortcomings as a lass, another failing I've never remedied. The presence of Hobbits was almost unknown in that quiet corner of the Bree-Fields and she had no clues as to what the proper customs and mannerisms were for my sort. She forced cut-down dresses on me and I threw them into slop buckets and smoldering embers and dragged out the clothes my brothers wore in infancy. Punishment was frequent and just; at night I lay in my bed beneath the attic eaves nursing fingers raw from stitching mountains of homespun tablecloths and paring bushels of apples, my two least favorite tasks. I will never be a seamstress or a cook.
Ceallian, my sister of sorts, was the youngest of the Wing children and three seasons my senior. She was easily molded into a proper country lass and was always my basis for how I SHOULD behave. She was never scolded for burning a pot of taters because she wanted to get just one more moment of combat in with the boys. She had a modest bedroom of her own on the second floor of the rambling house; her father doted on her like she was born to reign as Empress of Sweetness. Her siblings and I were bunked together in the attics, myself in a tiny cubby set aside next to the kitchen chimney. I coveted her bedroom with envy approaching rage, but what would I do with a silver mirror on the wall and homemade lace curtains?
We never ventured far from home, Cay and I. I never saw a real village or more than a score of folk in one place until I was nearly fifteen years of age (according to my knowledge, since no celebrations have ever been held for a Birthday no one knows). Caellian spent uncountable hours in the saddle of Braem's aged mare investigating the woodlands that surrounded the inn, but always within a distance that could be retraced to home within a few hours. I was petrified of horses and trailed her as best I could on foot, my saggy little boots making my feet soft with time. That is another oddity I gained from my time with Men, a penchant for shoes and boots. Hobbits unshod are targets for aggressive stomping or a stray arrow planted in their tender ankles in a battle.
During our adventures in the wood, I learned all of the names of the plants and trees in our part of the world. I learned to read at almost the same time I learned the delicious art of archery and ripped through any written word I could scavenge like a whirlwind tears apart a traveling carnival's waggons. With the aid of a handwritten copy of a tome detailing herbs and flowers, I named them all for Caellian. Later, when she found a plot of land to till a bit, my knowledge was valuable to her as she mastered her craft.
Time wore on as it tends to do when life is plain on the surface and tumultuous beneath. I still had no grasp of niceties or manners when the inn was raided and burned. I balked and ran to sleep in the barn at night when our mother scolded me for rudeness and piled upon me demands for apologies to the offended party. I preferred to think of myself as forthright rather than simply rude.
A better description than I care to record here of the destruction of our quiet life can be found in Cay's telling of her life. Simply, we were homeless and with no relatives within a matter of less than two weeks. The world around our haven had been changing for some time and now the complications of the great War had touched even us.
Ceallian's great betrayal of me and a lifetime of laughter from both family and strangers at my earnest struggles to always vanquish my enemies left me a bit.. bitter, should I say? When we parted ways at the edge of Bree-Town I crept into the fields and watched the high West Gates for two days and a night for Ceallian to emerge, missing me so terribly she would brave the unknown world to seek me out. At dusk on the second day I gave up on her for what I believed was a lifetime; no sign of her fair hair or distinct walk left me utterly alone and unready for traveling the open roads.
I had a small bag of provisions, some flimsy cloth armour on my back and a new ragged haircut for function over style, a battered bow and my precious dagger when I set off for the Shire. I didn't know where else to go or who to ask for advice as I crossed the Brandywine and saw the green grass of my homeland for the first time I could recall.
I had no coin in my pockets and made a horrid mess of things every time I tried to speak to another Hobbit. I wandered and explored the Shire for months, sleeping on doorsteps and in lonesome leantos stocked with hay. Slowly I learned a little about my own kind, about the silly lifestyle they coveted in ignorance of the perilous balance that protected their well-being.
One evening I found myself forgotten in the Great Smials amongst a treasury of knowledge that I never imagined Hobbits gathering. I'd never seen so many books and scrolls in one place and was in paradise; I spent that night and many others, whenever I could creep in, nodding off in dim firelight with a book crushed beneath my head as a pillow. I was never discovered by the keepers in the Smials. I met my first companion there, however.
Drarry was a sneaky sort of Hobbit who had a habit of picking up any object that wasn't in the clutches of those around him. Or so I assumed with my limited experience with Hobbits or folks beyond the realm of the Wings' inn. He was still in his 'tweens and making a path for himself towards riches and comfort; somehow he found me tolerable and we traveled together for some time. We were actual friends, something I'd never had before. In his words, we eclipsed each other, me with my mightiness and feral lust for a good fight and he with his creeping ways and tactical gift.
Finally I wore our relationship to frayed and ragged tatters with my pretty habit of insulting those I care for. We had a disagreement on our first foray into Bree-Town and I called him a lass. Those were my last words to him before he disappeared into the Old Forest, which he feared passionately, and was lost in a den of tainted wolves for all time.
After losing Drarry, I was not any more disposed to show people kindness than I was in the past. I met a companion of Ceallian's very much by accident and developed a soft spot for Dwarves. Mister Lemilinus was kind and wary of me, exactly how he should have been. Our travels together were only brief but through him Ceallian and I began to learn of each other and exchange apologies.
When my journey took me to the Lone-Lands, I had picked up a few allies of my own that I kept always at a range appropriate to my line of sight with my bow. My companions were handy in a battle but I trust no one; my friends were so only because my temperment had not prompted me to plant an arrow in their necks when they slept. We had a fragile truce at all times.
On a respite in Bree-Town, I visited the Prancing Pony for the first time. I was bordering on panic when I stepped into the common room; this was a foreign place to me where I was very, very small amongst the traveling warriors who gathered there. I turned in my bounty and shot out the door as fast as I could manage. On the steps of the tavern, I was stopped by a voice.
Ciaphias Wormwood was another rather unusual specimen of a Hobbit. He was covered in glimmering gold and silver plate and bore a massive sword that was easily as tall as he. I instantly disliked him immensely, hiding in all that armour that I called his "turtle shell." He challenged me to show him some kindness and I wasn't able to. His struggle to match me and brush off my constant scalding words infuriated me beyond measure. After some curt conversation, I agreed for a reason I will never fathom to meet him again in the Foresaken Inn. Not for help, mind you Gentle Reader, because I fight my own fights alone and share my rewards with no one. I refused his assistance for months until my road took me to Angmar.
On my travels my path crossed with Ciaphias’ many times. At one point I even tried to fight him over a small insult and he refused the privilege. He was always running towards death on the fronts of the Free People’s army so our talks were always brief. I grew to actually find myself missing him when he was in battle and became convinced that he would die of stubborness and idiocy on the front lines. I developed a fondness for this weary Hobbit who desired sleep and a meal more than riches. He saw that I was indeed a lass, albeit a highly unusual one, and encouraged my use of my wit rather than the use of pots and pans and embroidery needles.
At last my search for bounties lead me to Angmar. I knew the lands there were scorched and evil beyond my abilities to conquer but I had no choice. Although I tell folks that I have no honor, I have a little sliver that dictates that pride will not let me back down from a fight. An errand to Morfil and the killing of the rancid creatures that hide in that dismal cavern bound Ciaphias and I together in a surprising, but not really unexpected, fashion.
I offer to shoot people as a courtesy, part of being forthright above all else. There’s always the chance that I will lose my temper and take it out on vulnerable bodies around me so my companions need to be wary of this. I warned Ciaphias dozens of times that he would die at my arrow or blade but he paid me no mind, thinking me a silly lass with too many pointy things at her disposal.
We were overwhelmed by the Orcs deep inside the caves of Morfil. Ciaphias hacked a path to safety for me through them and in the confusion and blinding torchlight I launched dozens of wicked barbed arrows.
Outside the entrance to Hell, we collapsed in exhaustion for only a moment. A Warg scented me and flew from the brush around the cave; one arm a limp joke, Ciaphias slaughtered it in a single blow before he fell to the unkind dirt. He was unconscious and bleeding from an arrow in his ribs. I was desperate; this was the one soul I cared for that had never done me any wrong. I called on a magic I never knew I had and swept us to the sweet quiet of the Shire and my little house in the span of a breath, another oddity I never imagined would be in my life, by calling on the blessings wrought in the strange Elven runes engraved in my quiver and the saddle of my pony, Torla.
Ciaphias needed a healer. But we had no time to wait for Ceallian’s arrival with her little bag of potions. He tore out the arrow on his own. It was familiar to me. With a moment’s inspection I realized that I had shot my Guardian with my own arrow and the tip was buried deep within his ribs. Only the shaft could be removed. The barbs had caught hold of his flesh hungrily and would not let go.
Deciding to leave Ciaphias to the skilled care of the wise healers of Rivendell, I cut off all connections to him. I avoided his visits to my house and burned his letters in my hearth without opening them. He sent gifts and begged for one conversation but I refused. In my pride I almost killed him. I was better off without, dare I call it so, love.
Finally I yielded to the warrior’s wishes and spoke with him at his home in the Shire. He was to return to Carn Dum with his troops and did not predict living to see me again. The stone idiot asked me to marry him right there in his yard with me standing there like a drenched muskrat, weeds in my hair and mud on my underclothes from my daily swim.
I said yes. Likely because I thought I’d never see him again but also because he longed for something to return to, to keep him moving through the fray with some hope that there was light and happiness in the world. He was mad to seek this reason in me, but I accepted his offer.
Then Ciaphias made the stupidest decision he could and changed our relatively peaceful existence forever. When his company was ambushed by forces he did not recognize, he fled the battle and crept back to Bree and to me. He was a deserter from the Free People’s army and to stand trial for treason; the assault and obliteration of an entire troop was blamed on Ciaphias, who was called a spy and a traitor by his commanders.
We had a wedding that was well-attended and lauded for weeks. The only reason we found the courage to have such a party was the presence of our Kinsmen, a group of companions brought together by Ceallian to aid each other and turn to one another for comfort. We were well-guarded with the help of some hired eyes and that was the last time we showed ourselves in public for a long time.
We waited patiently, me clinging to wildernesses to earn my keep and he longing to return to battle but unable because of a massive reward on his head. After a long and aggravating respite, Ciaphias and I began to visit the civilization we loathed until we were banned from it.
((A work in progress! To be updated. Caspia's story has grown and changed tremendously and I'll fix this up asap.))
Cay once told me that my path would be both terrible and beautiful. The daft lass was right