Letters From the West: The Wilds of Wildermore

Dearest Bria –

It gladdens me to hear of your survival of the onslaught of our village! Our brother, Borowolf, was likewise encouraged by the news. He gave me a bear-hug that nearly splintered the arrows in my quiver! We agreed to split a keg of Dwarven ale to celebrate our family’s good fortune, a celebration from which Borowolf has yet to regain his full faculties. But fear not! The wolf brothers shall recover as we have many times before.

Much has happened since the fateful attack that left us orphaned and without a home. Since our reunion at the city of Osgiliath, and subsequent banishment (a long story, to be sure), Boro and I have been wandering the strange, largely uninhabited western realm of Middle-Earth. We have many stories of battles, encounters, sadness and celebration to share, and perhaps in time I will be able to recount them to you. For now, however, let me give you a quick description of our current state. As I write on this parchment, my fingers are chilled with the air of Wildermore, a land of frozen ground and dangerous terrain. Warg-riders roam freely in this land, as over much of Rohan these days. Our latest victory in battle came not against men or Orcs, but against a giant of wood and ice. The mighty Nurzum fell to my arrow, and yet the cold remains. It is unclear to those of this region whether the snow will ever melt again, despite felling the crystalline beast.

From whence did this fish come? I know not.

However, in the meantime, they have devised several “games” of sorts for both themselves and traveling adventurers. Games that seem to repeat in an endless fashion. What type of sport could occupy citizens in such conditions, you ask? Well, one such contest requires throwing nets from horseback over fish that have been stranded (or scattered) on the ice itself. I volunteered to collect the fish by hand, if it be sustenance the people desired, but the games captain simply laughed and handed me a net. Apparently the sport is in the netting of dead fish. Give me a coney on the run any day over such curious seafood hobbies.

Another game in which I have recently participated requires riding my trusty war-horse (I call him “rubberband”) through a series of gates. It is a race, of sorts, but not against other riders. No, this race is against the very sun, for you must complete the course before the sun reaches a certain point in the sky. The dedicated “sun watcher” officially keeps your time, though after several years in his current position I have my doubts as to the accuracy of his vision. The largest challenge of this game is that occasionally, and sometimes often, Rubberband is a difficult beast to control, even for a seasoned horseman. At times, he runs like the very wind, and at other times, as if the mud of the marshes were foreleg deep! Where we will eventually trod is difficult to ascertain.

Ah, but I see Borowolf has arisen from his slumber. When I found him, he was a member of the Osgiliath guard, you know! Now, he uses his skill in battle to aid those in need. His mighty shouts raise the morale of those fighting alongside, and deplete the same from his foes. Perhaps I will encourage him to write to you at some point, when he is back to seeing a single scroll!

I hope that this message finds you well, and perhaps someday our travels will bring us back to South Gondor, where we will meet once again. In the meantime, I believe I will warm myself with another pint.

Sincerely,

Braxwolf

—–

Braxwolf can be found on twitter at @braxwolf

or on Windfola, shooting helpless coneys