Letters From the West: Bards and Minstrels and Music, Oh My!

Dearest Bria –

A few days past, I found myself wandering in the realm of Land-Roval, which I’m guessing must be elvish for “Land of Ten Thousand Minstrels” because that is approximately the number of these folk who I encountered in my travel. It was a familiar place, and I found myself navigating the terrain quite easily. However, some things struck me as quite odd, for example my hunting abilities seemed to have left me as soon as I crossed into the realm! Perhaps it was the copious amounts of second-hand pipeweed smoke I was forced to inhale on my trek through Bree, but things that I typically find quite easy to accomplish in the realm of Windfola were very difficult and at times downright impossible in Land-Roval. I could no longer quickly travel to various places, the gold in my pockets seemed to have lightened considerably and beasts who I have easily pinpointed and defeated in the past (such as the lone-lands crabin) were now menacing and dangerous! Vexing.

Speaking of the Lone Lands, I happened upon a thing most wondrous in my travel through that zone. As is my custom when trekking across that barren plain, I began my ascent to the top of the hill called Weathertop, in order to best ascertain where the dangers ahead may lie. As the peak of Amon Sul drew nearer, the most curious thing occurred. Where there is normally only darkness and sounds of scurrying, came a brilliant glow and sounds to match! I’d happened upon some kind of elvish ceremony, I thought to myself. The reality was much stranger, indeed. A huge gathering, of dwarves and men and elves spanned the entire summit from the first spire to the last. Halflings, or children, it was difficult to tell which, ran and jumped this way and that. Dancing and drinking accompanied the laughter filling my ears.

As I watched in wonderment, a brilliant white steed came into view in the pathway leading into Amon Sul. Riding upon that steed was a beautiful woman, or perhaps an elf, dressed all in green, followed by a huge processional. They rode to the top as a conquering army, though most strapped instruments of music to their backs in place of axes and spears. Upon their arrival, I found it difficult to move, as if I was fixed in place by some spell that accompanied these fellows.

As I stood transfixed, the lady dismounted, and glid to her place upon a rock near the centre of the gathering. She welcomed one and all to the celebration of the Weatherstock, and proceeded to introduce musicians of great import from various realms, who in turn, took their places upon the rock to hypnotise the crowd with their notes and song. Less song, and more poetry set to music, I think. There were hobbits singing about biscuits, a song about my friend Gandalf, and a haunting tune about the retaking of Erebor.

Between each band, the lady in green re-appeared to tell stories of how these bands came to be, and to encourage the crowd to raise beacons of support for their favorite minstrels. Beacons did rise, as did cheers and applause whenever a popular troupe appeared at the rock. An eerie, deep purple smoke began to envelop the crowd from the pipeweed being enjoyed by many spectators.

Band after band took to the rock to demonstrate their storytelling skill. So many, and for so long, that my head began to cloud and the faces around me began to blur. “Look at the ground, or the stars” came a voice from within. As I lifted my eyes and took in a deep breath, the music seemed to grow louder and louder, and the stars brighter and brighter, until I closed my eyes and remembered no more.

I pushed the ground away from my chest, and my head felt like a great weight. With effort, I lifted my eyes, and brushed my hair away. Instead of the sounds of merriment I had hoped for, all that remained were the scurrying critters of the night, and the sounds of crabin flapping.  The stars seemed to be laughing as they twinkled from above. Whatever magic had filled the night before had moved beyond my senses. The sounds of Weatherstock still fresh in my mind, I trudged back down the steep slope, hopeful that if my travels bring me to Land-Roval again, I might experience this fine gathering at least once more.

Braxwolf

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Braxwolf can be found on Twitter at @braxwolf

or on Windfola, rejoicing that his hunting skills have returned