Category: The Children and the Bard

EACH STORM THAT RAGES

The bard trailed off, as it was quite apparent that the children were no longer paying much attention to the story. He was just getting to the good bit, too. But the family had obviously not been to Archet recently.

“What happened here?” whispered one of the mothers in shock. Her husband held her hand, while the other parents held each other for support. The children, seeing the state of their parents, were mute and somber as well.

The bard cleared his throat. “About a year ago, the brigands hit this town hard.” Seeing the looks in the eyes of his audience, he raised his right hand and placed the other upon his heart. “True story,” he clarified, “not some made-up tale. They called themselves the Blackwolds, and they caused a lot of trouble in Bree-land.”

“Aye, we’d heard of them. We didn’t realize they were brigands, though. They seemed to be on the side of Bree-landers, standing up to the southerners who came trying to take over everything.” The father who had spoken shrugged. “We knew they were thieves and murderers, of course, but since they seemed only to be picking on bullies to begin with, we let it go.”

The bard sighed. “That is how it begins.” He gestured at the town in front of him. “And this is how it ends.”

The town still looked like a burnt-out husk of itself, but it did look better than the last time he had been here. Repairs had resulted in the construction of several small stand-alone shelters around the town center. Small steads had been built in the fields of the dale, and in the distance it looked like the nearby ruins at Bronwë’s Folly had been repurposed into a common living space for refugees from the town.

“It was a citizen of this very town,” the bard continued quietly. “Carter? No, Calder. Calder Cob. He had grown up in Archet, but developed a bit of a gambling problem as he got older. Eventually he had driven away his wife with his habits and was nearly bankrupt himself. The Blackwolds offered a way to pay back his debts. Which he did. But by then he had changed.

“It can be a slippery slope sometimes, you know. Make one mistake, and it becomes easier to make another trying to correct yourself. And on and on the deeds are compounded until you find yourself standing over bodies you have killed while your home is in flames around you. Except that it is no longer your home, not anymore.

“For if home is where the heart is, you no longer have a home.”

One couple was weeping openly, their children close by, unsure of how to act. Usually they would be the ones crying, and their parents the ones to console them. “Can we see Uncle Ned and Aunt Polly now?” one of the little ones asked.

The bard looked away. “Well?” asked one of the fathers. “You’ve been dodging that ever since you learned we were coming to Archet. What do you know?”

The bard drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Raggedly. “Come with me,” he said quietly. “I’ll take you to Ned and Polly.”

The group descended from the cart, and the bard led them over a patch of grass to a nearby farm. Mounds of crops were planted, awaiting the bloom of the harvest. As they approached, however, they began to see with horror that these were no crop-farrows: they were graves.

“This was the Cob family farm, once upon a time. After the burning of Archet, it was made into a grave site for those lost that day.” The bard paused before one of the graves. A metal rod had been planted into the grave, twisted into an ornate knot at the top by some skilled smith.

The ten of them stood there, silently, for some time. Tears fell without shame, and breath came slowly and in harsh intervals. “What happened?” one of the mothers asked at length. “How did they die?”

The bard shook his head. “I wasn’t here for it, so I don’t know exactly what happened. Ned was the jailer, and had several of the Blackwolds in prison for various misdemeanors. I have heard that releasing them was one of the first things that the brigands tried. He must have been killed trying to stop them.”

He knelt over the patch of earth, eyes deep and distant. “As for his Polly, there are a couple of stories surrounding how she died. Some say she died of sorrow soon after Ned drew his last breath. Others say that arcane strangers in red robes among the Blackwolds terrified her, and her heart stopped of sheer fright.” He shrugged sadly. “Sorrow or fear.”

There was a long silence, followed by yet another. The shadows of the trees had slightly shifted before anyone spoke again. “Well, I suppose we had best be headed back,” remarked a father. “We’ve…visited…Ned and Polly.”

As the group climbed back into the cart, one of the younger girls stamped her foot suddenly. “No! It can’t end this way! It can’t!”

“Susie, get in the cart,” her mother said gently.

“No!” she yelled. “There has to be a happy ending! This couldn’t have been for nothing!”

“This isn’t a story, Sue,” started one of the boys.

“I don’t care, Donald!”

“Susie? Is that your name?” The bard’s voice was quiet, and calm. It had a soothing effect on everyone, even little Susie. “Come here, Susie.”

The girl climbed into the cart with the bard and the other children. The bard sighed. “There is a lesson to be learned here, Susie. Do you know what it is?”

She shook her head, but Rose, the eldest girl, chimed in. “Mistakes lead to more mistakes.”

The bard frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Calder Cob. He made one mistake, and in order to fix it, he made another. And another. And another. And with each mistake, things spun out of control until people were killed and towns burned!” She was very close to tears, and was obviously trying hard not to cry in front of her younger siblings.

“Calder Cob made mistakes, yes.” The bard snorted. “A great many mistakes. And he paid for it with his life in the end. But not before a good many other lives were also lost.”

“What about the heroes?” Susie asked suddenly.

“Heroes?” the bard asked, puzzled. “What heroes?”

“In your story, the ones from Bree.”

“What about them, Sue?” Rose asked, a bit annoyed.

“They did wrong too, right?” Susie turned back to the bard. “They were in jail. They broke out. They even stole a person! But they became heroes in the end, right?”

“They fought the goblins and spiders,” chimed in Donald. “And they rescued people from the camps of monsters.”

“And they fought in the Battle of Trestlebridge, didn’t they?” asked Rose, slowly. “They risked their lives to protect people they had just met.”

A slow grin spread across the bard’s face. “Children are a wonderful thing,” he remarked to no one in particular, and chuckled. Then he gazed back down at the children. “There was an old poem that a colleague of mine loved. How did it go…?”

‘The Wheel of Time keeps turning, as lights die and forests dim, storms call and skies break. Turn it will. The Wheel is not hope, and the Wheel does not care, the Wheel simply is. But so long as it turns, folk may hope, folk may care. For with light that fades, another will eventually grow, and each storm that rages must eventually die.'”

He smiled down at Susie. “You see? Mistakes need not lead to more mistakes. Overcoming your mistakes can make you into a hero. But more than that, with all the folk who hope against dread and who care against calamity, overcoming your mistakes and breaking the cycle will make you free…free folk.” A light twinkled in his eyes.

“Look at that!” The children rushed to the back of the cart. A bird had swooped low overhead and was dancing in the sky with its mate. It was a brilliant red color and bright against the dark greens and browns of the dale.

The bard returned to the front of the cart with the parents, listening idly to the sound of the wheels turning along the road back to Bree. “How are the children holding up?” asked one of the fathers.

The bard grinned. “I think they will be just fine.” He was distracted suddenly by a pull on his arm. It was Susie, and she hugged his arm tightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For giving this a happy ending.”

“A happy ending?” The bard laughed. “My dear girl, this is just the beginning!”

Written by GreyMaster

 

Tales of the Free Folk will be taking a short break to make improvements to the show.  We will be returning on January 2nd with GreyMaster as the GM, Andang as a player and also many improvements to the show.  We will give more details over Twitter as we get closer to the next episode.

Miss an episode?  Watch the entire series here.

 

AND SO THE WHEEL TURNS

The wagon clattered over the cobbled streets of Bree, heading toward the dirt trail which led to Combe, and further on, to Archet Dale. The kids peered over the sides of the wagon, looking at the shops which lined the thoroughfare. The effects of the War of the Ring were still visible; a few broken windows were boarded up, and some folk were returning to the few properties which had been abandoned altogether.

At the front of the wagon, the parents of the children conversed quietly with the bard. The grown-ups were talking. “It seems like we are going to be travelling together for some time,” one of the fathers remarked. “Just as well that the kids seem to enjoy having you around.”

“They enjoy having my stories around,” corrected the bard. “If you were the storytellers and I were just a talentless kook who spent too much time at the Prancing Pony, they would care not at all whether I accompanied you or not.” He glanced over at the children, who were still regarding the cityscape with awe. “As it happens, I think they have found other means to occupy themselves.”

“What story are you telling them, anyway?” asked a mother. “I’ve only heard bits and pieces of the tale, but it doesn’t sound like any story I’ve heard before.”

“Oh, just another tale from the War of the Ring,” said the bard. “I think that in time, we will come to know this story as the Chronicles of the Free People, though I think the name still needs some work.”

“It’s not a real story, though, is it?” the other father asked. “I mean, you were just talking about the orcs at Trestlebridge. There’s no way that five people working alone could have halted their operations.”

The bard’s eyes narrowed. “Of course it’s a real story,” he said. “Hadn’t anyone in Bree-land followed the events of Trestlebridge? It directly impacted the rest of you folks. It was a pretty important battle in the War of the Ring, at least in this front.”

“We were more concerned with the increased brigand activity due to the southerners coming up the Greenway.” The man shrugged. “The Battle of Trestlebridge has been a popular setting for re-enactors, but it’s hard to tell sometimes how much is historical record and how much is speculative embellishment.”

The bard did his best to suppress an involuntary cough.

“Anyway, the orcs weren’t stopped that day, were they?” one of the mothers asked. The bard couldn’t tell whether she was the other man’s wife or— no, not that man, the other…never mind. If only he knew their names, perhaps making references to them would be easier.

“No, of course not,” he answered, smiling. They didn’t know his name, either. All was fair, he supposed. “The orcs lasted long enough to make it to the Battle of Trestlebridge, of course. Still, they were…” he cast about for the right word. “Delayed, you might say?”

“What happened to the people in the story?”

“Isabelle!” scolded the other woman, presumably Isabelle’s mother. Ah, a name. “How long have you been listening?” she continued.

“Do you know how loud you are talking up there?” Isabelle retorted. “Besides, he was telling us the story first! Can we hear more?”

“Not until we reach Archet,” said the other woman, the not-Isabelle’s-mother one. “I’m sure the bard could use a break from the storytelling, and you can enjoy the scenery around us!”

The cart rolled to a halt at last at the crest of a hill. Before them stretched the road to their destination.

Archet Dale.

The bard cleared his throat, eyeing the children as they took in with wide eyes the ruined remnants of Archet. True, repairs had begun, but the damage done by its burning over a year ago was still impossible to hide. “So, about the Battle of Trestlebridge…”

Written by GreyMaster

RUN OUT OF TOWN

Two men were standing over a map, carved wooden figurines on the table with them. One of them had a (relatively) straight edge, and was marking out paths on the map. They seemed to go far in one direction, then would suddenly turn around and go far in the other direction. The bard looked over their shoulders for a brief moment, then realized what he was looking at and snorted derisively before continuing on into a back room of the Prancing Pony.

The children bustled up to the table. “What’s going on here?”

“It’s a game we play,” one of them replied, smiling down. He shifted so the kids would have a better view. “We use these figurines to represent soldiers at battle on this map. We mark out each turn how they move, and then we roll these pips to simulate their skill in combat. Whoever rolls the cube and has more pips facing upward is the winner of that encounter and it starts all over again.”

“That’s pretty cool!” one of the boys said.

“I don’t get it,” said the other. “Why are they fighting?”

“They’re not actually fighting,” explained the other man at the table. “They’re just wooden pieces. You have to imagine the intensity of the combat, the stress in the ranks, the scope of the terrain…which incidentally is represented by the map. This is the Battle of Trestlebridge.”

“What’s this piece called?”

“That represents an Orc Sapper™, which throws fire at his enemies,” one man said.

“I call him ‘Kevin’,” the other man said.

“You can’t call him ‘Kevin’…he’s an orc! He should be called ‘Nikabrik’ or something.”

“That sounds more like a Black Dwarf.”

“That doesn’t sound like something from Middle-earth.”

“It probably isn’t. I made it up just now on the spot.”

“We’re forgetting about the kids.”

“Ah, of course.” The pair turned back from their side discussion to the children, who were looking at them as though they were a couple of marbles short of a full collection. “I know we probably look like we’re a couple of marbles short of a full collection,” apologized the speaker, “but we’re just very passionate about our hobby.”

“It started out as a tactic to study conflicts by recreating them, you know,” his friend interjected. “That’s essentially what we’re doing here, with the Battle of Trestlebridge.”

“Who knows? Maybe one day someone will figure out how to set up rules for this game so that we could incorporate some sort of story to the simulation. Then maybe what’s-his-name would join us. Where is he?” The man looked around for the bard, who was nowhere to be seen. “He tells great stories. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Where is Trestlebridge?” the oldest girl and voice of reason in this madhouse of a town asked.

“It’s a town up the Greenway from here.”

“Oh! That Trestlebridge?” The girl looked at her friends with shock. “There was a battle up there? The bard was just telling us about that town!”

The two men shared a look. “There have been many battles all around this land,” one said gravely. “The War of the Ring was not limited to the great kingdoms far away. I doubt there has been a place untouched by the troubles of doom.”

The bard came back hurriedly. “I have good news and bad news, kids. The bad news is, apparently Butterbur doesn’t want me sleeping with the horses. So it’s off on the road I go!”

“But then we won’t get to hear the end of the story!” complained one of the girls.

“Ah, ah, ah…I haven’t told the good news yet: your parents are letting me come along with you kids to Archet!” He beamed. “I know people in Archet, and then there’s…Ned and Polly.” His voice trailed off.

The kids didn’t notice. “What happened at Trestlebridge?” they demanded. “These two said there was a battle there — but that’s where those adventurers went after the farm!”

“What have Helmuth and Gary been telling you?” He eyed them suspiciously. “Have they been spoiling my story? It wouldn’t be the first time…”

Helmuth raised his hands. “Hey, we didn’t know that you were recounting the story of Old Bloodtusk that time! We weren’t trying to muscle in on your story!”

The bard laughed and waved a hand. “I was hardly being serious, my friends. I’ll be back eventually and we can pick up our last match again. But for now I have children to entertain.”

He gazed off into the distance. “It’s a small world, they say. You never know who you’re going to meet…”

Written by GreyMaster

 

Be sure to join us tonight for the fifth episode right after LOTRO Players News.

RECAPITULATION

The Prancing Pony was relatively quiet the next morning. The raucous revelry of drunken guests was not to be heard, replaced with the much lighter sound of children at play in the stables while their parents finished a somewhat awkward breakfast indoors. There had been a minor dispute the night before over who would get to sleep in the bed the two families were sharing.

Obviously, the children got the bed.

“You can’t catch me!” sang one of the girls.

“Watch me, Susie!” her brother laughed, climbing onto a stack of hay. The bale shifted suddenly, and a hand grabbed the boy’s ankle. He screamed as a man rose out of the feed.

“You need to be careful around these piles,” said the bard. “They can be unstable.”

“What are you doing out here?” asked the other boy as his friend was let down gently from the haystack and the bard brushed horsehair off of his clothes. “Did you…sleep here?”

The bard looked shiftily out of the corner of his eye. “Our little secret,” he winked.

“Does Mr. Butters know you sleep here?” a girl asked.

“Yes, of course he does,” replied the bard, waving a hand nonchalantly. “I wash the tables after closing time, and he lets me stay back here with the horses free of charge. Well,” he looked around, “there are no horses here right now, but they are wonderful to talk to.”

“You talk to the horses?”

“Yes. How else do you think I rehearse my stories?”

“That’s so cool!”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“So tell us more stories!”

“It’s a bit early in the morning, don’t you think?”

“That’s true,” the eldest girl said slyly. “We should go back to our parents and let Mr. Butterbur know that his live entertainment is awake.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” interrupted the bard. “You do want to know what happens next, don’t you?”

The children were already sitting in a semicircle around the hay pile. The bard smiled and arranged a seat for himself. “Now, where were we?”

“They had just fought the goblins in the swamp,” said one of the girls.

“What else is in the swamp?” asked her sister.

“Spiders, dead people…not much else.” The bard frowned. “Come to think about it, the marshes were so boring that they made for the town of Combe for some much-needed refreshment and repairs.”

“Did the drinker woman get into any fights?”

“Almost.”

“Did the Dwarf and the man get into an argument over who would repair their armor?”

“How’d you guess?”

“They wound up paying someone to fix it, didn’t they?”

“Of course.”

“Did the Hobbit finally leave her captors and get a promotion from the constabulary?”

“Where did you learn a word like ‘constabulary’? You can’t be more than six years old.”

“It’s been a strange year.”

“Indeed it has.” The bard looked at the children strangely, as though he had bad news to deliver but was keeping it to himself. “No and yes,” he said at length. “Pineleaf was offered a promotion, but she turned it down to keep with the others.”

“What? Why?”

The bard shrugged. “I’m sure she had her reasons.”

“And the helmet? How much did they get for it?”

“They didn’t actually sell the helmet for beer money,” laughed the bard. “They are actually trying to find a Ranger to tell them more about it.”

“And what does it all mean? What can you tell us?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see. Shall we continue?”

Written by GreyMaster

 

Be sure to join us tonight for the fourth episode right after LOTRO Players News.

 

FOUR MINUTES LATER

“Were there really that many goblins in the goblin camp?” asked the eldest girl, a little bit skeptical.

The bard paused mid-sentence and winked. “I may have exaggerated just a little bit,” he admitted.

“I thought they’d never be done with that camp!” The older of the two boys shifted position. “I want to know more about the Halfling, but that fight took forever!”

“It was only four minutes long,” protested the bard. He sighed and gestured at the adults at the table. “I’m sorry, kids,” he apologized, “but I know they appreciate the details of combat.”

“We don’t have the attention-spans of sickle-flies,” grunted the Dwarf. One of the girls offered a succinct rebuttal in the form of a blown raspberry. The Dwarf held her gaze for a spell, then returned his attention to the empty tankard on the table.

The bard cleared his throat, about to continue the story when the children’s parents approached behind old Barliman Butterbur. “It’s time for bed, kids,” called one of the mothers.

“Aye,” grumbled her husband. “And it looks like we’re sharing a room with this other family.”

“My deepest apologies,” hastened Butterbur, nervously mopping his sweaty forehead with a dishcloth, “but we have been very busy and as I always say, one thing drives out another!”

“You always say that?” the other father asked, arching an eyebrow. “Just how often do you get things wrong around here, anyway?”

“Be polite, Bertrand!” admonished his wife. “Now come, children,” she called. “We have a busy day tomorrow, you know that.”

“That’s right,” added the other mother. “We’re going to visit your Uncle Ned and Aunt Polly tomorrow. It’ll be a wonderful surprise!”

“Ned? Polly?” The bard raised his hands in apology. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to intrude. Yes, the children had best be going off to bed. We can continue the story tomorrow over breakfast.”

The children slightly dejectedly said good-night to everyone in the parlor (they were, after all, very well-mannered children) and followed their parents to the (large, thankfully) room that Butterbur had inadvertently checked both families into.

“What, did you recognize the names?” asked Butterbur curiously.

The bard looked wryly at the innkeeper. “Why, didn’t you?”

“Yer a storyteller, not a riddler,” complained the man at the other table. “Enough with the mystery!”

“Well, every story has its mysteries,” resumed the bard as he faced what remained of his audience. “For example, what was that helmet found at the goblin camp?”

“Probably just something shiny that caught the goblins’ eye,” muttered the woman, bored.

“I don’t think so!” roared the Dwarf, slightly drunk. He noticed Butterbur’s stern look and lowered his voice. “Right, the kids. Sorry. I don’t think the goblins would have been so organized to make a foray into the Marshes just to be distracted by shiny armor.”

The bard smiled. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s your bedtime too. Come on now, off to sleep.” The bard took a last pull from his tankard and handed it to Butterbur. The others grumbled but complied. Some headed up to rooms they had rented, while others headed out to their homes in the town.

“The usual bed tonight, eh?”

“Afraid so, sir.” The bard chuckled and stood up. “I can help clear off the tables, though. You go sleep.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?” But Butterbur gave a short wave and headed to his cot behind the counter, mumbling something about a Halfling who never showed up to work now that his daughter had a more successful business in town.

The bard ran the rag he had been given over one of the tables, cleaning up the rings of water formed from the condensation of cold beverages throughout the evening. Ned and Polly…now there’s a story I hope never to have to tell. He paused. Those were good kids. I’m going to have to tell that story, aren’t I?

Outside he could hear the sound of the Bree-town watch passing by the inn. His mind drifted back to the other story, to the events of a little over one year ago…

Written by GreyMaster

 

Be sure to join us tonight for the third episode right after LOTRO Players News.