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Tales of Bree

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Dindraug
Post subject: Tales of Bree
Posted: Sun 10 Apr , 2005 3:09 pm
Tricksy Elf!
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Location: Tanelorn
 
This is an old tale that was on TORC but I wanted to have here.

It sort of runs alongside the 'Bree Prelude to the Storm 1407' RP. Just stories about the village as background as much as anything.

May be more added ;)

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'When one person suffers from a delusion, it is called insanity. When many people suffer from delusion, it is called Religion'.

~Robert M. Pirsig


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Dindraug
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Posted: Sun 10 Apr , 2005 3:10 pm
Tricksy Elf!
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Posts: 2306
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Location: Tanelorn
 
Remember Licklespittal

In the midsummer afternoon the faint smell of autumnal storms was like a tickle on the back of the neck in the cool wind. Fox sat watching a pair of crows, who had recently proved themselves a bit of a nuisance to the locals. They bullied the wood pigeons out of scraps and had even chased the thrushes away from a feast of snails. Now they flew in sultry circles above the festival, looking for the next easy meal.

“I don’t know why you are so interested in those vermin.” Muttered badger, scratching at a patch of dry skin on the back of his head. He had stayed out too long in the last few sunny days, and was paying the price. Dry skin always made him crotchety.

“They are truly beautiful my old friend. They are the ultimate hunters in the valley, top of the food chain.”

“Pah” snorted Badger, “What about the buzzard that lives by the old willow, or the wolves. At least they actually catch their food”

“That is exactly my point. They don’t need to hunt. They just take what they want, and leave the scraps for everybody else. Those two crows are the real power in the valley. The cats can’t catch them, and the dogs can’t even catch the cats. The buzzard hunts for them, and food is left everywhere for them. They have the perfect life.”

“Huff, Well I still like my food hot. And are they so safe when they sleep? I think not,” replied Badger.

“Might makes right my old friend. It always has, always will”. Said Fox, smugly.

“No!” Barked Badger. Fox almost jumped out of his skin, such was the vehemence behind Badgers words, “Memory makes right.”

“What are you talking about you soppy old fool? Remembering what people did does not make anything they do right. You have been out in the sun too long this summer.” Fox sat back on his heels, switching his tail in the long grass to make a comfortable place to sit. Badger just looked on, and smiled.

“You are right as ever my ginger haired friend,” he said “remembering what somebody did does not make them right. But when the memory fades and the myth remains, then the myth makes them right.”

“Myth,” said Fox incredulously, “Myth takes generations to appear, and means nothing to the immortals”

“Myth takes just one person who was not a witness telling a story. “Badger said, sagely,

“Only last week you convinced the hedge mice to leave because of ‘Scritlaw’”

“Well, yes.” Said Fox, looking slightly abashed.
“You did not pint out to them that Scritlaw was a grumpy old horse that those two halfling brothers took to found the Shire” judged Badger.

“I did not tell them everything; I needed to sleep at night without their incessant gnawing. Besides, I knew Scritlaw. I was the witness, your argument falters on that old Brock,” said Fox, smugly.

“I saw you tell the Hedgehog, who told her friend the shrew, who gossips with the mice, just like you set up. Admit it Fox, you’re a fraud!”

“But the myth had a kernel of truth, so if the myth is good, the memory must be right” said Fox, warming to his idea.

“You can not assume that. You cannot assume that the story told had any truth,” snorted Badger.

“But why then tell the story?” said Fox.

“To make your point. But that does not make it right. I have an example for you. Do you remember Liklespittal?” asked Badger, sitting up to stare out along towards the Withywindle valley over the collection of tents and marquees.


“I remember the name.” Fox concentrated for a moment, his brow furrowing in search of long forgotten tales. “Yes, I remember him. Liklespittal, the scrawny wolf that everybody thought should have died every winter he was that ill. His pack ruled this entire valley. They kept the bears out and chased out that big black furred wolf from the north across the river. He was brilliant, such a clever animal. He always gave us food, even in that harsh winter when the plague stripped the villages.” Fox smiled at the memory.

“Do you remember how he died?” said Badger.

“He was killed in the spring mating by…. err… Two-grass; big wolf with a ginger muzzle.” Said Fox.

“No, that was Fallfour. Liklespittal died one winter. He was wounded by a hunter, who took him in to look after his children when his pack turned on him.” Said Badger.

“Oh yes, now I remember. He used to leave half his food for us after he lost a bet with us. And that one time in the deep snow, he left the door open so that we could go and raid the hunter's food store.” Said fox, and he stopped short. Memories long forgotten appeared in his mind's eye, friends long lost, the valley looking so very different. After a moment a single tear slipping down his silky fur. “That was the day he died. He caught a chill from the open door when the fire went out. The hunter came back and found him curled up on the hearth whist the hunter's wife and child slept in a big pile of furs. I liked Liklespittal.”
Fox lay his head across his paws, and blew out of his nose to disturb an ant that had strayed in her search for food.


“Do you remember how he was remembered” Said Badger coldly.
Fox stared into the middle distance, his nose creased with worry lines as he concentrated hard.

“Yes, I remember! His pack remembered he was a cunning leader, his mate thought he was a good father. Then when Fallfour took over, he was remembered as craven, and a bandit; a scavenger. After Fallfour was killed, Two-grass thought him a great spirit and they venerated his memory for many generations. Then the land was settled by Numenorians from across the sea, and the wolves were driven out. They used all those great dogs, that were descended from wolves, which was a great irony" he said.

“Yes, and even more ironic because they feared wolves as servants of the black enemy” laughed Badger.

“So what is your point? Liklespittal was mighty and he was right. Then Fallfour was mighty and he was right. Then Liklespittal was made even mightier than ever. He was divine, he was right” Said Fox, smiling at his argument, thinking he had won.

“So Fox, who remembers Liklespittal now?” said Badger, staring down at the fair where an Elf and a sweating human were running towards the tents.


Fox sat quietly for sometime, contemplating this. Then he took a small walk, to hunt. When he returned Badger was still watching the fair, concentrating on the maze of bright canvas and the food stalls, but his view partially blocked by new tents that had sprung up since he had last sat down with his vulpine companion.

“Do you understand now my old friend” said Badger. “Those two crows you were so enamoured of were chased off by the buzzard ".

“I still think you are wrong.” said Fox. He pointed at the new tents. “What about them, they make cities out of stone. I remember when they couldn’t tame horses. Are they not mighty, are they not right?”


Badger smiled and scuffed at the ground in front of him. Under the soil he found a broken piece of pottery, and under that was a roof tile, its edge stained and chipped. He dug deeper, pulling out a piece of glass, a mussel shell and a small mass of slag. He dug deeper, and pulled out a clod of soil wrapped around a shard of flint.

“What is that?” said Fox.

“This was the arrow the hunter shot into Liklespittal. This is where it fell all those years ago. And the rest, well they were dropped by every people who have ever settled here. They are almost all forgotten now. The potter who built a village here, or the soldier who was born in Numenor and who died fighting against Sauron when the Elves claimed these lands. They made stories, they were right. For a time. Now who remembers the potter and the soldier? I do not; I never bothered to remember their names. And the people who play at that fair down there are not even aware of the history of this hill, they think it is old because the bodies of their dead princes were buried here hundreds of years ago, when Cardolan fell into ruin. And that was an age of the world after the potter. So all that the potter and the soldier were is represented by this pile of discarded rubbish. They did not become memory or myth. This is all that remains of all those people, their lives and loves, hopes and dreams. They will be lost, and forgotten as well.” Badger scooped up the detritus and deposited it in the hole. Then he looked about him, and grabbed a broken mead bottle that had been dropped, and placed it reverently in the hole, then filled it in.

“Why did you put that in?” asked Fox.

“It just occurred to me. The only things that people have that will survive them are what will not decay. That bottle, if it survives the upheavals of the land, will still be a bottle when the horse woman who dropped it and all she knows is dust, and all memory of her is lost.”

“That is very sad, to be remembered by your discards” said Fox, staring at the mound of earth.

“It is a memory though, and memory makes a right” Said Badger, turning away from the disturbed earth and ambling off into the brambles.

_________________

'When one person suffers from a delusion, it is called insanity. When many people suffer from delusion, it is called Religion'.

~Robert M. Pirsig


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