''The Inn of Prancing Pony''

Dear Helvari,

I trust that our kin continue to be safe under your watch, and that this letter finds you all in good health.

The patter of the rain hit the roof with a relaxing, soothing sound. Isulril sat, once more, at work on a text. These Breelanders, she thought, They do not understand the grammar in Sindarin, nor the particularly Gondorian manner of grammar. She sighed to herself. Even a scholar in Bree was, she thought, not truly a scholar--at least, not to her mind. But then, she had come from a city where grand libraries were quite a sight to behold, and had a wealth of knowledge at her fingertips.

Knife Juggler (Click to listen)

Ryheric composed this piece after convincing Loakee to juggle his knives outside the Prancing Pony in front of a small crowd. Loakee impressed the audience not only by juggling knives, but also balancing along a narrow wooden beam, leaving a few of the characters nerve wracked, but ultimately entertained at Loakee's showmanship.

Had a tussle with some overly sensitive lad who seemed to think calling over a barmaid to place an order was some grand slight against her maidenly honor or some crock! Has he never had to call up one of Barli's staff over the din of the music and talk between folk? What a fool.

I have noticed the lack of writing in this book of late, but who could blame me? The life of a woman in hiding is not a thing one would call peaceful nor simple. Just the other day, I came to the Prancing Pony for usual purposes. I wished for a drink and had the need to watch the people going in and out of Bree. Outside of the inn, however, there was a young man...no older than eighteen years of age. He lay just near the fountain, groaning and begging for help. I was simply sure someone would help him, as many walked near to him.

Chrysanthe was sitting at her desk, feather pin at hand, her fingers dragged the thick black ink along the page to check a box here and then and then to add the numbers. She look beside her at the bag of gold, a sigh leaving her chapped lips as the amounts of coin and numbers in black ink were not the same. Someone was stealing the gold from the inn. She would have to store it better. Goldy walked in with some of the laundry for the day and gave the younger fire haired hobbit a smile. "Morning Miss Chrysanthemum!" She whistled a tune as she walked past and into the rooms.

Dearest Aldor,

I apologize for the gap between this missive and the last, but several occurrences have set my nerves on edge. Even now, a full day after these events, my hand still shakes as I write to you. In previous letters, you may recall that I made the acquaintance of a Gondorian soldier named Tothrandir. Well... I suppose I shall have to start from the beginning. Nothing else makes sense.

Leothross peered through the darkness trying to make out an object well beyond him. That must be 30 meters, he thought. He took a deep breath, gathered himself, and threw a small  object toward the target with all his might. The object lit up as it flew, spinning wildly, sending flickers of light into the darkness. It hit its target, and blazed brightly for a few moments, illuminating a bare sand bank. It was a perfect spot for practice, he knew. Out, away from civilization, and a comforting view of the land around him.