Soil. It's been three winters since last I let the soil of my home trickle through my fingers. I know nearly everything there is to know about soil. By feel alone I know the quality of sand, silt and clay. I know when it is right to plant the seed, and I know when it is at times folly. Such is the wisdom of a ploughman.
I remember the first time I left my homestead in the care of my wife, and rode free with my brother for a term. We saw many things in our Éored, and we sang far and wide. One term; then homeward bound. That was the plan. But then came another summons; another long stretch. On it went, less time at home, and more abroad. Before long I knew all the types of soil across the Riddermark. Then my beard grew long, and I was regarded a veteran. Indeed the years crept upon me.
Captaincy is a strange thing to bear. I wondered then why I was offered it. I had ridden for years, yes. I knew the East Emnet, yes. I had endured many conflicts on the borders, yes...but I was, and am still, a tired earth-tiller. There are no tales about me, nor songs that would yet be sung in great halls. All the Captains I had heard about were Lords, or acted so; grand rumours often sent ahead of the Mighty, and great deeds arose about their coming, and remembered song left in their wake. The only movement I have stirred is that of the earth with my bare hands.
But here I am once more, three winters now separated from my Wife, and now my daughter. New faces surround me in a foreign land. My beard is longer, my face hardened, and still I have risen to little renown. But I have come to learn that is not what is meant for me. Indeed, I am not a learned man. But I am wise, and experience is my only friend.
Men. I've come to know nearly everything there is to about my Men. By observing alone, I sense their despair, idleness and courage within them. I know when it is right to plant the seed of hope, and I know when it is at times folly. Such is the wisdom of a Captain.
