From Applecider Bolingbroke, at House Bar & Acorn on Waterbank Road, in the Elf-folks’ village of Torn-in-a-Duel, Fall o’Thorn,
To Lancogard North-Took, Hon. Deputy-Shirriff, Offices of the Watch, Brockenborings, Northfarthing the Shire:
My dear an’ estimable Sir,
Salutations, an' me respects ter all yer fellow officers of the watch what keeps the peace: May yer eggs at second breakfast be forever done exactly just-so in the yellow middles, an' yer bacon ter crispy perfection.
I were thrilled as a copper still ter be in receipt of yer post by eagle firs’ thing after lunch today.
Hurrah!
E’nt Windy a hoot? (meanin’ no pun by it)
He do give a body a bit of a start if yeh sleep a mite late of a morning an’ wake up ter see them giant gold eyes peerin’ right down at yeh cause food were half a straw behind schedule (fer yer own knowin’, his favorite fish of all be freshwater trout).
Also, “Windwalker” be an apt name fer a eagle, an no mistakin’ that, but (strictly ‘tween you an’ me), he do ‘fess ter me tha’ be the most commonplace name any Elf ever gives his messenger-bird in the history of all the Ages. So I calls him “Charles” when Miss Seregrian be walkabouts. He’s nae so impressed by the legacy (I tried ter ‘splain tha’ were the name of the Hobbit what invented beer), but, I gather the enunciation sounds hilariously funny ter bird ears, so he likes it.
But I digress.
I cannae claim ter be surprised yer efforts ter suss out the scruffy ruffian met with early dead-ends – Bless yeh fer a barrel o’ barley hops fer tryin’ though:
You, Sir, be a Gentleman.
I be of a hope fer more fruitful hunts in future. Thar be a common trope in heroic balladry (an’ we all knows balladry be based on tales o’ history, an’ therein be the facts of life): The reprobate always vanishes fer a year-an’-a-day, or five years, or ten years, or seven years, afore resurfacin’ at the least opportune moment available.
(really Lance; I dinnae ken what it be about things, what requires unresolved drama fer periods o’ specifically seven years, but it be in an AWFUL lot o’ folk songs. I’ll run yeh through a sampling next time we’ve had a couple o’ rounds)
I also hopes yeh brought bandages, cause th’other thing balladry be in universal agreement about is the valiant underestimated hero gettin’ the turkey stuffing trounced out of ‘im on the first go, so’s the stakes are clear ter all parties. Much as I value ye, I’d rather see yeh keep most o’ yer stuffing within yeh.
But when yeh DO unearth the rapscallion, juss’ remember ter count the seconds ‘tween lightning an’ thunder, so yer properly backlit when yeh burst in.
An’ bear in mind that -- “Villainous cur! Iniquitous knave and dastardly scoundrel, unworthy of the very name of Man: Verily I say unto thee: Thou hast ill-used a Lady, and by Bullroarer’s Breath, and by mine honor, thy machinations vile art come to an end! TREMBLE NOW AT THE HOUR OF THY RECKONING!!!” -- be a fair more assertive opening argument than, “Yeh gots the rights ter say nuthin’.”
T’any rates, till then, if yeh fancy honin’ yerself up a scratch, get this: Word on the floral-mosaic pathways hereabouts be, Mister Sir Herestel be in th’ process of settin’ up fer some Elf Tourney, fer which I be preppin’ vittles.
I says ter him we gots Tourneys in th’ Shire as well. Well THAT gots him ter raisin’ his infuriatingly-perfectly-arched eyebrows: Boy did he want ter know all ‘bout that.
But after a few o’ them sweet Elf wines from Door-Win, we were sadly forced ter concede our definitions were a shade or so of a different color: Elf Tourneys be more about sharp pokey objects, and thar be no chickens runnin’ about the goal posts.
Mister Sir Herestel gots all highbrow then, an’ said Elf Tourneys were more reflective o’ “true” combative settings.
I says ter HIM that were nae true in the slightest: Elf Tourneys has rules, an’ boundaries, an’ everyone be both respectful, an’ in agreement on what be acceptable courses of action. Hobnanigans have NONE ‘o that, as everybody be in a team free-fer-all, an’ when yeh add some chickens?
Chaos! No honor, no quarter. Pure unrelenting chaos!
THAR be a representation ‘o warlike engagement.
Mister Sir Herestel had several more drams whilst he tried ter think of a way ter dispute that. An I dinnae like ter see a chap drink alone, so I had some more with him.
Then Miss Sergie finally showed face fer the first time in near two days (I figger she ran outta coffee up in the Tower), and asked what in Thingol’s name we were on about, an’ how by all the Valar at once we’d made inroads like that on her crates o’ Door-Win white.
I were nae sure how to ‘splain that away without repeatin’ the entire evenin’s debate, so I juss said, “I win!” an’ went ter bed while she stood round lookin' perplexed.
Thar be a roundabout way o’ me sayin’ I hopes yeh come by ter witness this sharp pokey stick event. Maybe if yeh claim it be fer improvin’ yer martial prowess fer the Bounders, yeh can write it off as a working trip? I’ll send yeh the details as soon as I sniffs them out.
Till then, I hopes yer duties be of the engaging-but-unharried sort, an herewith enclose with this letter a variation on me normal raspberry pie. Let me know what yeh think. The kick of lemon do give it a fun an’ unexpected twist, but I be of two minds about the cinnamon.
Convivially an’ respectfully yours,
Applecider Bolingbroke
