Smoked reindeer en’t bad – Basically venison, but with more juniper berries. And Lossoth make a decent kind of pie in their own right: It be sort of like a bilberry tart, an’ sort of like a cream cheese cake. Imma replicate it sometime.
In the lodge at Pynti-Peldot, Mister Lothrandir an’ I had a good long yarn o’ things. Me travels from Twilight Lake, he were very interested in – most specifically what all the Beardie Dorfs Mister Ofráth an’ Leithólf said to me on recent distribution o’ the nasty Wolf Folks.
Says I, what be your interest in these Gauredain, then?
Says he, it en’t his interest in ‘em half so much as it is someone else’s interest in ‘em what be the issue.
I ‘fess ter not being terribly well-learnt on the subject o’ the North lands’ gnarliest neighbor.
Angmar, they calls it.
An’ I tells yeh – outside a rare ballad or two in the archives of bardic academy – there en’t a single treatise on it in any library smial in the whole o’ the Shire: Whatever history an’ machinations I knows of, comes from libraries in Duillond, or Missie S’s personal collection, whenever she lets me in.
That the region be rich with iron ore (hence the name), and were once a thrivin’ frontier for Beardie Dorfs, be common knowledge. Least till it were taken over by gnarly Orcs an’ creepy Wig-its in dressing gowns, an’ such.
T’anyrate, Angmar’s been a right thorn in the side o’ the Dúney green-hoods for yonks.
“An’ they be allies wi’ the Gauredain, then?” I ventures, bringin’ the threads together.
“That’s the trouble,” he says. “They usually aren’t.”
The burly lad paused ter light up: Orders an’ missives aside, the parcel I'd brought contained a few supplies an’ indulgences, includin’ a big pouch of dried kingsfoil – I guess it don’t grow here in the snow – as well as Longleaf baccy, which he were very happy to see (also a letter ‘e tucked away in his hauberk without readin’ in front o’ company. Cheeky boy gots ‘imself a lady-friend, do he? Tee hee).
But I digress.
Angmar’s known to've occasionally use this ice-land as a conduit to Evendim in times past. Hence why the Dúney Green-hoods keeps a field agent posted here to reconnoiter the place.
But Angmarim be just as liable to get bogged down in a scrap with the Wolf Folks afore even makin’ it to Evendim’s borders. So Mister Lothrandir’s job be somewhat eased in knowin’ both sets of his enemies hold one another in mutual enmity as well.
All of that’s apparently changed, though. On a recent hunting trip with some Lossoth mates, he observed at quite a distance a couple dodgy characters in brick-red garb, an’ a couple massive Wolf Folk together. They dinnae appear to be in combat. ... Rather, they ‘ppeared to be in dialogue.
Mister Lothrandir’s been makin’ sweeps o’ the region twixt the Ironspan an’ the southern borders ever since. True enough, he observed more red garbed an’ Wolf-pelted ne'er-do-wells together.
He were on his way to investigate farther westward when I met ‘im.
That the Iron Crown of Angmar could be treatin’ with the Wolf clans, whom they’d previously held in mutual neutral hostility? – Thar be a new an’ worrisome development.
Historically, Gauredain hold allegiance to no banner of Men. They lives for violent hierarchy, and the glory o’ the Hunt. Gold means little to ‘em, so they be hard to buy. So what do the Iron Crownies possibly want that'd cause them spend whatever resources an’ creative diplomacy it takes to secure such a prickly coalition? – Thar be what preoccupies Mister Lothrandir so.
Stands to reason, I says, that Angmar be in want of somethin' here, then. Here in the snows.
“Aye.” He nodded gravely. “That’s what I aim to find out.”
Says I, can I be of help? His brow furrowed, conflicted. Let me think on it, he says. Plainly he’d like help: Would that only I were a Green-hood, or a Lossoth with a brawny arm an’ a hefty bow. Granted, I be a mite lackin’ in what a seasoned warden like him might call proper martial trainin’, beyond the whoppage of screechy Gobbos. But I do gots clearance to aid the Green-hoods. (Do I also just wanna see another Woolly Oliphant? ... Irrelevant, shush).
While he cogitated on the matter, and spoke to his Lossoth mates for more news, I went an’ offered any help I could about the village. Yeh know: Payback fer hospitality an’ such.
I washed up some dishes in the lodge. Helped feed the few horses an’ MANY sled dogs they had. Carried meals an’ hot drinks to the watchmen at the gates. – Easy peasy.
Then some bloke called Kaj approached in a manner most surreptitious an’ nervous. He asks if I’d discreetly collect a few goods he needed: some thick furs an’ stout rope, an’ a sledge. I figgered t’were all knick-knacks he’d carelessly left lyin’ about, or lent out.
Not till he asks me to stand guard outside a house, into which he entered, then reemerged with a black eye an’ a LOT of ruckus did I start to wonder. The sorrel-haired lady who flew out after Mister Kaj called him several things I should probably be grateful not to know the translation of. But then they fell over on the sled an’ started snogging. The whole village cheered. Turns out I inadvertently ‘elped set up some kinda botched bridal kidnappin' ritual.
I thought Mister Lothrandir was NEVER going to stop laughing.
I needed a drink after that. Fortunately, thar were now the order o’ the day fer the whole village.
Mister Lothrandir spoke true enough, though: Lossoth spirits be a curiosity. They distills a drink from TATERS, of all Boffin-loving things. Use what yeh gots, I s’ppose.
Oi.
Tater-spirits do a fantastic number on one’s head in quantity. An’ as it were now a celebratory occasion, there were very ample quantity.
For the sake of a good story, I’d like to say I ended up under the table with some very handsome an’ vigorous exotic ice lad. Honestly, though, given the number ‘o people who ultimately fell asleep at the Great Lodge, the snoring was so thunderous I took me bedroll an’ slunk out, curlin’ up instead in the giant pile of sled dogs.
Mister Lothrandir found me the next mornin’ brushin’ the whole pack of ‘em.
Arvo, the alpha charcoal lead runner, seems to like me since I introduced ‘im to bacon. Elea, the white fluffy one’s got teeth like a bear trap. But her first impressions hold up: she just be a big hammy ball of silly.
Lookin’ us all over, Mister Lothrandir ‘ppeared to come to a decision.
If nothin’ else, having a care-taker for the pack’ll give HIM more time to hunt for Angmarim.
The high tundras be no place fer a pony. So Jonagold were loaned to Pynti-Peldot to run the mill wheel an’ haul some timber fer a few days. Mister Lothrandir loaded the sledge up, popped me on top, an’ told me to hold on.
* * *
