OOC - Author's Notes:
Status: Complete - This compilation contains 7 entries, 7/7.
These stories form a multi-part chronicle, which can be found here.
Stories in this post include (click to jump directly to them, or scroll below):
- “The Enemy of My Profit is My Partner”
- “Too Much Curiosity, Not Enough Plausibility”
- “The Great Display”
- "The Fall of Kellop"
- "A Quiet Lad and a Heavy Coin"
- "Catch the Caravan, Count the Coin"
- "The Return of the Customer"
Author’s Note: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own, but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI support in producing it ultimately.
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twenty-Second – “The Enemy of My Profit is My Partner”
Didn’t think it’d come to this.
After weeks of undercutting, one-upmanship, and passive-aggressive compliments, Kellop, yes, that Kellop, approached me with a proposal.
Met behind the stables. Quiet. He came alone. Said he had an opportunity. I asked if it involved shovin’ each other into carts until someone gave up. He didn’t laugh.
Turns out there’s a new aide to the Mayor, a Mister Henrick Thistlebank, fresh from Michel Delving, eager to “modernise” Bree’s trade practices. Likes ledgers, loves policies, and has a particular weakness for "rare cultural artefacts."
Kellop, curse him, had already sold Henrick a “mystical Shire-bound Elven acorn flute,” which was actually a hollowed twig, with a nut strung on it using pony-hair. The man paid ten silver and asked if there were more like it.
And that’s when Kellop said it:
“I can’t fleece the Mayor’s aide again by myself. But together... we could bring him… a collection of artefacts…”
I should’ve walked away. I wanted to walk away.
But I didn’t.
We pooled our finest wares: my “Gondorian Inkstone” (a melted candle holder), Kellop’s “Elven dewcatcher” (a cracked glass funnel), and one of Ludon’s better-crafted certificates of provenance... signed in made-up runes, of course.
Then we arranged a private showing, with Barliman’s own-brew Tea leaves, and called it:
“The Lost Treasures of Eriador: A Preservation Proposal.”
Henrick lapped it up. Said he’d “bypass the Merchant’s Guild” and “speak with the Mayor directly” about “budgeting for the acquisition of cultural rarities” to “beautify Bree’s civic spaces.” I might have made a few of those same suggestions; what a coincidence… He said the Inktone had “deep symbolic resonance.” I said, “Aye, it’s seen many stories.”
He paid twenty silver. Twenty.
Afterwards, Kellop and I split the profit. Even shook hands, though I did check to make sure nothin’ was lifted in the process.
He called it a truce. I called it a temporary diversification of market strategy.
We’re not friends. But we’re dangerous together.
Ludon’s suspicious. I told him to trust me, and then spent the rest of the night wonderin’ why I trusted me.
If this gets out, the Guild’ll hang me; they’ll throw out my Trusted Trader Scheme petition!
If it works though... well, maybe I’ll have create a direct line to the Mayor himself!
—V. Copperhand, Cultural Liaison (Unofficial), Entrepreneur in Collaboration
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twenty-Third – “Too Much Curiosity, Not Enough Plausibility”
It was bound to happen.
When you fleece a well-dressed official with a weak spot for stories, you’ve got a grace period. A short one. Today, I learned exactly how short.
Mister Henrick Thistlebank, Aide to the Mayor, returned, all smiles and soft shoes, but this time, he brought a notebook. A notebook. With tabs.
Said he’d been “going over the acquisition records,” and had “a few clarifying questions” before he made his report to the Mayor. Clarifying? No one's ever asked me to clarify anything except “Is this rust or mystical staining?”
He asked where the “dewcatcher” was discovered.
Kellop said “Rivendell.”
I said “a ruin near Rivendell.”
Ludon coughed and muttered quietly, “It’s from a shed in Archet.”
We changed the subject quickly. Henrick didn’t press it, yet, but I saw the furrow in his brow. A thinking man. Dangerous.
Then came the Merchant’s Guild.
Master Frimsi himself stopped by… under the pretext of “checking on Guild merchant’s welfare.” He looked at my stall. He looked at Kellop’s. He looked at the pair of us with the tired squint of a Dwarf who knows he’s not gettin’ the whole tale, but doesn’t have time to dig for it yet.
He asked if I’d heard anything about “funds moving around in the Mayor’s office under the guise of “cultural preservation activities”.
I laughed awkwardly; claimed ignorance… but that Dwarf’s got a sharp mind behind those eyes let me tell you, if he figured I was lying, he at least felt his cards were better played by leaving me to dig myself a deeper hole.
Later, another so-called ‘prominent’ member of the Guild cornered me behind the baker’s house and said there were whispers of a “merchant bloc” forming, unaffiliated, unauthorised, and suspicious alliance between certain street-traders for rare and unusual goods…. Said if there was somethin’ goin’ on of that sort, then the Guild would expect “transparency” ... “and a cut”!
Transparency! I nearly offered to sell them some.
The tide’s shiftin’. The scam’s still holdin’…. just barely….. but I can feel the cracks. Ludon’s askin’ questions with his eyes. Kellop’s started whistlin’ a little too cheerfully…. counting his chickens before they roost.
So now I’ve got three options:
- Do I come clean to the Guild (not happenin’).
- Pin the entire scheme on Kellop and back out (temptin’).
- Turn this into a legitimate cultural exhibit, before anyone can prove it’s not.
Three is the hardest. So obviously… it’s what I’m gonna try.
Ludon says it’s madness. I told him “It’s business.”
—V. Copperhand, Cultural Curator, Proud Owner of Plan C
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twenty-Fourth – “The Great Display”
If I were a braver Dwarf, I’d have run.
Instead, I set up an exhibition!
No more stallfront schemin’. No quiet pitch in an alley. This was big. This was public. This was... ‘The First Annual Gathering for the Appreciation and Preservation of Cultural Wonders of the West’. Name’s a bit long, but adds weight.
Held right in front of The Prancing Pony, where the light’s good and the people can’t pretend not to notice. Butterbur himself backed me. Set out barrels of his second-best ale, rolled out a few benches, even hired a fiddler or two. Said, “You helped me when the taps failed, Copperhand.... seems right to return the favour.”
That’s loyalty. Or more likely the ol’ coot saw the potential to attract overnight customers in the doors…. Either way, he helped bring the crowd, but I had to also call in all my favours with the people around town that I’d met along the way in order to stack the crowd in my favour…
And what a crowd it was!
That butcher whose display I complimented every week? Came to provide free samples.
That old woman I once walked home (after sellin’ her a ‘blessing charm’)? She brought three of her neighbours along with her, saying I was a good chap.
A lad I sold my old pair of boots to? Why he stood at the gate in those same boots and said to people, “You’re lookin’ for the Copperhand exhibit, Sir/Madam? … well’s it’s right this way.” (whether they were lookin’ for it or not).
Even Marta, the garlic-seller, brought her kin along. She was wearin’ her best shawl and tellin’ everyone she knew around the market to come by.
And it worked. The square filled. A crowd.
Bree’s mix of muddy sleeves and middle-class manners, all gathered round my exhibition like it was the crown of Thorin himself.
People waved. People pointed. People drank, and People bought.
On display today:
– A fragment of a Gondorian beacon, charred at the tip, labelled “Torch of Courage, Third Age.” (In truth, it’s a fence post I dug from an old field).
– A sliver of ‘ancient ice’ sealed in glass, allegedly harvested from a Trollshaws glacier (actually salt crystal, misted by Ludon every hour).
– A brass bird-shaped talon said to be “a messenger’s relic of Númenor.” (Kellop found it. It’s likely a candle snuffer).
– A reliable Dwarrow-made compass (points south, mostly).
– An Elven Windchime (a twisted coathanger with plenty of fishnet… no moving parts; ‘silent out of respect’ of course).
Each had its own plaque, its own origin story, and, thanks to Ludon, its own convincingly aged document of provenance, signed by names I made up over a pint and a stale roll the night before.
And the people ate it up.
Even respectable merchants, folk who once crossed the street to avoid me, nodded appreciatively.
Henrick Thistlebank, Aide to the Mayor himself, arrived at the exhibition’s peak. Notepad in hand. Quiet, but nodding.
Kellop hovered nearby, smiling that oily little smile. He knew this was it. We’d pulled it off. One grand show to silence Henrick’s concerns… to even silence the Guild, and root ourselves in Bree’s very fabric as cultural merchants of the highest.
The exhibit went on. No slip-ups. No questions I couldn’t answer.
Rumours swirled that the Mayor might appear. He didn’t. But someone said his cousin’s cousin was there, which is close enough for me.
And then...
A shout. From the side of the square.
Two of the Watch, were pushing through the crowd.
Henrick looked up. So did I. One of the guards was holding a piece of parchment. A seal.
Butterbur stopped pouring.
The music faltered.
The crowd turned.
The taller Watchman read aloud: “By order of the Mayor’s Office, an investigation is hereby opened into matters pertaining to forged civic documentation, improper use of Guild associations, and the sale of goods under false cultural representation...”
My breath stopped. Ludon clutched the display stand. Kellop took a step backward.
Then, the Watchman looked straight at me.
“...naming as principal actor—”
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twenty-Fifth – “The Fall of Kellop”
The Watchman’s voice rang like a hammer on an empty helm:
“...naming as principal actor—Kellop, purveyor of ‘Kellop’s Curios.’”
A beat of silence.
The crowd blinked.
Ludon, showing his sharp mind, whispered to me, “You didn’t.”
I most certainly did.
Kellop turned to me, eyes wide as twin copper plates. For a moment, he looked like a lad what just realised the bridge wasn’t finished on the other side while at full gallop on a pony. Then he laughed, nervous, weak, tried to speak.
But the guards were already beside him. One had a slip of parchment in hand: a forged supplier list.... complete with Kellop’s “signature” linking him to the suspect documents and provenance scrolls. The seal? Matched the “Trust & Quality Stamp” Kellop had been handing out about town these past few days…. my original design, conveniently edited mind you.
He blustered, stammered, pointed at me. I gave the Watch my most wounded expression and said:
“I was as shocked as anyone. But I’d started to suspect... especially after that business with the supposed Fornost flute. I tried to warn the Guild, I really did.”
Frimsi appeared mid-chaos, arms folded, nodding grimly. Quick as a bird he said he’d “been concerned for weeks” and was “pleased to see the truth come to light.” I could’ve kissed him. I settled for a solemn nod, but he could see the glint in my eyes. I’d owe him for this.
Henrick, meanwhile, looked overwhelmed. Which is to say, easy to steer.
“Transparency wins the day,” I told him, slipping a fresh copy of my latest petition into his pocket. “Let this be a lesson for Bree's benefit.”
Kellop was led off, still shouting about conspiracies and betrayal. Technically not wrong.
The crowd broke into scattered applause, more from relief than loyalty, but I’ll take it.
Butterbur clapped me on the back and poured me a strong one. Ludon stayed quiet the rest of the night.
Can’t say I feel proud. But I feel... secure. Which is almost the same.
Never enter into an alliance you can’t get yourself out of, is what I always say; well, not out loud at any rate.
Tomorrow, I clean up the displays. Reinforce the trust. Show face at the Merchant’s Guild with a clean ledger (not this!). Might even offer to “consult” on future quality assurance checks on any future exhibitions being planned!
As for Ludon... he’ll understand. Eventually. This is the business. The game. The road.
And me? I’m still standin’.
—V. Copperhand, Survivor of the Squeeze, Builder of Bree’s Bright Tomorrow
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twenty-Sixth – “A Quiet Lad and a Heavy Coin”
Funny how the crowd fades faster than their applause.
Yesterday I was clapped on the back, handed a mug, called “Bree’s most upstanding merchant” by a man who once accused me of selling him an “invisible razor.” Kellop’s out of the picture, my role in the scheme is as a victim, and I’ve emerged with a little more coin and a lot more credibility.
So why does Ludon keep avoidin’ my eyes?
We didn’t speak much after the arrest. He helped pack up. Didn’t grumble. Didn’t praise. Just tied cords too tight and didn’t laugh when I made the “now we’re a legitimate business” joke.
This morning, he wasn’t at the cart.
Found him sittin’ by the east fence, knees pulled in, starin’ out like he expected the Greenway to answer his thoughts.
“You sold him out,” he said. Flat. No fire. Just truth.
I tried to explain. That Kellop would’ve done worse. That it was him or us. That I’d made a choice to survive.
Ludon just nodded.
“You’re clever, Master Vratni. And you always land on your feet. I’m just not sure anymore if I want to land the same way.”
Now that cut.
I ain’t a soft Dwarf. Never have been. But that lad’s been with me since my second sale in Bree. Helped carry the cart, haggled with toothless pensioners, spotted thieves and opportunity alike. I gave him his first belt pouch. His first proper coat. And I thought I was givin’ him a future.
Turns out I gave him a front-row seat to what it costs.
He didn’t leave. Not yet. Said he needed to think.
And me? I spent the rest of the day just sittin’ by the cart. Didn’t sell a thing. Didn’t open the ledger. Just watched the street and wondered how I’m supposed to teach him to be sharp and good.
Can’t go soft. Bree’s not kind to fools. But maybe... just maybe... I can find a way to show him you don’t have to be cold to be clever.
We’ll see.
—V. Copperhand, Merchant of Means, Wonderin’ Who’s Watchin’
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twenty-Seventh – “Catch the Caravan, Count the Coin”
Just when I thought Bree had gone quiet on me, in rolled a caravan from Dale, seven wagons long, banners flappin’, wheels screamin’, horses lookin’ half-dead and handlers worse. They were passin’ through on their way south, stoppin’ for a day to trade, restock, and share road gossip (most of it made up, I expect).
Naturally, I was already waitin’ by the time the second wagon creaked to a halt.
These folk? Tired, dusty, ready to buy anythin’ that ain’t nailed down. They’re not lookin’ for heirlooms, they’re lookin’ for stories to tell at campfires, baubles to swap for ale, charms to keep the wagon wheels from fallin’ off.
I sold a man a “Sand-Stone of Rhûn”, a rock I scuffed in soot and rubbed with oil. Told him it hums at sunrise. (It don’t.)
I sold a woman a “Northman’s Wind-Catcher”, it was a fishing bobber tied to copper wire. Said it would change direction before storms. (It wobbled convincingly.)
Even convinced one of the scouts that my bent iron hook was a “Warg-Tooth Tether” used in ancient battle rites. He paid in silver. Said he’d show it to his captain.
I was on fire.
Ludon stood nearby, quiet again, but I caught the ghost of a grin when I sold a broken bit of comb as a “miniature harp carved by Shirefolk.” Even he couldn’t keep a straight face when the buyer asked what song it played and I told him “only sad ones.”
Best part? These folk are leavin’ at dawn. They’ll be 20 leagues away by the time any of ‘em realises their bauble’s more bluff than blessing… and I’ll be back at the Pony, sippin’ ale and polishin’ my next pitch.
You see, that’s the joy of passin’ trade: They buy fast. They pay in coin. And their complaints echo in lands I’ll never visit.
Tomorrow, I may go back to fixin’ my reputation. But tonight? I’m rich in empty purses and full wagons.
And that’s the kind of feelin’ that reminds me: I’m still the best merchant in Bree.
—V. Copperhand, Caravan Opportunist, Maestro of Momentary Magic
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twenty-Eighth – “The Return of the Customer”
Was enjoyin’ a well-earned second breakfast (cold pie, suspect cheese, excellent pipe) when the caravan was already leagues down the Greenway, and who should storm into Bree red in the face and drippin’ mud?
That scout.
The one what bought the “Warg-Tooth Tether.”
He stomped up to my cart, slapped the thing on the table like it owed him money, and shouted,
“This is a tent peg!”
I leaned back, took a long draw from my pipe, and said,
“Aye, and a mighty one, used to secure war banners at the siege of Carn Dûm, or so the story goes.”
“It bent when I sneezed!”
“As any ancient relic would. Fragile, timeworn, steeped in historical resonance...”
He wasn’t havin’ it. Demanded a refund. Said I’d “swindled a loyal traveller.” Accused me of sellin’ “rubbish.” That last one stung a little.
So I changed tack.
“What you have, my friend,” I said, “is a story. Not a thing. Not an item. A tale. You bring that peg to any tavern from here to Gondor, and someone’ll buy you a drink just to hear how you were duped by the cleverest dwarf in Bree.”
He blinked. Hesitated. Just a bit.
That was my gap.
I reached into the crate, pulled out a battered copper medallion and said:
“Here. To sweeten it. Dale-marked luck token. Worn smooth by a hundred journeys. No extra charge.”
He stared at it.
“Is it real?”
“It’s shiny, ain’t it?”
He took it.
He took it.
Left grumblin’, but quieter. Might’ve even smirked. Ludon said later he heard the scout boastin’ about the “clever dwarf who tricked him twice.”
Which, let’s be honest, is the best kind of advertising.
Every return’s a re-sale. Every complaint’s a conversation. And every insult? Just another opening line.
—V. Copperhand, Refund-Free and Runnin’ the Game
