Wassail, traveler, and welcome to The Gable Grey -- a place of retreat, of renewal, and of resistance: a tree-shaded refuge in Dark Times. Now pass the threshold, and rest from journeys! For a cold wind is blowing; and here, if you wish, you may hear tidings of the world without...

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

In Dreams

SO I got one paragraph done on "The Woodreeve's Tale," and of course more editing. Hey, it's better than nothing.

Been getting back into the MERP gaming thing lately. Something about this time of year -- autumn light, leaves changing, chill mornings -- gets my adventurous spirit up. My brother and I are working on creating a pair of characters that are actually brothers in Middle-earth: half-elves (Peredhil), part Silvan (Avar) elf, part Beorning. I am the more wizardly of the two: a muddle-headed animist with a particular affinity towards birds. I expect we will become great spider-hunters, before we do the real fun stuff: spying on the Dragons of the Withered Heath, infiltrating the slave pits of Mount Gundabad, getting to know the Giants of the Grey Mountains. Wilderland! We shall have fun there. Must... stock... up... on... Guiness...

I suspect that we will begin somewhere in the middle of the Third Age. Of course we will probably opt for the immortal route regarding the inevitable half-elf question, so we will be able to engage in all sorts of adventures over the course of 1500 years, and on into the Fourth Age, if we survive. I have designs on a lesser Elven ring of power I know of, and my brother is destined to wield a sword of great power and great historical significance (read: notoriety)...
Whiles carried o'er the iron road,
We hurry by some fair abode;
The garden bright amidst the hay,
The yellow wain upon the way,
The dining men, the wind that sweeps
Light locks from off the sun-sweet heaps --
The gable grey, the hoary roof,
Here now -- and now so far aloof.
How sorely then we long to stay
And midst its sweetness wear the day,
And 'neath its changing shadows sit,
And feel ourselves a part of it.
Such rest, such stay, I strove to win
With these same leaves that lie herein.

-- William Morris, from
"The Roots of the Mountains"