OOC - Author's Notes:
Status: Complete - This compilation contains 5 entries (stories). See the next part for more.
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):
- “A Town of Tin and Silver”
- “Silk Gloves, Sticky Fingers”
- “The Lad, the Ledger, and the Lookout”
- “The Lad’s Got the Knack”
- “The Hat What Paid Twice”
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 Sixth – “A Town of Tin and Silver”
Still in Bree. Longer than I meant, truth be told. Me cart’s lost a wheel spoke and I’m down to one jar of beard wax (unscented). I’ve had to part with Tansy, my ol’ pony to pay a debt – but she’s gone to a good home, I made sure of it! I’ve learned somethin’ these past days: Bree’s a town with two faces, one smiles, the other bites.
I’ve been sleepin’ rough, you see, not in a warm Pony bed like the respectable folk or the bardic types who pay in song and charm. No, I’ve been settin’ up under archways, behind woodstacks, once even in a half-finished chicken coop (which was more comfortable than I care to admit). Keeps the coin in me purse and me eyes on the street—and that’s where you see what makes Bree tick.
There’s the man in the fine coat, passin’ through from Trestlebridge, complainin’ about the price of wine, while not two doors down a widow’s patchin’ her roof with flour sacks and old bark. There’s lads runnin’ barefoot with more bruises than coin, and meanwhile up on the Hill, some merchant lord’s got a garden big enough to get lost in.
It’s a mess. But it’s Bree. It breathes. Folk here help each other in odd ways—slippin’ half a loaf to someone who needs it, or sharin’ a fire under the eaves when the night turns cold. I sold a broken lantern yesterday, and the buyer—an old woman with too many grandkids—said she didn’t care if it worked, just needed something to keep near the door. Said it helped folk feel safe.
That stuck with me.
Aye, I came here for coin. Still do. There’s opportunity in every crack between cobblestones, if ye’ve the eyes to see it, and I do. But there’s somethin’ else here too. A sense of place. Of folk tryin’, even when they’re down to scraps. There’s honour in that, even if it's muddied up with gossip and old stew.
I’ve started tradin’ a little different. Still sharp, mind, but now and then, if someone’s short a copper, I let a comb go cheap. Not charity. Call it investin’ in the street. Never know when that same lad might steer a buyer my way, or keep the Watch distracted while I pack up early.
So I’ll stay a while longer. Watch more. Learn more. Sell what I can. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be part of what makes Bree tick too.
—V. Copperhand, Street Merchant, Philosopher of the Pavement
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Seventh – “Silk Gloves, Sticky Fingers”
Today, I aimed high.
I’d had enough of sellin’ spoons with dents and trinkets to travellers who blink too slow. Time to climb the ladder. A chance encounter in the market square—a well-dressed lady, shawl like spider silk, boots shined brighter than a newly-minted coin. I overheard her mentionin’ a garden party up on the Hill.
Naturally, I offered her somethin’ special.
Told her I was in possession of a “rare and antique Gondorian tea set”, one of a kind, finely preserved, touched by nobility. Truth: it was a slightly mismatched kettle, two cracked cups, and a saucer that once featured a painting of a horse. I sold the tale hard though. Told her it’d impress anyone who mattered. I even wrapped it in my last piece of unburnt velvet.
To my surprise, she bit.
Not only did she take the set, she insisted on paying me double, said she wanted to “outclass that sour-faced Brandybuck cousin.” I almost wept. Thought I'd finally cracked the rich-folk market—tea sets for the status-minded! What a scheme!
Two days pass. Today she came stormin’ down the lane in full fury. Said her guests drank the tea, and half the party spent the evening howlin’ in the privy. Seems the kettle had some... mineral residue. I tried explainin’ it was character, part of the antique charm, but she wasn’t havin’ it.
She didn’t call the Watch, but she did toss the saucer at me head.
So. I’ve learned two things.
One: never scrub out a kettle with pipe ash, no matter how tight the timeline.
Two: the rich are easy to impress but quicker to bite than beggars. There’s coin in them, aye, but risk too. Pride, see. They hate lookin’ foolish, and that’s what I trade in: illusion.
Still, the coin stayed in me purse. And the story? Worth twice that.
Back to the streets tomorrow. Bree’s full of folk, and not all of them have delicate stomachs.
—V. Copperhand, Entertainer of the Elite
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Eighth – “The Lad, the Ledger, and the Lookout”
Strange twist today, one I didn’t plan for, which is rare enough to make note of.
The Merchant’s Guild, bless their paperwork and pipe smoke, have been workin’ on a fine little scheme: linkin’ vagrant lads and orphaned kids with traders what can give ‘em a roof, a crust, and a proper use for their fingers. In return, you get an apprentice. Or, more bluntly: cheap labour.
I signed up quicker than a pony bolts from a broom. Thought to meself: “A lad to carry wares, watch the cart, maybe even shout about trinkets. What could be better?”
Didn’t expect him.
Name’s Ludon—small, wiry, and sharper than a fresh-forged axe. Knows every alley in Bree, every fencepost worth leanin’ on, every market vendor’s weak spot. First day with me, he corrected my stall placement to get better morning trade. Second day, he haggled down the cost of two bad potatoes for lunch; and somehow got us a third.
Did I take him on to save a soul? No. But I’ll be honest, he’s grown on me.
He asks questions. Watches how I spin stories around old junk, how I turn rusty pins into “goblin-repellent brooches.” But he’s not just mimickin’. He’s learnin’. And more than that—he knows things. Folk I’ve never met nod at him as we pass. He spots the Watch before they turn the corner. He told me which gate-guards hate noise and which ones might take a bribe in jam tarts.
Now that’s useful.
I’ve stopped callin’ him “boy” and started callin’ him “Ludon.” Bought him a proper belt pouch. He earned it. Might even teach him to write his name in this ledger, one day.
I still get him to haul the heavy crates, mind. Let’s not go daft.
But aye. This town’s hard on the small folk, and if I can give one lad a chance, and turn a tidy profit while I’m at it, well, that’s business with honour, ain’t it?
—V. Copperhand, Master of Trade, Mentor of Mischief
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Ninth – “The Lad’s Got the Knack”
Today, I made coin I wasn’t even lookin’ for, and it wasn’t me that did the deal. Not entirely, anyway.
Ludon and I were set up near the old stone wall by the East Gate; good foot traffic, just enough shade, and far enough from the Watch to breathe proper. I was preparin’ to launch into my “hand-carved combs of Númenórean design” pitch, when Ludon nudged me and whispered, “Wait—watch that fellow.”
A man, cloak too clean for honest labour, with boots too dusty to be from town. Merchant, maybe. Or scout. Either way, he was browsin’ the stalls without buyin’, eyes movin’ quick. Ludon slips away, quiet as a cat, and I keep jabberin’ about anti-lice charms.
Ten minutes later, Ludon comes back with a folded paper and a grin. Turns out the man was a collector, lookin’ for a specific sort of wood carving. Something he’d heard about in Forochel, of all places. “Whale-tooth talismans,” he said. Rare, ugly things. Now, I don’t have any, but I did once buy a crate of sea-beast bone carvings from a lake boat captain in Evendim. Sold most. One left.
Ludon remembered.
So we fetched it. Wrapped it. Told the tale: "Crafted by seafolk, passed down by ice-fishin’ tribes, said to guard ships from spirits and storms." The buyer lapped it up. Paid three times what I’d've dared ask.
And me? I didn’t even do the talkin’. Ludon made the pitch. Smooth as butter. Honest, too, at least by my standards.
Afterwards, I gave him his share proper. He didn’t blink, just tucked it away like it was nothin’, then asked if he could try rearrangin’ the trinket stall tomorrow “to funnel interest from the west.” Like he’s been readin’ trade scrolls in his sleep.
I’ve trained apprentices before, mostly goats, technically, but this lad? He’s different. He’s got the knack. The instinct. The spark. And just between this page and me: it’s startin’ to feel good, this work we’re doin’.
Not just profitable. Solid.
Still wouldn’t trust him with the beard wax. He’s twelve. There are limits.
—V. Copperhand, Trader of Tales, Herder of Bright Minds
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Tenth – “The Hat What Paid Twice”
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in Bree, besides the price of a bribe versus a proper permit, it’s that there's profit in poor company, if you know where to step.
Ludon led me down to the Mud Gate, right past the cobbles and comfort of market square, where the air’s thicker and the coin purses thinner. He called it Beggar’s Alley, though from the smell and the looks I’d say half the folk there were just honest tradesmen one bad day from bein’ worse off. He knew everyone, of course. Knocks, nods, names I'd not repeat at a Guild meetin’.
We weren’t there just for sightseeing. The Watch had started to take an unkind interest in my Trusted Seller™ voucher scheme, and I’d decided discretion was the better part of not bein’ fined. So I laid low. Which, in my case, means selling sideways.
There I saw it: one hat. Battered, threadbare, perfectly stained. And every hour, a different face beneath it. Crippled hobbit. Blind man. War veteran. Sleepin’ bard. All the same coin cup, all the same speech, near enough. Folk were droppin’ coppers like it was a minstrel’s show.
Now I don’t claim to be a genius, but I am an opportunist with a needle, a backlog of “unsellable” fabrics, and a few convincing tales.
By midday, I had a table set up in the alley’s shadow, hawkin’ Copperhand’s Beggin’ Bonnets™; a fine range of pre-worn caps, artfully patched and blessed by “six months of theatrical hardship.” Each came with a pre-written story scroll tucked in the lining; tales of lost homes, cursed heirlooms, and tragic foot injuries. Ludon’s mates picked their parts and wore their roles like professionals.
I sold twelve that day.
The one with the ink-stained brim I dubbed the "Fallen Scholar Special." The ragged velvet number was “The Ruined Courtier.” I even tried one with a plume, “The Bard What Could’ve Been.” It flopped, but the effort was there.
Now I’ll grant, it raised a few eyebrows. One lad from the Guild said it was “morally questionable.” I asked if he’d ever tried to eat morality. That shut him up.
In the end, no one starved, three folk made enough to pay for proper boots, and I made enough to commission a new “Trusted Seller” placard for me stall.
You see, profit isn’t just about silver. It’s about stories. And sometimes, it’s about knowin’ when to make a hat the main attraction.
—V. Copperhand, Patron of Public Performance, Hatter of the Humble
