Appleciderblossom

Mister Lothrandir an’ meself made the first leg of our journey south to Pynti-peldot under Woolly Oliphant escort.

It slowed the pace, as Nessie en’t bred to keep up with the dogs. But Mister Ofráth were inclined to play it safe with Mister Arvedui King-Ghost an’ Mister Captain Aeril’s relics. 

I am ingenious. 

The world may’s well accept it now an’ ‘ave done with.

Extricatin’ a couple o’ magic spyglass-marbles from an enclosed chamber o’ freezin’ deathwater be an interestin’ puzzler for passing an evening. If’en yeh ever finds yerself in want of one.

Mister Arvedui suggested trawlin’, but that’d have to be done blind. 

A bard be an adaptable creature. 

On the Rove as we often be, we makes our bed any number of odd places. – A place that don’t often spring to mind, I admits, be in the hold of half of a wrecked Elf galleon with six fluffy dogs an’ the ghost of a dead King for bunk-mates. 

“OIE NOW!!!” 

Reproach me if you must – I’m sure there be more decorous ways to address incorporeal deceased royalty – But me nerves by now were shot nearly to ribbons, which honestly takes some doin’. 

I weren’t what’chya might call me usual Serene Self.  

Talkin’ with a Ghost (for them what’s never experienced it) en’t somethin’ I be entirely sure I’d recommend. 

It be a bit like holdin’ dialogue with a person on the other side of a waterfall, whilst both ripping drunk an’ sufferin’ from tinnitus simultaneously,  in a particularly echoey gulch.