Rise, Weary Friends

[Notic 953]

Rise, Weary Friends

Spoiler

(Read this post before this one.)

 

 

 

[!] As rain fell down upon the Land of Honeyhill, Lily Peregrin found herself standing beneath its wrath under the trees of the Botanical Garden. She found her mind wandering as her tears began to mix with the weather cast upon her face. The weight of loss was crushing upon her heart, the wee one thinking about Meemaw. Although, this was not a new feeling to the girl. The scar on her heart left by Iris had never healed, and she doubted it ever would. Suddenly, a loud cry began to echo from the caves of the Garden. Lily rushed down there, only to find something both digusting and mystifying. One of Iris' gibbons had gone into labor. 

 

"Beautiful," She commented to herself, raising the newborn monkey high above her head, and soon more tears followed, no longer masked by the weather. Once the monkey was back on its feet, she walked through the village, the rain still relentless. It seemed that the tears of the three gods would not rest for quite some time. As the mud splashed upon her bare feet, she wound the corner into the Peregrin Burrow, closing the door. There, she saw her own daughter, Dolly, playing by the lit hearth. Dolly, only being about six, was far too young to have ever known her grandmother- or really High Pumplar Jeannette, for that matter. She would never see them again. But to Lily, this did not matter. What mattered now, as she saw, was that Dolly was alive. Her, along with the newborn gibbon, and all other animals and descendants of new generations.

 

Quickly, Lily took off down the stairs to her room. She sat down at her desk, as she had done many times before, and began to write a letter. A letter to all halflings, across all nations. A message to the entire race.

 

 

"Dear Weefolk,

 

I write to you today to bring us together. To give a voice to our feelings. To finally push all of you to pick up a shovel and dig us out of this ditch that we have dwelled in for over a decade. I must insist, even if you are one of the improper outsiders who have existed outside of our gaze, you should read this. It is the only thing I will ever ask of you- put aside our differences and listen to my words.

 

In these last few years, we have lost more than we have since the Rollina Massacre in Arcas, which happened over a century ago. Our beloved Thain- My mother, Iris Peregrin- and now our High Pumplar, who served as a beacon of hope and optimism to all of us. We have lost ourselves to despair. Our two lights that shined so brightly have been smothered by a thick hail of biggun tyranny, and that we will never recover. But I proclaim to you now that this is not the case.

 

I have studied the history of Bloomerville from both the books written and the words of Iris herself. A fortress built in the mountains of Sutica- a few dingy old stone buildings that an entire village took shelter in. We were beaten down and defeated, but our very own Iris appeared one day. When nobody had heard of the Peregrin Family in six pumpkin years, she rescued us. With all the halflings working together, we raised an entire village off of a pile of mud and stone. We built a monument of our strength upon that hill, with nothing but some spare tools and hope.

 

Many of you may be saying that we were stronger back then, and that we cannot do it now. This is simply not true. We are the future of our village- we are the ones who will bring about this change. We have history and knowledge on our side. If a hand full of homeless halflings can construct one of the greatest villages of the modern age, we can do anything. We are the Halflings. We are the hardest working people in history, and with our small numbers and stature we have survived the test of time. All it takes is one good leader, and we shall prosper once more.

 

Join me, and we shall dig ourselves out of this trench of despair and feast upon our hill's bounty once more. Stand with me, weefolk- whether you are from our home shire, the towers and slums of a biggun city, or far off lands untold of. We must all unite together as one and set aside our differences. We must unite our kin once more. In the name of Billy Bob, Knox and Arugula. In the name of Petyr and Thain Rollo. In the name of Iris and Jeannette. And in the name of Almaris- we shall prevail!

Long Live Honeyhill!"

 

 

 

[NotEvilAtAll 10906]

Filibert Applefoot takes a look through the window of his burrow "Wha's tha' t'ey sayin'? Somefin' abou' folks dyin' again? Bahh.... oi'm ter old fer dyin', tha' crud's fer young'ns!" he'd laugh, moving over to his parlour room to smoke a pipe

[HalflingPrincess 411]

Under a tree near Elysium, a middle aged halfling's brow furrows as reads the message. "Oiris doied? Fook oi've really nae been payin' attention." She shakes her head as she continues to read, her frown deepening with each line. After finishing, she muses a few thoughts to herself "Whoi's et have t' be 'boot race all t'e damn toime. How can ye ask folk to put asoide t'eir differences wif ye if ye'll nae do et fer t'em?" She reads over the description of Bloomerville again, sighing. "Best village, realleh? If Gre'as t' be believed t'ats where t'ings started going downhill fer our people. T'ere was nae settin' asoide of differences t'ere, division ef anyfin'; jus' a few years la'er we were tearin' ourselves up over some stupi' god an kickin' ou' Isalie fer nae reason." She folds the paper neatly and tucks it away with the rest of her things. "Oi'll give 'er t'is, Oiris was a real noice lady; 's 'ow oi knew t'ere was nae hope for change once Oiris turne' ou' t' be jus' as much ef a stubborn old'un as t'e res'."

[riorr 1970]

In lands far from the village of Honeyhill, a wee woman stood with her feet firm in hot sand, her arms folded neatly over her chest. A salty breeze rolled by, forcing the locks of russet, spun gold she wore to caress the contours of her bronzed visage. She observed a number of others, as they transported an oaken rowing boat to the lapping shores of a sea murky, and tinged yellow. One of them faltered, prompting the woman to call out, "Need a wee 'and with t'at?" She began a determined stride, however went on to break this, suddenly. A surface unnatural had met the hardened skin of her bare foot. Flashing a squint to it, she subsequently added, "Tough, yer no' gettin' 'un!" The object lightly buried, the woman kneeled. She clawed at the firmer sand that held it, till all that was left was to dust it off. A scroll in a glass bottle. 

 

A glint of sunlight transiently blinded her as she arose. Between her grasp, she twirled the object in deceptive consideration, as in her mind, no question passed, the cork thereafter being pried away expeditiously. The missive inside brought a crooked smile to spread across her visage. She tucked away all components in an orderly fashion. Sharply her next cry rang out, "Change o' plans! We're 'eaded North-East." The ochre horizon cast splendorous lustre upon her. The vastness, the blazing heat, the uncertainty of it all was ever thrilling. 

[HarveyQuin 3]

Somewhere, curled up on a bench in the city of Elysium, sits Quinten Brassfoot. A slightly weary expression on his face and a fatigued breath falls over the message "Oi di' 'ear som'one di' pass. Well, t'a' i' qui'e a pro'lem." He holds the paper and looks across the streets to the various races wandering around and huffs "Pro'lly no' t'e bes' place t'eh begin a revoilu'ion, moigh' ge' me shi' kicked in. Oi shoul' 'ead 'ome soon." He picked up his note book and sack of taters and hops off the bench, trotting out of the gate.