tazombo

Cal Hawthorn Derlan Fiddleberry II would awake adrift in a lake, a waterlogged copy of the missive stuck to his face. Upon waking and peeling the wet paper off of him he gives a nod of approval of the missive's contents. "Soun's loike fun. Wai'... Where t'a feck am Oi?"

Cal Hawthorn Derlan Fiddleberry II dutifully notes the date, writing it down on his calendar that has fun little pictures of cats on it for every month. He begins to search his wardrobe for something to wear...

reserved :nerd_emoji:

Cal H.D Fiddleberry II reads the missive while sitting in a cozy armchair in front of the fireplace in a burrow that he does not actually live in. He hums to himself, and corrects all of the spelling errors with a red-inked quill.

[!] A roughed up sailboat has been dashed upon the shores of the Shiredom of Dunwen, its aged planks scattered and its sail tangled in a mess with the boat's shipwrecked passengers. A familiar blonde halfling lies thoroughly waterlogged in the wreckage.

After Marigold Fiddleberry, the long missing community member of the halflings and previous owner of the Fiddleberry Cheese & Wine Company (prior to her having a mental break and leaving her twin sister Maggy to take the family business) was found and brought ashore, she began her work. The soggy and disheveled halfling brought with her stacks of weathered parchment, clutched closely to her chest with far more care than for her son Cal that trailed after her. 

The parchments carried with her across the ocean would turn out to be the will of her late father, Callum Fiddleberry.

---

In their home in the now-lost shire of Bywater, Mary remembers her father's last days clearest. Callum Fiddleberry, a poet of the weefolk since the later days of Arcas- had always had a foggy mind. From what could only be assumed to be head trauma from the halfling's childhood, Callum had a faulty memory which only seemed to get worse with age. In his later years, he would hardly leave his burrow: clinging to the side of his husband Hawthorn, he would often ask his family for news of his friends: of Iris Peregrin, of Filibert Applefoot, of Rufus, of James, of Monkey. It was difficult for Mary and for her twin sister, but they tried to look at the bright side of things; he was among family, he was comfortable, he was safe.

It was the final days that stood out to Mary. Callum would wake early, far earlier than usual even for when the halfling was in his prime: bustling around his abode, dusting and mopping and baking and sewing. And writing. In the weeks following up to his end Callum would set himself upon hefty stacks of parchment daily at his desk and write feverishly until forced to go to bed when his family grew concerned for the elderly man.

And finally, on the last day, Callum would come to his beloved daughter Marigold and place a brown paper package in her arms. Tied with thread and smelling of ink, the package was only to be opened after he was gone, Callum instructed her. Mary's father never asked anything of her or her sister, so when she was told to make sure his will was enacted she took it to heart. Hushed whispers of goodbye and tearful embraces, Callum left his burrow with Hawthorn on his arm, the two of them having secured a nice little sailboat that they would take to somewhere warm. Callum wasted not the time to speak to the village members or to say his goodbyes to his friends: for none of his friends remained. The poet thought it a cruel irony he would be the last standing among so many great and honoured halflings who'd perished before him.
---

[!] The parchment would be tarnished from a voyage at sea, but the words are still legible.

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF CALLUM BERLAN FIDDLEBERRY, former Patriarch of the Fiddleberry household, former Head Librarian at the Soggy Sonnet Library of Bramblebury and whatever it was we named the one in Honeyhill though I think I lost my job there, former team member & cheerleader of the undefeated Honeyhill Hedgehogs, former Elder of Honeyhill, former Thain for a few days when the Thain at the time went on holiday, former member of the Neighborhood Watch Alliance until I quit cause' Greenholm is a ****; poet, singer, lute player, painter, baker (poorly), father, husband, amnesiac, (mostly) valued community member, cat enthusiast, and friend

Dear halflings of [INSERT CURRENT RESIDENCE OF WEEFOLK], if this paper has been published then it means I have passed.

I have no doubt this will come as a great tragedy to you all, and I understand that this may be hard news to bear. Do not despair- as I am happier now, and roam the wheatfields with my beloved husband Hawthorn, blissfully free of any overbearing biggun visitors telling us how much they admire our culture and wish to live with us. Ugh. Please, try to keep any weeping to a minimum, crying dries up your eyes and makes you look like an old hag. Here are some tips on how to cope with this:

 [The following three pages are filled with instructions on how one might try to recover from the absence of Callum Fiddleberry, and an assurance that you will probably be okay and that you can live without him. It seems to stretch on endlessly until finally returning to the contents of the will.]

With that out of the way, this is the part where you skim to find your name and see if you got anything good in my will.

TO LILY PEREGRIN, OR HER CURRENT LIVING DESCENDANT
One of my greatest regrets in life was not realizing how fortunate I was to have a friend like Iris Peregrin in my life. Your mother was an amazing woman, full of light and joy that managed to balance out the dour I brought into a room by being a malcontented bastard. Iris was the best of us all, and I am sure you will do great things just as she did. 

TO FILIBERT APPLEFOOT, OR HIS CURRENT LIVING DESCENDANT
Filibert was a simple man in the grand scheme of things, but also one of the most steadfast friends (acquaintances? I never really asked if we were friends or not…) one could ask for. When I found myself untethered and overwhelmed with the abject horror of existing in this universe, Filibert was the grounding anchor telling me to shut up and stop staring at the clouds and help him harvest the bloody crops because it's gotta be done and his back hurts. I haven't spoken to him in some time so he's probably dead, so I leave this bottle of wine to either him or whatever living descendant of his remains.

TO MONKEY PEREGRIN
I hope this finds you well, Monkey- I hope it finds you alive. I dearly regret that I did not do better at keeping in touch with you and keeping track of your doings but, as all boys do, they grow up to be men et cerera et cetera… I'm glad you found your path, and I'm glad to know you found belonging even if it took the form of hocus-pocus shamanism… At least it meant you had a good pipeweed supply! I have to say that out of all of the halflings I met in Bloomerville and Bramblebury you felt the most like family, like a brother to me. Stay strong and stay true to yourself, Monkey. Whatever it is you've chosen to do with your life, I'm proud of you.

TO CYRIS COLLINGWOOD
You are a bastard and I am going to haunt you. How did you outlive me? Stop it.

TO SEVREL VALIN'DAR
If you were about to think I'd forgotten you, and that you would not be mentioned in this document: you would be very correct, because I very much did forget you up until two hours ago. I can't remember much of what we talked about, but I recall the presence of a kind dark elf with a magnificent beard, and merry evenings spent conversing over good food and good pipeweed. May Knox keep you and your family, as I'm certain you're still alive because elves are weird like that. I leave you a bottle of wine from my cellar, may you raise a glass of it in my name.

TO WINTER… If you're alive somehow
Sorry I was a prick. Thank you for helping me realize I don't like women.

TO MAGNOLIA FIDDLEBERRY
I leave the best and most dear to my heart for last, Maggy. I don't know when this letter will reach you. I don't know how old you are now. As I write this, you're in your fifties, learning who you are… You've started a cheese business, and people from all over come by the burrow to trade for these magnificent wheels of cheese you craft… I've never seen my family burrow receive so many visitors, and it is all because of you. I hope you've stuck with it- but if you haven’t, that’s fine. In whatever you do, I know you'll be the best. You're my child- so of course you will be. Your grumpy old man will always believe in you, and I hope you look back on your childhood with me fondly… I don't know how good a father I was, I was never prepared. But despite my incompetence you've surpassed my every expectation and have grown into a halfling more talented and clever and beautiful than any other and I hope you know it. Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not perfect, cause' they don't know what perfect is cause' they're not you. Be good to your sister, be good to yourself. In the end it's just the two of ya. Your pa loves you, keep being yourself- whoever you decide that is.

I leave you this mahogany walking cane- pray your knees never deteriorate enough you should depend on it- and my smoking pipe. Anything other material possessions I have you may split up between you and your sister.

OOC:

[!] A soggy voting ballot washes up on shore, somehow... Odd...

Name: Marigold Fiddleberry

Race: Halfling

---

Your vote for Sheriff (choose one):

Breasal Nimblefoot (X)
Mister PADRIC Applebottom-Peregrin ( )

---

Your vote for Mayor (choose one):

Ser Do’Spuds Loa’chil ( )

The Wizard Magnolia (X)

The Ballot:

((MC Name: TAZ0MB0))

Name: Callum Fiddleberry
Vote for Proposals:
Proposal I (Hal’s Proposal) ()

Proposal II (Cyris’ Proposal) (X)
Neither ()

[!] A note is scrawled on the bottom of the ballot: Can we stop rewriting this shit? I am getting too old. Thanks. - C.F

JOIN HALFLINGS IF YA KNOW WHATS GOOD FOR U!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

on behalf of the wee folk, we want plains with rolling hills!! grass, lazy rivers & lakes

essentially just give us this in minecraft form and we r happy.

why am i not on the list you are so toxic i hate you

can all future plugins plz be horse related thank u

Marigold Fiddleberry prepares herself for knee-breaking maneuvers in the chance that the villain may come for her twin sister's cheese stores next. "Don' yew worreh sis, t'ey'll 'ave'ta kill meh befo'e t'ey take our cheeses..."

why?

Marigold Fiddleberry puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head, "E' ain' even mentioned us in th' announcemen'- even t'ough we founded th' cheesery! At leas' Maggy'll ge' tew trade 'er cheeses... She's awful proud of 'em!"

Marigold Fiddleberry sharpens her shovel, while menacingly kubrick staring out of her burrow window. The bigguns have messed with the wrong people.

Callum Fiddleberry shakes his head in disappointment, "Wot's the worl' come tew... T'ey betteh replace wot they stole!"

In a cozy burrow along the lake shoreline a blond halfling sat hunched over at a sturdy wood desk, the paper he held gripped in his hands obscured from view as his shoulders shook subtly. The old Fiddleberry’s daughter peeked around the corner of the doorway to watch her father as he wept.

Mary had seen her father cry many a time before- he could be rather sensitive at times, and he always tried to teach his children that there was nothing wrong with feeling sad or upset every now and then. But this seemed different. A gasping cry would be muffled from the halfling’s body that was curled inward, his whole body seeming to shudder with each sob as he gritted his teeth together. Aside from the moving of his shoulders, he was motionless as he stared blankly at the floor- his stare a blank and empty one despite the physical reaction he was having to this particular news.

“Papa?” a small voice would call out from the doorway, the small girl scared and upset from seeing her father this distraught.

The sounds of the shifting of a coat and sniffling of a nose filled the tense silence as Callum whipped around to stare at his child, almost not recognizing the little face at the doorway before his expression twisted into a pained and regretful one, reaching up to wipe his nose and hide his face with his free hand, choking back another sob. “Oi’m sorreh, swee’heart… Papa’s foine… we’re…” his lower lip would tremble, before falling into a sob again, unable to hold back his tears as the halfling girl would run up to Callum, wrapping her arms around him as the older lad cried into her shoulder.

"It's okey Pa', t'ere's nufin' wrong with feelin' sad..." Mary said as she rubbed his back, her eyebrows furrowed in concern for her beloved father. "Yew'll be okay, Pa'..."

- - - -

In the days following Callum would rarely exit his room, whenever he did seeming distant and confused, a thick fog seeming to have settled over him, his brain in its grip.

"halfling children are actually of age now and allowed to get married"

why dont you take a seat?

Callum sweats nervously in 104-year old single father of two.

Callum Fiddleberry would peer at the missive, holding it up high just out of reach of his daughter Mary who pestered him to allow her a glance as he passed by.

"Bigguns an' impropehs facin' 'ardships? T'ey ac' loike t'ey feckin own t'a place, et's us facin' 'ardships ef anehting... can't 'ave a decen' nap withou' some 'uman stompin' aroun' n' makin' t'a earth shake wif t'eir damned boots..." He'd mumble with a disgruntled sigh, shuffling over to an armchair in his burrow's living room. "Ef yeh 'ate bein' an 'alflin' so much jes' leave! No cause in star'in a fuss n' disrespec'in ou' culture in t'a process-" he'd pause, an eyebrow lifting as he spots the Goodbarrel stamp on the pamphlet, looking up and letting out a light chuckle, "Ah- t'ey're Gre'a's relatives. T'at explains et..." The halfling lad would shake his head before holding out the paper to his daughter who hovered over his shoulder, the halfling girl running off with the page to either doodle over or use for paper hats.

[!] A Missive can be seen tacked to the notice board of the weefolk village Honeyhill.

[!] A younger Callum, perched atop the Spicy Shrimp in the weefolk's previous home- Bramblebury.

Thoughts on the Spicy Shrimp, and a Bitter Denouncement

Not long ago a missive has been published by esteemed Head Bounder Alfie Greenholm, sharing his less-than-positive feelings towards the weefolk's vessel the Spicy Shrimp. Although I hold the Mr. Greenholm in high regards, I can yet bear no ill to be spoken of the ship- as what memories I am capable of recalling surrounding her are fond in nature.

The weefolk of Honeyhill, I belive, have truly saved my life many a time- providing a stable life and a community which loves and supports one another, as well as true friends who are there to guide me when my troubled mind finds me lost and confused. And present throughout all the time I have spent with these lovely people the Shrimp has been by our side, too- whether it be when she carried us from the barren ruins of Brandybrook to safety, or allowed us to sail away from the sickness which had plagued Bramblebury. The return of our beloved ship feels like a reunion with a sorely missed friend, her aged wooden floors serving as an anchor which grounds my often weak memory. Though the ownership of the Spicy Shrimp has been discussed with Thain Iris, I still feel that I ought to air my opinions nonetheless, as the Greenholm patriarch does so freely at every opportunity.

With this being said, Alfie Greenholm's words in his missive have hurt me greatly, and I come to realize that there is something I ought to have done a time ago.

I announce my resignation as a Bounder of the NWA. When I first agreed to join the organization I did so out of a desire to protect my family and friends, or perhaps out of a lack of backbone... However, over time- after scandal and scandal again surrounding the NWA I come to fear that the alliance only serves the purpose of enlarging the Head Bounder's ego, and I do not see much good coming from it. As always I wish Mr. Alfie Greenholm all the best, and I do not make this decision out of ill-will. I simply cannot be part of an organization I do not share the ideals of.

Sincerely,

C. Fiddleberry, Honeyhill Elder and Head Librarian

Kae'tar Valin'dar gazes proudly upon the missive, honoured that he and his kin may stand by their mali'ker brothers and sisters as guardians of their new home. "Kae'leh sil ito nae,"  he murmurs with a firm nod, before retrieving his blade to train for the rest of the evening.

"T'a Hedgehogs remain undefea'ed! Let's focken go Honeh'ill! Break t'eir knees!" local Bucketball enthusiast Callum Fiddleberry cheers.

"A bonfoire soun's loike fun!" Callum Fiddleberry would remark upon finding the note, "Dunno bou' t'a labour t'ough... 'least t'ere'll be drinks afteh."

House Valin’dar cordially invites you to…

Kae’tar Valin’dar’s Coming of Age Celebration

As is according to Mali traditions, 50 years of age is the time in any young mali's life that they step forward into adulthood and leave their childhood in the past.

Though Kae’tar may have already reached the age of 51, the attack on Amathea and the Valin'dar family's following relocation to Stygian Hollow have set back the ceremony some time- and he has yet to formally take part in the celebration.

But now, in a joyous fest of singing, drinking, dancing and brawling, he casts aside his youth and becomes the man he is meant to be. The celebration will be located in Stygian Hollow's tavern, and all are welcome to stop by. Food and drinks will be provided free of cost, and there will be a performance of the traditonal Valin'dar art Orannyer'ilsilan (Sword Dancing) and a fistfighting tournament- a prize in store for the victor.

((OOC: Event is being held at the Stygian Hollow tavern at 9PM EST Nov. 5th, be there or be square))