(The entries of this chronicle made me laugh, so inspired by Hilfar, Siggald and Sigurmar I decided to write one too. I was thinking of the late things in Bree so I decided to write this, I hope you guys find it as funny as I did when I first got the idea.)
News travel fast, especially the bad ones... So the Steward of Gondor learned about the serial killers that roam free in Bree and grew concerned... "They roam the streets of that town and terrorize the inhabitants! And many of them are respected Gondorians!" he thought and stood up from the throne, in his eyes one could see the flame of a man that's ready to act.
"Bring me Faramir and the Rangers of Ithilien! I have an important task for them." he cried out loud.
Some moments later his son Faramir entered the Great Hall of the King and bowed before Denethor. Behind him stood firmly his men, the Rangers of the South.
"My son! Do not bow before me, for I am your father and I have a great task for you." said the Steward with a smile and put his hand on Faramir's shoulder. The young man straightened his body to listen to what he had to say.
"You and your men have saved Gondor many times with your bravery and courage. But now the North requires our assistance. There is a town named Bree and lately some terrible men are filling the hearts of its people with fear. They kill and torture the innocents without morals or regret, they find pleasure in what they do and leave their victims to be seen as if they do some sort of art. They are called serial killers! I want you and the Rangers to go and restore peace." said the Steward and rubbed his hands, moistening his lips. The young man got confused and furrowed his brows, his pupils drifted left and right in his confusion and his mind was blank for some moments. He He drew a deep breath and went on,
"Father, there are the Dunedain of the North up there, they can restore the order themselves, it's their domain after all. And you always said that I am a worthl-"
"The Rangers of Arnor are getting drunk in the so-called Prancing Pony! And who is more capable for such a difficult task than the Steward's own son?" Denethor interrupted. Faramir raised a brow and thought that this was the chance that he was waiting for a long time, to show his father that he's a man and earn his acceptance. He walked to the desk and pulled out some old maps to search for Bree, it took him some time to find that tiny spot on them and put his finger to point at it, his mouth open wide.
"B-But isn't it absurd for such a small town to have so many killers?" he asked.
"It is!" replied the Steward.
"And why don't the Rangers of Arnor do something or the local Watch?" demanded Faramir.
"They're getting drunk in that Prancing Pony and chase the wenches!" cried Denethor and went on, "It's our duty to protect our honourable citizens that live in that town."
"It is absurd!" cried Faramir and sank his head in his palms. "Prepare my gear."
So without any further delays the Rangers of Ithilien left Minas Tirith. their destination, Bree, their goal to bring the so-many serial killers to justice. The people of the White City followed the Host to the Gate and Denethor was watching the departure fro his chambers' window. A smirk was formed on his face and he was rubbing his hands.
"But sir, isn't it dangerous to send your son on such a journey? He may get killed." asked a servant with concern in his voice.
"It's dangerous indeed, and with some luck either the trip or a serial killer will rid me of him... He he he!" replied Denethor and his smirk widened, while his left brow was going up and from from the excitement...
