Crime

The corsair ship rocks from side to side, carried around by the waves all while being pushed ever forward by the strong winds in its sail. The corsairs on it however, all too familiar to the movements of the sea. They had little to no issue walking all over the place as if it was on dry land. “Check on our new catch!” The captain of the ship yells out. They are halfway to Umbar, returning from a successful raid along the southern Gondor coast.

The masked man stared long at the one across the table from him, some years ago. He slowly lifted his head off of the high back of his chair. The horrible voice he owned, damn nearing cacophonous and venomous as it always was, questioned, “Have you lost faith…my eldest of advocates? Do you question my sanity…or have you forgotten the need to see this chaos rise aflame?”
 

Dear Journal,

I write this entry on several pages of parchment and a half used pencil I managed to barter off of the barkeep here in the Forsaken Inn. He's a rather grim fellow, but so are most in this rather dire establishment. You would think a folk so serious and stern would've had the common sense to patch up the gaping hole in the roof! Ah, but it's no matter. I suppose they'll warm up to me and my clever wit in no time at all.

It was an overcast day, darker clouds lurking in the distance foreboding rain. Townspeople began to trickle into the courtyard in front of the Bree-town Hall, many murmuring amongst themselves. Much of what was said was rumor, little of it cheerful. Finally one man, known to many around town as Tom Barleyshoe (a cobbler by trade), climbed up on a boulder in the lawn. “Good afternoon, fellow Breelanders and travelers alike. We’ve come here today to discuss the problems plaguing our fair land. Some of you may have heard tell of some of these ailments.

The sun had just set when Arra led the small band of hooded and masked figures through the Bree-Fields. Just ahead the dirt path met a small wooden bridge which went over the stream which flanked a nearby farmhouse. The windows were bright. "Someone's home," Arra said from beneath her hideous mask, carved into the shape of an orc's face. Some might call it an improvement.

The crew had a couple of ideas to get coin, but what they promptly jumped at was starting an arena of sorts - a brawling ring, run by them, with betting to make money. The captain formed a similar project in Bree some years back, but was too focused on the pleasure aspect to turn it into a profitable business at the time.