Buckland

The big day is finally here! Mam and Dad cooked a great, big breakfast full of all of me favourites (including those scrumptiously tasty cheese and mushroom muffins Grammy would make when she came to visit). I already have a basket full of goodies, enough for the road and for second breakfast. Aconite tells me that there’s a tavern right over the Brandywine Bridge that serves one of the best beers in the farthing. I tell him I didn’t know rating beers of the Shire was part of a bounder’s duty!

My Dearest Miss Dahlia,

“Can I keep this note?” I had read it over a dozen times and still was puzzled by what it implied: Pa and Ma were not my “real” parents, My real mother’s name was Yola, Yola Plumblossom. And my real father? No name. It was deliberately erased from the note. By Yola? By that old gammer who had delivered me to Pa and Ma? By someone else?

I was born and raised in Buckland. That’s what I always thought anyway. I am quite sure that I was raised there, but where I was born is not clear to me right now. But let me start at the beginning:

The Sunlight filtered lazily through the windows, shining down into the little room with not much haste. Dust speckles could be seen floating through the air as the Sun's ray's hit the floor, dancing around the room in an unusually elegant manner.

Orlenne stifles a yawn as she puts quill to parchment, the candlelight flickering in a slight draught.