Randome Poeme

Of Gyants and Knyghts,

and their terrible fights

We have strories enough in Romances,

Of Hercule’s Beam, and one ey’d Polipheme,

With Don Quixot’s attepts and mischances:

But I’ll tell you a tale, worth a Noggin of Ale

Of Combate was lately begun

Betwixt a brave Knyght, and a pitiful Wight

That out of th’ Arena did run.

I was t’other day, in a place as they say

Where Rangers and Hobbits assemble:

Where the fold do speak, not in Latin or Greek

O t’would make a poor Orc tremble!

For hither resort, a throng of each sort,

Some clad in olive or blue, some fattin,

And each Champion, and brave Guardian

Doth call for his Mead not in Latin.

But did you hear, their Elvish I fear,

You’d laugh till you’d burst your breeches;

To see with what state, they break Prissian’s pate

And yet do but scratch where it itches.

One talks, I suppose, of Ovid’s great Nose,

With a bridge as broad as a Bagginses

A third breaks his tooth, with cracking forsoothe

a precious found in his pocketses.

One stands on his hand, thus the Tavern keeps tab

To kick their heels up in the Air

Another I’ll beswore, doth crawl on all four

An lick up the dust with great care

The former man he cries up a Legend

Admireth brave Strider, Aragorn that is;

The one he crumps roots, and the other he moots,

And he’s a good Warriour, a fart though he is.

The one talks of News, the other of Stews,

A third of pick-pockets and Bears,

A fourth doth always curse Mordor, Shadows, and Bays

Great Thorin’s Hall markets he swears.

One loves Mathmaticks, the other Fanaticks,

Store of Mercury here to be found;

A third’s for a Lecture, a fourth a Conjecture,

A fifth for a farthing in the Pound.

One Quack doth pretend to foretell of an end,

Of the Shadow of Angmar’s last hour;

And dares to prefix the year fifty six

As the period of the Beast’s power.

The Minstrel is for canting the Hobbit for ranting,

With laughing as he eats second supper;

A fourth’s for a Fate, eight hours to last

But with a good Breakfast and supper.

The one bids aggro, upon Orc and Warg

And the rest of that comtemnable few

Crys up Brigand and Goblin, Dragon, Worm

As the Lore-Master that only speak true

Another’s for Sweet Lobelia, Genelas and the like

Brother Jeff and Mead mouth’d Burglar,

Who’s a license of late, to break the Shadow’s fate

And say that it is due to a Took.

Some are for Frodo, some are for Odo

And others do cry up the Bagginses,

A third is for Merry, a fourth if for Sherry

And a fifth for Pippin and do.

This tale at the Pony would never end

If all men kept full their tankard of Mead

However it must, it we want to proceed

And get enough gold for our Steed.

G.U.A.R.D.I.A.N.S.

I found this Acronym from another site and thought it most appropriate for our Kinship as well.

G- Give yourself for others, this is to practice being selfless. You dont have to go overboard
with this but try to put others first in as many ways as you can. One way you can do this
is by helping with Quests.
U- Unconditional Love, this basically covers everything but when applied provides for the
perfect remedy for any situation, arguement, disagreement, ext.
A- Aim to bring out the best in others. Dont cut each other down or make fun of each other.
Lets uplift everyone and make them all feel welcome. This will make the kinship
enjoyable for everyone.
R- Respect. This is a big one; especially when involving the hierarchy of the kinship.
Respect those whohave been placed in a leadership position over you. If you have a problem
with some one, go to them directly and privately. If this doesnt work talk to the Overseerer.
D- Dont swear (cuss), or use profane language. This also includes nasty comments and jokes.
I- Involve others members of your kinship when you go out and adventure into the lands
of Middle-Earth. This is a kinship build the bonds of brotherhood with your fellow
members.
A- Always put your kinship first. We are trying to build a brotherhood here and one of the
ways to do this is to look out for one another. If you find an item that would be perfect for a
fellow member don't auction it.
N- Never lie to a fellow member especially an officer. We need trust in our kinship; if you
see this being a problem you probley aren't in the right place.
S- Solve problems, dont make them. Its alot easier to make a big deal of something than to
just let it go but for the sake of the kinship.

Whence cometh "Men of Twilight?"

This kinship represents a small group of Dúnedain of the North, who still serve as Guardians in the lands where Arnor once was, viz. Men of Bree, Men of Dale and the Men of Rohan.

Arnor, or the Northern Kingdom, was a kingdom of the Dúnedain in the land of Eriador in Middle-earth. Arnor's population was composed by Dúnedain in western-central regions and mixed or indigenous (and reluctant as citizens) peoples. Its capital was Annúminas near the lake Nenuial. The Dúnedain were superior to other Men in nobility of spirit and body, although they were of course capable of evil if corrupted. They had dark hair and grey eyes and were tall. In addition, Dúnedain, especially those of high rank, possessed great wisdom and discernment, and occasional prophecy. They benefited from longer life-spans (some to over 200 years old) than ordinary men and could retain their fitness until the very end of their days. The Dúnedain of Middle-Earth are the descendants of these Númenóreans. Though Arnor has been destroyed, and Gondor greatly diminished, the blood of Númenor has not all been spent. This Kinship is made up of “Middle Men,” a term used by the Númenóreans for Men of Middle-earth who were related to the Edain, the ancestors of the Númenóreans themselves. The proper term is "Men of Twilight" (as opposed to the Gondorians, "Men of Light", and the Haradrim and Easterlings, "Men of Darkness"). During the Third Age the term Middle Men was still applied to the Men of Bree, and the remaining Northmen, such as the Men of Dale and Esgaroth the Lake-town, and of course the Rohirrim.

Men of Twilight

After reviewing some more lore in the great Florilegium of Bree-Land concerning the Dunedain, I have come to realize that not only should the Men of Twilight consist of Guardians and Minstrels, but also Hunters as their job verily coincides with the Rangers of Eriador since they are of the noble line of the Dúnedain of the North and have, since the fall of the mighty kingdoms of Arnor more than a thousand years in the past, pledged to silently protect the lands of Eriador, including the Shire and Bree-land, from the darkness that once again threatens. Seeking neither praise nor thanks, the Rangers are master trackers and woodsmen; adept at concealment. They are also expert in hunting and in combat with both bow and sword.

Tyme is running out...

Make sure to secure your Beta Character before it's too late. It's almost time for the LOTR Online to go into full force. Carry your character over so as to not lose anything you've built up.

The Men of Twilight Kinship

The Men of Twilight Kinship is a grouping of Men from Bree-Land, Dale and Rohan. The Kinship is open to the Men of Bree, Dale and Rohan who have achieved level five in their adventures throughout Eriador. Each member will have attained Three Virtues, One Class and One Race (Man of the Fourth Age). The Primary Objective is to continue the Epic Quest. Other objectives are to conduct raids, improve one's craft, and go on random quests throughout the land so as to obtain goods and assist the people of Eriador. Within this Kinship, we will offer pieces of equipment at a rather low price, ideally we will share our goods in order to assist in leveling our character and building up our Virtues.

No one in this Kinship is permitted to buy gold from a third party nor to power level their character. This is both ridiculous and repugnant to fair play that this Kinship aspires to.

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Mythopoeia by Tolkien

The Town of Bree

Old Tom Bombadil

Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,
Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the master:
His songs are stronger songs, and his feet are faster.

Among the Dúnedain it is known as Sweet Galenas

We may know it as
Longbottom Pipe-weed

O Gelenas! our fashionable end and aim,
Westmansweed, Longbottom, whate'ver thy name;
Leaf celestial! quintessence divine!
New joys entrance my soul, while thou art mine.
By thee assisted, ladies kill the day.
And breathe their scandal freely o'er their tea;
Not less they prize thy virtues when in bed;
One puff of thee revives the vapoured head,
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and tickles in the sneeze

Good Books

I came across this quote attributed to Mark Twain, "The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them." For many many years, people desired and yearned for either themselves or for their children to receive an education at a school or a university. Now that going to college is commonplace, the books that were once sought after as providing a solid education seem to no longer be utilized in most curriculums. What was once as precious as gold has now become as valuable as clay. So what advantage does one have if he does not read those books which were once the cornerstone of Western Culture just as much as the man who cannot read them. What a shame it is that those books, which are exceptionally cheap to buy now, are no longer being feasted upon by our "erudite" educated mob.

"Books without the knowledge of life are useless, for what should books teach but the art of living?" Samuel Johnson

A song sung inside the Prancing Pony

Sung to the theme, Carol of the Bells



The Carol of the Barrel

Smell all the ale

Sweet savory ale

It’ll make you gay

Happy and gay

I’d like a beer,

Bring all the beer

I’d like the old

Dark and the bold

The Cask is round

Deep, full and round

Full of good ale

Oh, all the ale

Haste’ly they bring

While we all sing

Good tastin’ beer

Beer, beer, beer, beer

On we imbibe

YES, we imbibe

Delicious taste to every man

Children of Hurin

As a Librarian, I highly recommend that everyone in the Kinship read this new book.


.

Mythopoeia by Tolkien

Mythopoeia

Philomythus to Misomythus

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.

At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o'er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not 'trees', until so named and seen
and never were so named, tifi those had been
who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.

He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers bencath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-pattemed; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.

Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.

Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.

I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.