Hi. My name is Aegthil and I'm a minstrel.
Ahem, yes, well. As I just said, I'm a minstrel. Born and bred in Gondor and famous throughout the lands of the south as one of the greatest and most creative interpreters of the works of the immortal Frenwine. What, you've never heard of Frenwine? Well, never mind about that.
Why did I leave Gondor? None of your business. And any rumours you might have heard are totally untrue. It absolutely was not me.
You will be forgiven for not immediately appreciating my importance, as I have been, rather unfairly, labelled as "Level 10". In reality, of course, I should be level 1000 or maybe 2000, but I am hampered by the continual presence of My Fool. This irritating person, who labours under the delusion that he controls my actions, is, well, a fool. Slow of thought and movement, and limited of understanding. I shall allow him to make notes every so often, for which I apologise in advance.
So, anyway, I come up from Gondor to find total chaos in Archet. I sort that out. Huge thanks, beautiful women cheering me in the street, just the kind of thing I'm used to. I can handle that.
Combe, much of the same. They all know me now, and think I'm a real hot-shot. Well, of course they do. I am.
And then, Bree. Nothing. No parade. No plaudits. No grateful thanks from adoring fans. No beautiful women lining the streets to throw flowers and flash their legs. Nothing. Very disappointing it was. I called on the Mayor, and he didn't even invite me to dinner. My digs at the Prancing Pony are insalubrious, to say the least, and I have to run errands for some bloody ragamuffin Ranger with some weird name. Walker, or something. Stroller. That's it. Stroller.
How the mighty have fallen. The greatest Minstrel Gondor has ever seen, reduced to picking up pieces of NeekerBreeker shit.