Marks are the beetles of Eriador

What on earth is it with Marks? Skirmish Marks, Barrow Marks, Bounty Marks, Green Marks, Blue Marks, Silver Marks, every bloody kind of Mark you could think of. Marks are the Beetles of Eriador.

What is wrong with being able to go into a shop and saying “I want a nice pair of pants, size 32, pink with a lacy frill, lots of Will, no Might. 40 silver. Thanks. Goodbye.”? What a great idea. Must have been a genius to think that one up.

But no. Up north here you get things called Skirmish Marks, or Barrow Marks, or some other kind of Bounty, or Mark, or thing, or … well, you get the picture. You have absolutely no idea what they’re for, so you go looking for a place to spend them, and then you finally find one person that converts Silver Marks into Blue Marks and then Bounty Marks into Skirmish Marks, and then you find another person that converts Skirmish Marks into armour but only if you’ve also got a Barrow Mark which you haven’t turned into a Skirmish Mark, but if the Barrow Mark is blue you only get armour sets part one but if half the Skirmish Mark is red and half the Barrow Mark is really a Pink Mark, then you can buy armour set part 2, but only if your Bounty Mark has a legendary Barrow Mark attached, and even then only if you can find part 2 armour hidden among the other 1,000,000 pieces of armour in the shop.
Who thought this up? Did somebody, somewhere, sometime, actually think this was a good idea? Was it the same person who invented beetles? (My vote is yes on this one.)

But enough about Marks. More about me.

I am pining away, unable to leave the Dancing Horse Inn, or whatever it’s called. Not that it’s a bad place. There’s often music by the fire, the fat guy behind the bar, Butterbun, isn’t really a bad chap, and the barber is always available to ensure that I look my best. And as you all know, my best is very good indeed. Actually, forget about the fireside music. Let’s not go there.

But even the best of pleasures pall when one’s diet includes no other, and I want to get the hell out. Most particularly because of the music by the fire, come to think of it. My Fool is absent, away from home, travelling far across the ocean, so I’m bloody well stuck here.

My adoring fans are devastated.