The Halls of the Bear stand as a monument to the strength of the oldest magic, near that which is called the Carrock, that ring of standing stones that marks the territory of the Beornings, the Men Who Walk as Bears. Without doubt, these men represent the truth of those that reside in the shadow of the Misty Mountains, those who dare to live under the eaves of the Mirkwood. All of us stand tall as bears, for theirs is the strength that lacks in the great southern kingdoms.
In the vales of the mighty River Anduin, there is strength not found in all of Middle Earth, not amongst the fair folk nor the stout folk, or amongst other men. They lack the hardy, bestial nature of the Beornings, the strength of the daily struggling foresters and the hardened few who fight the strength of goblins from the mountains. Few face the dire wargs, who speak in voices of hate, and the eaves of Mirkwood, where even Elves fear to go. To the Men of the Anduin, these are daily perils, and they are met head-on. For them, the battles of the world are just an extension of day-to-day life, and the wars elsewhere ease the pressure, if anything, allowing the folk of the Anduin Vale to unite and flourish. The Hall of the Bears leads the communities that form the lifeblood of the Vale.
The Anduin is as ancient as the world itself. The old tales say that many have lived by its life giving waters in ages gone by, for the Shirelings dwelt here, and most of the First born crossed here at least once in their dream-filled migrations. It feeds the world, strides deeper than the strength of mountains, washes gently with a lovers’ caress, then pushes with the strength of a thousand giants. It is our life, our blood, our strength, and only we call it home.
It is hard to scrape a living here, and the battle against those that would destroy all that we hold dear, this constant struggle make us strong. Who but our kind can face the wretched spiders that lair within Mirkwood. It is we that drive them back with sword and axe, spitting into their eyes, laughing at death, axes cutting, swords biting until you or they lie dead, and that is all there is. That is all we ask for in life. One is strong, one is weak. One lives, one dies. That is life, and, in the Vale of Anduin, more so than elsewhere.
The Lordlings of the south hide behind their towering walls they do not see the world as we do; they see soft cushions and wine, not stone standing free,nor the wind ripping through hair as you drink ale and laugh at a storm. Few of them have seen the Bears at war, nor play, nor seen the deepest magic at work. For in those stones lies the weight of the world. In our great hearts we carry this weight, and soon we will take it to war. A war that is no different than daily life, but we face it with a snarl, and will hurl our strength at it like we do into everything – Play, war, loving, drinking. With a savagery and a laughter that speaks of death, life and the living between both. Few allies have we, yet we need none. All but alone we stand, yet we survive. More goblin-heads to split with axe, more death, more laughter, and more strength to gain. Life IS war!!
In the vales of the mighty River Anduin, there is strength not found in all of Middle Earth, not amongst the fair folk nor the stout folk, or amongst other men. They lack the hardy, bestial nature of the Beornings, the strength of the daily struggling foresters and the hardened few who fight the strength of goblins from the mountains. Few face the dire wargs, who speak in voices of hate, and the eaves of Mirkwood, where even Elves fear to go. To the Men of the Anduin, these are daily perils, and they are met head-on. For them, the battles of the world are just an extension of day-to-day life, and the wars elsewhere ease the pressure, if anything, allowing the folk of the Anduin Vale to unite and flourish. The Hall of the Bears leads the communities that form the lifeblood of the Vale.
The Anduin is as ancient as the world itself. The old tales say that many have lived by its life giving waters in ages gone by, for the Shirelings dwelt here, and most of the First born crossed here at least once in their dream-filled migrations. It feeds the world, strides deeper than the strength of mountains, washes gently with a lovers’ caress, then pushes with the strength of a thousand giants. It is our life, our blood, our strength, and only we call it home.
It is hard to scrape a living here, and the battle against those that would destroy all that we hold dear, this constant struggle make us strong. Who but our kind can face the wretched spiders that lair within Mirkwood. It is we that drive them back with sword and axe, spitting into their eyes, laughing at death, axes cutting, swords biting until you or they lie dead, and that is all there is. That is all we ask for in life. One is strong, one is weak. One lives, one dies. That is life, and, in the Vale of Anduin, more so than elsewhere.
The Lordlings of the south hide behind their towering walls they do not see the world as we do; they see soft cushions and wine, not stone standing free,nor the wind ripping through hair as you drink ale and laugh at a storm. Few of them have seen the Bears at war, nor play, nor seen the deepest magic at work. For in those stones lies the weight of the world. In our great hearts we carry this weight, and soon we will take it to war. A war that is no different than daily life, but we face it with a snarl, and will hurl our strength at it like we do into everything – Play, war, loving, drinking. With a savagery and a laughter that speaks of death, life and the living between both. Few allies have we, yet we need none. All but alone we stand, yet we survive. More goblin-heads to split with axe, more death, more laughter, and more strength to gain. Life IS war!!