Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 3 |
| Native Pride |
| It's the one thing they've taught the Westmen, or so the Vale-folk claim. And there're worse things to teach, not that you'd know it – not much love for what weren't off their drowned isle. But in The Bottle, on the wharf, it'll sing out evenings. "Poor man's harp," Westmen say. Ha! Adris'll shame the calluses off any harper thinks to stroke his Glinda. Fingers flying, bow afire, he'll jig the tavern down. "Ge, what it is?" one Northern newcomer asks, staring at the curves – like a man in love. Adris grins. "Got different names, but it 't'ent some Westman's `vi-o-lin'…" |
Prompt: bottle, wharf, violin A/N:The "Vale-folk" are an invention from A Very Rain of Sparrows: they're the native population of non-Dúnedain in Gondor and have their own distinct dialect that shows in the last sentence. |