Vauen Auenland - The Shire

Lo! What's that I see ahead? A green, misty valley. What's that I hear? The distant trickling of water, a shady brook. After trudging through miles of barren, dry land, this scene was a sight to behold. With an almost empty canteen, and a bone dry clay pipe in my back pocket, I marched on, into the mysterious verdant valley. I had images of elves racing about my feet as I stepped to—the little rascals were pulling at my pant leg and knocking my boots with their tiny fists. Call me, Gulliver.

My nerves tingled as I walked through the mist. The land was green, with tall emerald grass, and low dark trees everywhere I looked. But, wait! What's that I see in the distant meadow? A gray colored object, just off the trail. Why, it's a stone slab, a table. Reminiscent of something you'd see on the Plains of Salisbury. An archaic object, to be sure.

As I approached, an object came into focus. There, sitting atop the roughly hewn slab was a tin—a tin of tobacco! I couldn't believe my good fortune. My greedy hand grasped onto the tin, but it wouldn't budge. No matter what I did, I couldn't doff the bloody thing. While pondering what to do, something quite unexpected happened. A tall bearded man attired in animal skins walked out from behind a nearby tree! He blew into the hollowed out horn of an auroch, the grunting, choppy moan of his horn sent shivers down my spine.

"I am Sigismund! Velcome to Auenland. Plees place twelf euro on zee palm of mine hand and zee tobacco vill be yours!"

My ice cold pipe needed kindling, so I couldn't help but dig deep. I gave the man exactly twelve euros. As I coated his hand with silver, a wide toothy grin broke out on his face. He suddenly closed his hand tight over the money, turned around, and beat a hasty retreat into the nearby woods, never to be seen again.

So, there I was, alone in Auenland, with an unexpected tin of pipe baccy. This time, my hand plucked the tin off the table. I pried open the tin and, giddy as a teenager, stuffed my nose directly in. The rose was unlike anything I've ever experienced. It was an odd, mysterious scent; what was it? It tickled my menthol detector, first off. Just a hint. But, what else? Man, I've been smoking a pipe for many a year, and I've come across nothing like this before. The scent of this blend is heady, perfumey, sweet, and frankly, obnoxious. Clearly an aromatic. The colors of the tobacco ran the gamut and it was spongey to the touch.

Well, I threw caution to the moist Auenlandian wind and fired up a bowl. One puff, and my mouth went completely dry. A thick, toxic cloud of smoke hung in the air. What, in God's name, is in this weed? The taste was horridly interesting. Wait. What's that on my tongue? A hot poker? A needle, a pin? I slowed my cadence, it improved. But, then, Sigismund's smile popped into my head. His smile quickly turned into a laugh. A demonic, red-faced, joke of a laugh!

In a panic, my head began to spin. I smashed my pipe onto the stone table. Clay shards and red hot ash flew every which way. I dropped the tin aside and ran, bypassing the clear cold stream on my way out of the valley.

You know, just because your pipe is empty, it doesn't mean you have to stuff it with just any old thing. Sometimes, just sometimes, keep your dice safely tucked away and just walk on.

Keep on pipin'