“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.” Thus begins J. R. R. Tolkien’s famous work ‘The Hobbit’. ‘The Hobbit’ is a sort of prequel to ‘The Lord of The Rings’. The story centers around Bilbo Baggins, a very respectable Hobbit, and like any respectable Hobbit, going on an adventure is the farthest thing from his mind. But he meets the wizard Gandalf, who drags him on an adventure to slay a dragon and reclaim a lost mountain full of treasure belonging to the dwarves. Along the way Bilbo, Gandalf, and the twelve dwarves, led by Thorin Oakenshield, face deadly perils: such as trolls, goblins, giant spiders, and the mysterious creature Gollum, who is in possession of a magic ring.

The main difference between ‘The Lord of The Rings’ and ‘The Hobbit’, is that ‘The Hobbit’ is a children’s book. Therefore it is  much shorter, easier to read, and less dark than the former. ‘The Hobbit’ does a great job of not only having action and peril, but also being fun in some places. It is a great book that I enjoyed reading. It is a long-ish novel but it stays interesting throughout the whole story. It has good morals about bravery, friendship, the value of life, and not being corrupted by greed. I would highly recommend this book for children between 8 and 12, but people of all ages can enjoy this classic work of literature.

By Nathaniel Patrick

• I need to mop. That’s it. That’s my first musing. I need to mop. 

• Oh. And wash the windows and wipe down the baseboards.

• I purchased fall seeds. It’s been too hot to plant, but maybe this weekend. I cannot remember what all I have. Carrots for sure. And I’ve already planted fall zinnias. Because they make me happy. 

• I want to be the gal who does all things naturally. I just spent an embarrassing amount of time watching YouTube videos on growing my own microgreens. And I am washing towels: first in vinegar, then in baking soda, and now in Castile soap. Because they do not smell great. Let’s be honest. Nothing works quite like Tide. And air fresheners. I just purchased some with essential oils, made by hand, in small batches, from a locally-owned store. But. Honestly. The little aerosol air freshener I have. It’s the one I use if a smell-y smell is lingering. (And I’m planting those fall seeds. Carrots. Again. But we have only ever eaten about 4 from the garden.) 

• I’ve been praying a lot of, ‘Oh, Father, may Your will be done,’ because I do not know how to pray. There is a lot of hard going on right now. And so often my prayers are filled with my opinions. So I am trying to really lay these things down. And trust Jesus fully. He is faithful. Always. Oh, Father, may Your will be done. 

• Our time on earth. It is fleeting. I am so distracted by the world I lose sight of the Kingdom. How do we live in this now in light of what is to come??? I do not feel like I do it well.

• I have a ‘Hello Spring’ sign hanging in the kitchen. Where has the summer gone? Now I kind of feel like I should go ahead and leave it up until Christmas.

• Speaking of Christmas. I want to make ornaments by hand. And collect greens for a wreath. And let’s not even talk about gathering beautiful fabric and ribbons to wrap gifts in. First, I’m headed to Walmart for some Tide. 

By Monica Patrick

“Consider it pure joy, brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds." - James 1:2

The world poses us with many trials of many kinds. But the Bible tells us to face these trials head-on. In the trials, in the fighting, it is going to be hard. But keep faithful because the Bible says to have joy in the hardship. So no matter what, always pray for help, love, and everlasting joy, even in the hardships.

By Seth Patrick.

Corin strode into camp short of breath, the cold air burning his lungs. The Commandos camp was just outside Ardogy Plains, where the sun would still beat down most of the day, allowing for a meager allotment of warmth in this frigid land. A handful of neat tents placed in orderly lines met him as he crested the snowy ridge. It had been a long day, as far as he could tell, the Organsheds had launched three separate assaults in hopes of wearing Corin and his men out. In a way, it had worked. From what he could tell as he moved through the tents, the other battle led by Simeon had gone worse than the one Corin himself had participated in. No casualties, but a plethora of wounds. That made sense. Any prisoner worth preliminarily informing Corin of must be a high-ranking leader indeed. Such a man wouldn’t travel with the small force that Corin had encountered earlier.

He approached his tent confidently; no guards stood at the door. No one would be able to escape a fully occupied Reaper Commando camp. A firm hand seized his arm. He turned, seeing Simeon standing before him. Simeon was a strong man, shorter than most Reapers and much shorter than Corin. He still stood with confidence, his powerful muscles rippling under tanned skin from countless hours of training under the sun. “Who is he?” Corin didn’t speak the words; rather, he transmitted them directly into Simeon’s mind.

“Claims to be a Vigilant.” The older man replied out loud. Corin nodded, Vigilants were what Colshmerians called non-royal Hierlores. A Hierlore was one of the few lasting parts of the once great Ueldrean Empire. Back then, the Empire had been made up of thirty-one sub-kingdoms. Each kingdom was allotted three Hierlores, men who possessed immunity from the death penalty. They could still be killed in battle, but if at any point they surrendered, they had to be spared. This tradition was kept once the kingdoms eventually split because the people in power enjoyed the idea of being impossible to kill. It gave them a sense of security.

It had been thousands of years since the Ueldrean Empire had ruled, and now, of course, the thirty-one kingdoms were at war with each other. The tension had been building for years; it didn’t help that the kingdoms were separated into two distinct continents. Soon, the groups had stopped being the same people at all, instead going by the distinct names of their continents. Karldarians in the North and the more primitive Colshmerians in the South.

Corin stepped through the tent flap, looking at the older man before him. He certainly wasn’t an Organshed, Corin mused. This man looked refined, cultured; he could have easily passed for a Karldarian. He must be from one of the easternmost kingdoms then. The man stood from where he was sitting, his leather boots crunching on the thick snow beneath the tent floor. “King Corin of Alrinyan.” The man said with a formal bow. Corin eyed him, not returning the gesture. This man may have looked civil, but Corin had yet to meet a Mern who wasn’t cruel or greedy. And he’d met his fair share.

“Vigilant Augus.” Corin replied curtly. He hadn’t known the man’s name, but Simeon had filled the gap in through Alasca Magic while he spoke. “You wear the ring of a Hierlore, do you know the words?” Every Hierlore bore a two-step identification process, a ring, and a set of code words. A thief could steal the ring but not know the words, and a former Hierlore could know the words but not have the ring. Corin himself was a Hierlore, of course. All the kings were. He bore the ring on his left hand next to his signet ring. Simeon respectfully stepped out of earshot while Augus leaned in. He whispered one of the secret words, Corin did likewise, then the man said the third, and Corin said the fourth. It was certain then, this man was a Vigilant. Corin couldn’t kill him, well, at least not here. An Hierlore could be executed if judged guilty by two other Hierlores.

“Which king do you serve?” Corin asked coldly, crossing his arms and looking down at the man.

“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Ausus said, attempting to sound confident. “You can’t hurt me.” It was a lie. Not that Corin couldn’t hurt this man, that was true. But he was by no means confident. The fear in his eyes was obvious, and he shifted his left foot uncomfortably.

“Really?” Corin asked with an eyebrow raised. Crack! The back of Corin’s hand slammed hard against Augus’s face; his head snapped to the side, and he crashed back to the bench behind him. Well, that felt good, Corin thought. He didn’t feel a shred of remorse.

“H-how dare you!” the crumpled man sputtered. “Y-you c-“ he was cut short as Corin’s hand shot forward effortlessly lifting the stout man to his feet with one arm. There was no pretense of courage in that face now, just absolute terror.

“You’ll tell me exactly what I want to know.” Corin’s voice was even, threatening. He shoved the man back, turning away. Augus crashed down onto the bench, pushing his body back against the tent. He made no move to stand back up.

“The treaty!” Augus pleaded. He was doubtless referring to the Ueldrean treaty of armies, which dictated a Hierlores immunity, as well as the laws of war.

“The treaty,” Corin said as he picked up a long, curved knife from a nearby table, “only states you can’t kill a Hierlore.” He turned around, facing the man.

“You swore an oath by the AllMaker!” Augus said. Desperation was thick in his voice. Actually, Corin hadn’t; whenever a new man received a Hierlore ring, he recited an oath that was told him by the giver. But Corin had pried the ring from the cold body of his father. There had been no opportunity for oaths.

“Hierlores have been imprisoned before,” Corin said, “and don’t forget, the Colshmerians broke the fifth edict first, not the Karldarians.” The fifth treaty forbade torture of war prisoners, but by the recognition in Augus’s eyes, Corin didn’t think he needed to clarify. He probably wouldn’t torture the man, and if he did, he wouldn’t use a simple knife like this. But it seemed to convince the man. And that made everything a lot easier.

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Lianna sat straight-backed on the wooden seat before her brother’s throne. Lianna had no memory of her brother Corin. He had gone off to war when she was just four years old, along with her other three brothers and her father. She remembered a little of the old king; he had been a kind man by all accounts. But he had died along with her three oldest brothers. She’d been ruling Alrinyan as regent for two years now, four years before that with the assistance of a high council.

Her mock throne was set on a raised platform of marbled rock. Before her, a long line of Alrinyan citizens ran back to the rear of the great hall and through the door. According to Alrinyan tradition, the current ruler would hear the supplications of their people once every month, acting as a kind of high judge if the people felt the local magistrates had been unfair. That was happening a lot more lately.

The twenty barons that controlled most of Alrinyan were subject to her authority in theory only. If she had been a complete ruler and not a regent in her brother’s stead, she would be able to force them to obey her father’s laws. But for now, this was one of the few powers allotted her; she'd make due.

“Your highness, Shepard Knoxland,” the caller shouted out, “speaking on the theft of his sheep by his neighbor!” Lianna turned her attention to the man before her. He was of middle age, perhaps forty, and, like most men of that age still in the kingdom, he had a grievous injury that prevented him from military service. This man’s particular ailment was a missing leg.

“Your highness,” Knoxland began with a low bow, “just over a week ago, three of my sheep went missing. I later found them in my neighbor, Farmer Mixlands’ pins.”

“Were they branded?” Lianna asked, leaning forward to better hear the man’s gravelly voice. To a peasant such as this, losing three sheep could be devastating, especially with winter approaching.

“Yes, your highness.” The man replied.

“Then why did your local court turn down your plea?” She already knew, but asked anyway.

“Farmer Mixland claimed I sold them to him; he didn’t have proper documents, but Baron Rockfell granted him doubt benefit.” She had suspected as much; that was a baron’s right, to grant someone they trusted an edge in a close court case. But knowing Rockfell, it was almost undoubtedly a bribe. She could refute the decision, but Rockfell probably wouldn’t enforce her edict.

She thought for a moment, then sighed inwardly, “I grant your plea,” she said clearly. A woman to her right scribbled the ruling down on a ledger. As the man exited, she waved Emilio, the captain of her guard, over. “Send one of your men to explain that he won’t be seeing those sheep again,” she whispered into his ear, “and then provide him with three sheep as well as payment for his traveling expenses.”

“Are you sure that’s wise Lianna?” He asked, “You can’t keep helping everyone who comes your way. The palace only holds so much wealth. Think of the bigger picture.” Lianna sighed; such language and skepticism wouldn’t have been acceptable for anyone else, but Emilio was a trusted friend. And besides, he was right, she had a habit of doing that, focusing on the need right in front of her and ignoring the future repercussions. It meant she was a beloved ruler by her people, but the high council worried she was jeopardizing the kingdom’s future.

“I stand by my statement.” She replied, “Please, not now,” she added, interrupting his second objection. He nodded and walked off, relaying her message to a guard member. Emilio was a fierce man, she knew; he had been one of some odd hundred young, able-bodied men who’d been left behind when the war started. He’d been the captain of her mother’s guard then, before she too died. He pressed himself, always trying to prove he wasn’t a coward for not going, that it hadn’t been his choice. She didn’t like the shame he carried; it made no sense to her. It wasn’t his fault, but it made him very good at his job, very focused, sometimes too focused.

An odd few people passed until, when she looked up from speaking with a clerk, Lianna saw that the next person standing before her was a tired-looking mother with a young boy hugging her leg. “Your Highness, Mrs. Elsrted, speaking on-“ Lianna held up her arm, stopping the caller.

“She can speak for herself Eustace,” she said, addressing the man by his first name. “What is the problem, Mrs…”

“Ellen, your highness, Ellen Elstred.” Lianna nodded for her to continue, and hesitantly, the woman explained her tale. Unfortunately, it wasn’t all that uncommon; Lianna had heard it too many times. A small village on the outskirts, attacked by a raiding force from nearby Forgaln, pillaged and robbed, the bandits vanishing into the night. Leaning back, Lianna clasped her hands before her in frustration. The king of Forgaln wasn’t here to keep his people in check, and they had no military to protect their borders. It was supposed to be the job of the barons, but like so many of their other responsibilities, they didn’t seem inclined to fulfill it. For a couple of months, she’d been able to keep a force of hired men from allied kingdoms at a steep discount, but they’d run out of money for that. Again, the fault of the kingdom’s barons. Alrinyan was actually a wealthy kingdom; they had fewer men to support at the Frozen Lands. But the local landlords only paid a fraction of the collected wealth to the crown. Hopefully, the war would end and her brother would be able to set things straight.

She had once gotten a message across the sea, and the Forgaln king had sent a message which had stopped the raids, but it hadn’t worked for long. Once the bandits figured that their king wouldn’t come back to put them in line, they started up again, and it had only gotten worse. The summer crops that had been sold overseas should return a profit soon, she’d be able to hire more soldiers. But for now, she had nothing to tell this poor woman, though AllMaker knew she wished she did.

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A few hours later:

       Swish… thunk. The glittering silver throwing knife sank into the target in front of Corin. He followed it up with two throwing axes, a javelin, and a slender starlike projectile called a surkon. Surkons weren’t particularly deadly, but they were small and easy to conceal. And once faced with the flying shards of razor-sharp metal, opponents were often too busy shielding their faces or dodging to avoid the killing blow of a sword or knife. Corin was good with thrown weapons. Knives were his favorite because they seemed to strike a nice balance, deadlier than a surkon but less cumbersome than an axe.

       Around him, forty of the other Reapers were doing the same thing, releasing the assorted blades, recovering them, and repeating. It was tedious, too predictable, none of them ever missed. But it was necessary; one could never be too skilled. But Corin had always preferred sparing. He was best at sword fighting, and he often fought against two or three other Reapers at once. But hand-to-hand was exciting too, particularly because he wasn’t the best. Both Teff and Argloer were better than him. And he liked that, liked having something to shoot for, an opponent to surpass.

       It had been about an hour since they had sent the Vigilant off with a rider. He would arrive at the main Karldarian camp before sunrise if all went well. After a brief interrogation, Corin had discovered that Augus was in the employ of the Warrion king Yolgush. The Warrions were the largest and one of the most advanced of the Colshmerians. They were an even more complex civilization than many in Karldarian. Not that the Karldarians would ever admit it.

       Augus had apparently only been lent to the Organsheds in order to breach the Ardogy Plains. Regardless, the man likely possessed a great quantity of information valuable to the other Karldarian kings. Perhaps he could even lead to the end of this war. Corin didn’t know what to make of that, the end of the war. It had started when he was just eight years old. He’d been fighting it without his father since he was nine. It was all he knew how to do, this killing of men.

       Soon, twenty men went out of the camp. They’d relieve the twenty who were already on guard duty. The men would watch in pairs. One slept while the other watched. It was a good strategy that allowed ten areas to be guarded all night while each of the sixty Reapers still got two and a half full nights of sleep every three days.

       As soon as the relieved men arrived, all the Commandos went to their tents to sleep. Corin lay back, letting his head rest on his pillow. He was tired but wasn’t ready for sleep. Wasn’t ready for the nightmares. Most soldiers had dreams now and again; it was what happened when killing machines held on to a scrap of their souls. They couldn’t help regretting what they’d done, what they would have to do. Corin had tried to drown his dreams in a flood of bodies, killing again and again until it didn’t hurt, until he didn’t even notice. But every now and again, a dream would return, a dream of his first kill. He’d only been a boy then, the enemy had attacked their camp, and Corin had been left unguarded in a tent. He’d only killed the man in self-defense. So why had it hurt?