2004 Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Celebration!

[piosenniel]

~*~ The Long Awaited Party ~*~

Rumors of the party were rife in Hobbiton and Bywater. Indeed, all the Shire was buzzing with news of the travelers on the Great East Road and the doings in the Party Field. The word, in fact, had spread in the four directions until all manner of creatures beneath the starry skies of Arda had heard whisperings of it carried on the breezes. Hearing the news, many had traveled from afar and were now staying in The Green Dragon Inn, near to bursting at its seams, or pitching tents in the fields of some accommodating Hobbit. And much of their time was spent in speculation and rubber-necking as the curious train of wagons and carts bore their goods and workers down the Great East Road, up the Bywater Road, turning north finally on Hill Lane.

A Southron troupe, all in a motley of parti-colored silks, stood up on the flat bed of their great wagon. Some played an enchanting melody on their curious instruments as others juggled hoops and bright striped balls. They answered no questions as they rolled along, only winked and nodded to the crowds that stood along the road. And one of them, a kohl-eyed woman from Khand, all in scarves and shining bracelets, threw paper-wrapped sweets from the basket in the curve of her arm. She laughed as the children, and to be sure a great many of the older folk, scrambled for the treats.

One old traveler, flicking the reins lightly against his cart horse as he passed, caused a stir of delighted whoops. He had taken the Bent Road to be here, bringing his special sort of entertainment to the party, the likes of which had not been seen in many, many ages.

But even he (http://img-fan.theonering.net/rolozo/images/sweet/hobbiton.jpg) was silent as he nodded his head to the welcoming cries. His eyes twinkled with amusement and anticipation from beneath his hoary eyebrows as he passed by, and he kept an eye out, or both when he could spare them, for any who might ‘borrow’ a thing or two from his cart.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Clinging precariously to her brother's shoulders, the young lass flailed her arms in the air, trying to latch onto the lowest branch of an overhanging apple tree. She missed the limb by almost a foot, muttering words of frustration under her breath.

"Stop wiggling!" Holly Zaragamba commanded her brother in a stern voice. "If you'd stay still, I could pull myself up."

In recent days, workers had rumbled into Hobbiton, their carts overflowing with supplies, and had quickly constructed a thick wooden fence encircling the party field. All the Hobbits in the neighborhood could hear the intriguing sounds of saws and hammers, and even smell the enticing odor of food being prepared. Yet no one could get inside, or see anything at all except the topmost branch of the mallorn tree sticking out above the fenceline.

For most of the afternoon, Rory and his sister had searched for a peekhole and even tried to bore through the wooden planks, but had accomplished nothing at all. The front gate was still firmly locked despite all their efforts to push it open. As the sun went down, the overhanging apple tree remained their only hope.

"Look here!" Rory grinned and pointed at an upturned crate that one of the workers had left in the grass. Dragging the box near the fence, he climbed onto it, balancing his sister on his shoulders. With one valiant heave, Holly reached up and grasped the limb, slowing pulling herself up into the leafy branches until she could look out over the field.

"What do you see?" Rory demanded, his face wreathed with expectation.

"Ooohh! Lots of nice things to eat and drink, party decorations, and tables with mathoms. But wait...." Disbelieving, Holly rubbed her eyes. "There's something not so nice, too. It's a dark, scary hole, a grim place with the word "Barrow" over the door."

"'Burrow?'" Rory questioned, tripping over the unfamiliar word.

“Not a 'burrow,' silly! A 'barrow'. Whatever that is . . ."

Out of the dark recesses of the barrow came a commanding green hand, larger than anything Holly had ever seen. It was reaching out in her direction. With a shriek of terror, the lass came tumbling out of the tree, flattening her brother on the ground. The hand bypassed the two Hobbits and instead whacked up a note on the locked door:

~*~

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE BARROW-DOWNS!

On May 1, 2004, the forums at the Barrow-Downs reach the ripe (and I do mean ripe!) old age of FOUR! While the site itself is a bit older, the fourth anniversary of the opening of the forums is a cause to CELEBRATE!!!!! Therefore, we will have a PARTY in the Shire to celebrate the fourth birthday (uh, deathday?) of the Barrow-Downs forums and all members are invited!!!!!

PLACE: The Party Field in Hobbiton (located in the Shire Forum).

TIME: Saturday, May 1, 2004 beginning at 9:00 a.m. Pacific time through late Monday night, May 3, 2004.

DRESS: Middle Earth Wear – formal, if you wish, or just plain comfortable.

There will be an open bar, entertainment, and meals will be served buffet style.

COME CELEBRATE THE BARROW-DOWNS, AND PAY YOUR RESPECTS TO THE WIGHT!

(ANYONE TRYING TO SNEAK INTO THE PARTY BEFORE THAT DATE WILL BE DEALT WITH PERSONALLY BY ME)

Signed – The Barrow-Wight

~*~

Quickly scanning the placard, and noting the sharp words near the end, Rory and Holly took off for the Green Dragon where their family was staying at a dead run . . .

[piosenniel]

Pio took one last look at herself in the polished buckler that hung in her tent, near the Green Dragon Pavilion. It was almost time for the party to begin. And this year she was going as the Elf she’d always wanted to be. She grinned, as she adjusted the flame red wig and popped in the emerald green contacts. Crossing the field, she took note of the small barrow to her left.

Ah . . . good . . . the Guest of Honor had arrived. . . .

In the shade afforded by the tall mallorn in the middle of the field, The Party Tree, a curiously out of place mound had sprung up over the past few days . . . pushed itself up, rather, from the ground beneath the bright green field. It, too, was green, but of a mouldering hue . . . the doorway into it opening onto a deep, darkness from which a deep, sing-songy voice issued in sepulchral tones.

‘Throw me another word, Sharkey! I’m on a roll here!’

‘Handsel, then,’ came the acerbic reply of the Old Man’s voice.

‘Too easy by half!’ chuckled the Wight.

After the Bywater Battle was won
And Sharkû was gone, for his time was done,
The hobbits then wondered just where to begin,
So they turned naturally to the Green Dragon Inn,
Unboarded the windows, unlocked all the doors,
Invited all Fallohides, Harfoots and Stoors,
They filled all the chairs, and tables and stools,
And broke every one of The Chief’s stupid rules,
The first rule of which was the one about drinking,
And Sam was the one who was quickest in thinking
To climb on the bar to a boisterous cheer
And handsel the place with a splash of cold beer.

Pio could hear the Wight clapping his cold green hands together in delight as Sharkey muttered something incomprehensible. ‘If only he’ll stay in such a good mood when the well-wishers pin their birthday greetings to the tree or put their mathoms and gewgaws on his treasure table. I can’t afford to explain to Hizzoner, the Mayor, why Hobbits and other party goers have gone missing . . .’

She ran to the gates, one hand clapped on her head to keep the wig in place . . . time to announce the party is starting . . .

[piosenniel]

The moment she’d heard the first words ring out over the gate she regretted having given the out-of-work Elf the job of announcing the opening of the celebration. Quenyan! The misbegotten Elf was addressing the good folk waiting patiently at the gate in that musty old language. And to top it off, he’d drug out some old catch-phrase of his, dusted it off once again, and was intoning the words in a very loud and measured way . . .

Utúlie’n aurë! . . .

‘The day has indeed come,’ Pio hissed at Fingon, taking the steps two at a time to the small platform that ran the length of the gate. ‘But it’s the party you’re announcing, not the Nirnaeth Arnoediad!’ In the background she could hear Gothmog and his fellows snickering at the old King. ‘Quiet, you lot!’ she growled at them. ‘Just open the gates when I give the signal.’

Ignoring the irritated flapping of their wings at being addressed so rudely, she pulled out her new timepiece from the watch-pocket of the poppy red vest Cami had made for her, and checked the time.

Two minutes . . . just . . .

The watch had been a recent present from one of her friends in the Shire. ‘Traveled all the way to Canoni City for that,’ he’d told her.

Where in Arda is that? she’d wondered as he’d proudly pushed the myriad buttons for her, showing all the varied interpretations of the time of day one could display on it.

‘Who knew?!’ she’d said, wondering what committee had put together the unwieldy contraption. With a smile on her face, she’d thanked him; then promptly set the dial to read Shire time.

**********************************************

Child's Post

"Daisy Zaragamba! What are you doing?"

Cami glared in the direction of her youngest daughter who had managed to comandeer all her mother's perfume and cosmetic bottles and now had them lined up atop the bar counter in the Dragon's Comon Room.

The young lass turned a pouting face back towards her mother and impatiently stamped her foot, "But, Ima , I just wanted to look pretty. Anyways, it's time for the party. It's time to go."

Cami stared at her daughter aghast. Her young face was covered with enough layers of paint to look like one of the pictures of the entombed dead from the isle of Numenor. "Get that garbage off your face right now, or you're not going to any party!" Running over and snatching up a wet rag that was generally used for cleaning off tables, she stuffed it into Daisy's hands. "I don't know where you get these ideas from! And "Ima"! What kind of a word is that? That's no proper Hobbit word."

"Rory taught me. He says Mister Tolkien knew a lot of different languages. Once he helped translate the Jerusalem Bible. He must know "Ima" so we know it too. And Rory says......"

At this point, her mother interrupted, "That's enough! I don't know any Mister Tolkien, and we're going to be late if you don't hurry."

Cami grumbled to herself under her breath, "And why does she remember only the crazy things her brother teaches her. When he tells her I want her to help with the dishes, she conveniently forgets."

By this time, the three children had lined up at the door and were tugging at their mother's sleeve in their eagerness to depart. Cami went over to inspect her crew, giving a downward yank to Holly's skirt to make certain it wasn't too short. Merimac disliked seeing his daughter in dress that he considered inappropriate, although Holly had a way of sneaking out the back door and rearranging her clothing before she ran off to see her friends'.

Giving Rory a last minute kiss on top of the head, Cami surveyed her young charges one last time and barked out a final order. "Now, everyone, I want you to listen to me. These parties can get a little wild. This isn't just good folk from the Shire, but lots of outsiders with strange ideas and stranger looks. Stay close together and don't go wandering off on your own!" With that Cami turned and marched the Zaragamba brood (formerly the Tooks and Goodchilds) purposely towards the party field. She expected her huband and the older boys to show up later.

[piosenniel]

Standing on the platform, Pio looked back a last time at the Party Field. There on the large, green expanse of it were set about all manner of pavilions, their beribboned banners fluttering prettily in the morning’s breeze. Some held tables groaning with all sorts of savory foods; others held bars with any and all libations and spirits to offer. And even now she could see Amanaduial giving last minute instructions to the sturdy Hobbit who would man the large tent set up by the Green Dragon staff.

Here and there were set small stages – some with jugglers practicing their arts, some with musicians, and some were empty, awaiting the party-goers who might like to sing or recite a poem or two. In one of the corners stood the old wizard, sorting through his fireworks. The trees in the field were festooned with bright silk streamers, and from their branches hung little lanterns waiting for evening’s lighting.

A few bars of Saucy’s new ditty ran through her mind:

. . . Let me take you down,
‘Cos I’m going to the Shire Party Field.
Where Hobbits are real
And gather there to celebrate.
Shire Party Field forever.

Lanterns shine from the Party Tree,
With fireworks bursting high and low.
Samwise tells the tale of Turin
Turambar.
That one I think is rather sad.

Let me take you down,
‘Cos I’m going to the Shire Party Field.
Where Hobbits are real
And gather there to celebrate.
Shire Party Field forever . . .

With any luck, she thought, he’ll grace us with the song in its entirety.

~*~*~*~

The sound of rapid pounding drew her attention back down to the patient crowd gathered before the gates. Two burly Dwarves, hammers in hand, were affixing a large scroll to the wooden fence. ‘Give us some room to finish,’ they grumbled as the curious throng inched forward to read the hasty script:

Rules for the Partygoers

1.) Come as yourself (your Barrow Downs' name) but dressed Tolkien appropriate.

2.) Bring a dish of food for the table or your favorite libation if you wish.

3.) Nail your birthday greetings/well-wishes to the Party Tree or get up on the stage and recite it/sing it for the folk. Leave a mathom or some shiny bauble on the table by the Wight’s barrow.

4.) Organize some sort of entertainment if you wish.

5.) Try to be mostly descriptive in the posts and not too chatty. No chat-speak spellings, please

6.) No violence, swearing, or sexual innuendos in the Party thread.

7.) You may bend the canon somewhat, just try not to shatter it into pieces. :)

[piosenniel]

The alarm on her timepiece beeped in an insistent manner. ‘0900, Ma’am,’ said Fingon, pointing at Pio’s pocket. She turned to bellow down to the Balrogs. ‘Open the Gates!’

One leap brought her breathless to the entry way.

‘Welcome! Welcome! To the Barrow-Downs’ Birthday Party!’ she babbled, wig askew, as the partygoers streamed in . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Rory and Daisy were at the head of the mob that went charging through the gates as soon as they were opened. Cami and Daisy followed close behind. They were considerable masses of folk, all jammed together and trying to squeeze through the entrance at once. Some were familiar faces to Cami; others less so. A few even had a certain sinister presence about them. Still, the tables that had piles of inviting mathoms along with the sight of so many dancers and entertainers, and the booths scattered all over the field, each one featuring a different treat, did a great deal to raise her spirits.

Cami intended to place her gift for the wight on the large table designated for that purpose. After hearing Rory's lively tale about the menacing green hand that had reached over the fence, she'd decided she'd rather not meet him in person. She was also toting a sack with an assortment of meat pasties and a smaller dish of sweet rugelach that she'd brought along as her contributions to the potluck.

But before she took care of these personal things, she wanted to make sure that Aman and Piosenniel were here, since they were supposed to be in charge of running the party. She clambered up on a nearby tree stump, one that had never been removed after the Scouring, and peered out over the crowd. Aman must have been busy inside the tent as Cami could not see her anywhere; neither could she glimpse anyone who resembled Pio.

It was sharp-eyed Daisy who finally spotted the Elf. "Aunt Pio! Aunt Pio!" Jumping up and down with glee, Daisy pointed a finger towards a retreating figure some ways distant.

Cami glanced over and rubbed her eyes. Surely, that wasn't Pio! This strange-looking Elf had Pio's figure and lively step, but even from this distance Cami could tell that she sported a mop of red hair and eyes that were emerald green! Pio would never appear out of canon at such a fashionable event. She was very insistent about such things.

There had been a great deal of talk recently about exactly what canon was and wasn't. The whole conversation had been too hard for Cami to follow. But she was quite sure of one thing. Elves with red hair and green eyes stood on the wrong side of canon.

Cami looked over again and shuddered. The Elf was definitely Piosenniel, since she was wearing the colorful vest that Cami had recently embroidered for her as a present. Unfortunately, the bright red color of the vest now matched her hair to a "T". She stood out in the crowd like a blazing torch.

Frankly, Cami did not approve of this strange get-up, but what should she tell her friend? She shook her head and sighed. This party was not getting off to a good start!

[Arry]

Arry walked through the gates with a sense of great anticipation. He’d not been in the Shire long. Passing through, really. Didn’t intend to stay. But the bright flyers tacked to the verandah post of the Green Dragon Inn had caught his eye.

A party! There was to be a party! he’d read. A sure chance for him to make a few coins before he made his way to Sarn Ford and from there to parts east.

Once inside the Party Field, he ducked behind the nearest pavilion. The Floating Log’s big striped tent bearing a sign affixed to a sturdy pole in front of it. ** First Chance ** - it read, with a large tankard of foaming ale painted next to the words. Arry pulled his juggler’s motley from his pack and hastily pulled it on. Digging deep into the bottom of a side pocket he fished out three brightly colored balls – red, blue, and green.

Entering the pavilion, he stowed his pack with the barman and asked if he might stand outside the tent. ‘Draw the customers in, if you will,’ he said winking at the fellow. The man nodded, promising him a meal and a drink for a job well done.

Arry spied a suitable place to call out to the passersby and sat his tri-cornered hat on the ground in front of him. Placing a few coins in it to give the partygoers a hint, he began to juggle (http://www.the-warrior.net/mundanes/Jester.gif ), his hands and the balls weaving intricate patterns in the air as he kept of a steady patter to draw attention.

‘First chance for a tall cold drink here!’ he said smiling to a thirsty looking farmer who’d sent his wife and children on ahead to the Party Tree. ‘Come in, come in!’ he called out to the party from Rohan who caught his eye. “And you there,’ he’d yelled in a loud voice to a small troop of Dwarves who’d just marched in. ‘Come wet your beards at The Floating Log. Finest spirits you’ll find in this corner of the field!’

Arry chuckled as some took up his offer and others passed by with a raised brow or two. Coins clinked in his hat as appreciative gawkers nodded at his tricks and then moved on.

[Kransha]

Kransha, feeling particularly jocund this fine day, made his way as silently and politely as he could through the upturned mob maelstrom, constantly mouthing off random, “Excuse me’s” and “pardon me’s” to the wide variety of party guests in an insect swarm about him. Clamoring madly through their numbers, he managed to alight as a nimble bird upon a spot of open grass and sighed happily. There were so many people, which he noted quickly as he gazed around at the multicolored pavilions in their elegant stripped grandeur, the fluttering banners that pulled to and fro in a gentle wind, and the impossible to follow mélange of chatty conversations that sprung up like over-watered flowers around him.

Kransha was, in fact, an orc, (or an uruk, goblin, hobgoblin, or some such thing like that, he really didn’t know). He had the gait, the build, the head, and the surly, sinuous silhouette of such a creature, but certainly not the air or the dress. Instead of the limping, crude swagger of your average, run-of-the-mill orc, Kransha stood upright, as if balancing a stack of books atop his Neanderthal brow, which was surprisingly well groomed for his being. The dark and rough-skinned figure was stuffed rather foolishly into a blindingly cerulean waistcoat with tails and an overflowing mess of frills and things that probably looked extremely silly, a flawlessly cleaned white shirt, a trimmed little green vest with countless tawdry sequins, and a pair of ironed evergreen breeches. Though he was sure to elicit some unwelcome guffaws from more crude folk, Kransha considered himself a particularly civilized individual for being able to summon an aspect of formality to the event. His clawed hands cupped together in front with a pair of spatula-sized thumbs twiddling, the orcish non-brute made his way quietly through the swelling ranks of the crowd as he inspected the party field.

Smiling a toothy grin of an orcish smile, Kransha proceeded coolly past the many pavilions and stages brimming with entertaining folk doing all manner of things. He chuckled, a low grumbling sound the grunted as a guttural noise in his throat. He headed with a jump in his step and a humming tune upon his chapped lips, towards one of the few empty stages that was, of course, being crowded around already. Swinging the dangling tails of his waistcoat behind him, the orc marched merrily up onto the platform and over to its center. He gave an acknowledging cough, which didn’t really seem to alert anyone to his presence at all, but he continued on anyway.

“Greeting, party-goers, innocent bystanders, and all those caught up in this business. I suppose, if no one else would prefer to, I shall get the proverbial ball rolling, for my kind at least. If I may give a brief introduction, my name is Kransha and I must admit I haven’t been here a very long time…In the Shire that is…yes, right, in the Shire…Point is, I find that this place is the quaintest, most enjoyable little place I’ve ever been to in all my days, however many those may be. So, I wrote…or rather, I stole and revised, a little piece to commemorate this most happy, celebratory, jocund, merry, jubilant, exultant, exuberant, and joyous of occasions as an ode to the most respected person I know, the respected person who dreamed him up on technicality, and another respected person who has little or nothing to do with the other two respected people who I mentioned about ten seconds ago." he concluded delicately.

Kransha stood, rocking back and forth as he enveloped himself in recorded memorization, and summoned up a voice’s fullness as he cleared his orcish throat with a pompous flourish. Slowly, but with more jaunt then solemnity, Kransha began in true Ozymandian verve.

“I met an elf-chap from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless kegs of beer
Sit in the Shire. Near them, on the grass,
Half green, a regal visage stands, whose gear,
And creasèd lip, and smile of welcome crass,
Tell that its maker well those fashions lead,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lively things,
The lips that sip them, and the mouth that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Barrow-Wight, Wight of Wights:
Look upon my works, ye happy, and prepare!"
And all beside remains, Round the partè
Of that colossal place, boundless and fair
The lone and crowded fields stretch far away.”

With that grin still plastered on his face, Kransha gave a very curt bow and sprinted off the stage, but not before dashing off very gracefully (for an orc) to the ready and waiting table that sat near a very particular barrow and dropping something on it. The orc spun on his shoeless heels and sped off yet again in the opposite direction, the merry tune present again upon his lips, and headed deep into the surging tidal wave of the massive crowd, leaving behind only some clawed footprints that tore up the grass and a gleaming lump of ebony with the letter BW carefully etched onto it. Kransha knew not how much the material was worth, or even the aesthetic value of the bauble itself, since he’d been told by the other Mordor orcs that he had lousy taste, but it was probably good enough. If not, he had plenty of orc draught. He journeyed on, determined to find somewhere to sit down.

[mark12_30]

A young Gondorian just entering his 'tweens' walked side by side with an average-looking Mirkwood elf. They chatted and swapped snatches of songs, and tried to look casual, but both of them were quite excited about this upcoming party. Bree had been their first view of hobbits, and they had been well-pleased.

There were hobbits around, but they soon also realized LinGalad wasn't the only elf at the gathering.

"Will you look at that, Hîriest! A Noldorin prince, if I am not mistaken. Listen to him speak! That is a very ancient tongue."

"What's he saying?"

"I do not know! And look, over there-- a red-haired, green-eyed... well, I must be naively mistaken, for I know of no red-haired green-eyed elves in all of Arda. Of course, perhaps that is my mistake. I do wish the Songmaster was here so that I could ask him."

"I wouldn't worry about that so much as..." began Hîriest, pointing at Gothmog and his crew.

"Oh, my! " said LinGalad.

"The bar. It'll all look much friendlier after an ale."

LinGalad raised an anxious eyebrow. "No wine? They have no wine?"

"We will see, " said Hîriest. Passing numerous hobbits, they bowed in greeting, smiling, nodding, and enjoying the Halflings' strange manner of speech.

"Look! They spout smoke, just like King Elessar!" said Hîriest.

"Ah. They do have wine. Now, let's see, we've been practicing our toast for several Inn-stops now; shall we?"

They both raised their glasses quite high, and cried as one in their best heraldic voice: "Gimli drinks his 9787354967th beer!"

"Wwwhat did you SAYYYYYY?!?!" wailed an icy voice from deep underground.

"Hello, Wight. Just seeing if you were listening. Happy Birthday, " LinGalad shouted at the ground. Several hobbits gave them a strange look.

"Yes, Happy Birthday," added Hîriest.

They took their second drinks for a walk around the field.

[Orofaniel]

The gates were finally open and everyone was allowed to enter the Party Field. Orofaniel walked graciously through the gates, as some had already done before her. She had brought cookies with huge chocolate chips, since those were her favourites. For this very special occasion, Orofaniel had dressed in her finest Elven cloak.

Orofaniel looked around to see if some of the guests that had arrived were well known to her. At the moment she had difficulties finding them though. It was probably because of the huge crowd that all of a sudden, had gathered in front of her. Yes, even though she had been early, or at least felt that she was early, she could now see that there had already arrived many people to participate in this magnificent event. She hoped however, that one or another would catch her eye. In the meantime, she figured that her cookies would be better fit on a table than in her hands. Her eyes moved quickly from side to side, as she was scouting for a table.

Orofaniel noticed the small stages and the jugglers. To her big surprise she also noticed an...Orc? Was it really an Orc? No....could it be? Orofaniel looked closer and walked towards the stage where the Orc was standing. It looked an awful lot like an orc, she thought. People had now gathered around him to hear what he had to say, and to Orofaniel's big surprise she heard the very merry and delightful poem that brought joy among those who heard it. As soon as the Orc was finished though, he jumped off the stage and dissapeard. At least it had been a nice preformance, Orofaniel concluded.

Then she reminded herself what she was supposed to do. "Find a table for the cookies...." she muttered to herself and grinned.

[Imladris]

I stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the crowd's head. I was shorter than most people, I suppose, and it was a sore thought with me. I pushed the thought aside, determined to enjoy the party.

I clutched my small basket to my chest and took a deep breath. Parties tend to make me nervous...I don't know why. There were so many people at parties, people jostling each other, knocking into each other. But then again, parties were so fun to go to...I sighed.

I glanced down to make sure that my dress was neat. My light blue bodice had silvery vine embroider curling about the front. There was an ornate, gold embroidered "I" in the midst of silver vines that stood for my name: Imladris -- or Immy as my friends called me. My darker skirt fell in soft, slightly wrinkled folds to my ankles. My feet were bare and I wriggled my toes in the soft green grass. Shoes were despicable things. They made you hot and they just clomped around like a heavy oliphaunt.

I looked into my basket to make sure that the jar of canned peaches was still nestled safely in its depths. It was, along with the sealed pitcher of apple cider and the mathom. I smiled. Everything was safe.

The balrogs opened the gates and I was pushed through the gates along with the rest of the mob. I caught a glimpse of an orc...and the greeter was a woman with a flaming red wig. Interesting...

I put my jar of peaches on the table and arranged it so that the sun made it glow with a luminous, lucid golden orange light. I opened the pitcher of cider and put it next to the peaches.

Now all I had to do was to put my mathom on the table by the Wight's barrow...

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Well, well, well,’ said Primrose to herself as she drove her cart through the vendors’ gate and spied the juggler hustling the crowd in front of the Floating Log pavilion.

A last minute delivery of sloe-berry spirits had been sent by the Innkeeper, along with a cask of blackberry brandy from old Gaffer Holman. ‘Lumbago’s actin’ up, dearie,’ Holman had told her, as he sat on his rocker watching her load the cask. ‘Otherwise I’d go with you.’ He nodded at a small package wrapped in a piece of old cotton cloth. ‘Take that, too,’ he said. ‘Been meaning to get that back to him, but the years just caught up with me.’

Inside was an old gold torc set with a single red jewel he’d gotten on one of his excursions to the barrow-downs with friends. ‘Found that right inside a barrow,’ he went on. ‘Reached my hand in through a crack between the stone and the entry way it covered. Pulled it out and we high-tailed it outta there . . . afore that old Wight knew we were even there.’ He nodded his head remembering his younger glory days. ‘Still – it’s his. Best he gets it back.’

Prim delivered the spirits to the barman and threw a copper penny in the juggler’s hat as she passed by him on her way out. He gave her a saucy wink, and she returned it in kind, laughing at his cheekiness. Across the field she went, toward the Party Tree and the barrow beneath it. It was colder here in the shade of the limbs, and made colder, she thought, by the presence of the barrow with its endlessly dark interior. She thought she could just see some greenish glow away at the back and here the deep mutterings and rumblings of someone talking.

With a shiver, she ran quickly to the mathom table and laid the old gaffer’s present on it. A big-folk girl in a light blue dress with silver tracings was approaching, basket in hand. Prim nodded at her as she approached.

‘Pretty dress!’ she said, looking up at the girl. Then glancing back over her shoulder at the barrow and its table she pointed and said in a low voice. ‘Careful! He’s awake. I heard him moving about and muttering.’

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

The Bracegirdles had got off to a late start it would seem. Hilde had impulsively begun some house cleaning to get ready for a very special guest who would be arriving so soon, but the time had flown and she had lost track. Now all she could think about were the dining chairs clogging her kitchen and the floor waiting to be thoroughly scrubbed, and yet it had to wait. “Priorities”, she told herself. “Birthdays come but once a year! And a little good fun won’t hurt anything.”

Making his way across the field, Mr. Bracegirdle headed for the growing pile of gifts, and set down a large jug of Hilde’s homemade wine, a little strong this year but still good - to his mind anyway - and a small brightly wrapped packet, that contained a rather gaudy broach Hilde had assumed some past relative had received, but that was more suited to be housed in a dark dank place than to be worn. Costly no doubt, but hideous all the same.

Balancing her cookery, Hilde carefully wandered through the spring grass until she found the buffet tables. choosing a good spot she carefully unwrapped a platter of mushrooms stuffed with blue cheese, noting that they were still warm. Next was her husband’s beautiful roast mutton encrusted in garlic, black pepper and all manner of green herbs, all surrounded by lovely red potatoes, and asparagus. Ah, this was going to be a feast! Now if she could just find a good hot cup of ginger tea to start off.

Searching for Mr. Bracegirdle, Hilde winked at a maiden in a light blue bodice who stood at the gift table, as she past by. She had looked so familiar. Finally catching up to her husband, she saw that he was looking at the colorful messages affixed to the party tree, and laughing, quite loudly too. “Oh dear woman!” He said spotting her approach. “We do have a witty gathering here, read these.” And Hilde stood beside him as together they read the clever verses, one by one, pointing out their favorites.

[Imladris]

I could feel my face pale at the hobbit's words. The Barrow-wight was awake...why could I not have arrived earlier when he still slumbered? I glanced nervously around and saw a juggler in the distance. Jugglers were so clever.

I tore my eyes away from him and stared at my mathom. It was a large, oval white, ornate plate. Green painted hills in the distance were rolling across the surface, a river flowed between them and neared the bottom edge of the plate. The plate was part of a two-plate set, but the second one had rippled edges: a bit feminine for a wight I thought.

I set the plate down quickly and turned to the hobbit lass. "I am glad you like my dress," I said. "But tell me, what is your name?"

"Primrose," she said, dropping a curtesy.

I smiled and said, "Imladris...pleased to meet you."

[Luthien_ Tinuviel]

Luthien ambled into the Party Field, having held back a bit to avoid the mobs that had been swarming through the gates earlier. She was the first of her group to arrive, that much was sure. Now, where could she find a place for all of her friends to settle down and have a good time? She suryeved the Party Field, and decided she wasn't nearly tall enough to see anything. Noting a nearby elf, she hailed him, hoping that he would notice.

The elf proceeded over to her, looking a little confused. This was not surprising, really. One didn't see an shortish elf dressed like a hobbit every day.

"Excuse me, sir, could you please look around and tell me where I could settle down and wait for a party of friends? I'm afraid I'm not quite tall enough to see over this crowd."

"If you keep going, you will find smaller pavilions beside the food tables. There, perhaps, you may be able to place yourself, provided the pavilion you choose is empty," the elf replied, and walked away, giving Luthien another odd look. Empty pavilions? she thought. Not likely. But we shall see.

Pushing her way through the crowd, Luthien made her way to the busiest area of the field. This was no easy task for her to carry out, especially in a polite manner. She resolved that she would under no circumstances resort to pushing and shoving her way through, and luckily it didn't come to that. But it did come mightily close before she could actually find a gap in the crowd and rush through it.

Had her baggage been spoilt? She carried a basket of food in her arms, and on her back was a pack containing her present for the Wight and various assorted speeches, poems, and tales to read during the entertainment.... Whether she would be able to choose between them, or work up enough nerve to actually read them to the crowd, was still undecided. Finally Luthien came to various small pavilions. The elf had been right! There were various awnings, tables and pavilions set up near the food tables to accomodate guests. What luck! And she was one of the first to claim one, too. Choosing a good-sized blue pavilion, Luthien plunked herself down on the grass inside it and checked to make sure all was well. Nothing had been damaged. That was fortunate, and more than she had expected in that bustling crowd. She looked at her basket of food in satisfaction. It contained various baked goods, fresh and still warm. Nestled among a towel were tartan scones, plaid cookies, and some very appetizing-looking shortbread.

With nothing else to do, Luthien looked at her attire. She had chosen to come in hobbit garb, and was enjoying it immensely. She was wearing short, wide tan pants, a crisp white collared shirt which she was certain wouldn't stay crisp for long, and a green and yellow vest decorated in a tartan-like pattern. There were golden ribbons in her hair, and her only piece of jewelry was a very thin silver ring with an intertwining gold thread. Did she look alright? Did she care? She decided that she must look at least farily presentable, for the looks she had gotten from various passersby were looks of surprise, not contempt. She attributed the surprise to the unusualness of a barefooted elf in hobbit clothing.

As she waited, she suddenly began to worry that no one of her group would be able to find her. She could not take her offerings to the various tables, in fear that someone else would come and take the pavilion while she was away. She stood up and proceeded to the front of the tent, and strained her eyes, trying to find her friends. Was that Firi in the distance? Perhaps it was. She carefully placed her basket on the ground, popped a scone in her mouth, and began yumping up and down, yelling at the top of her lungs. Unfortunately she had forgotten the scone.

"Firi! Over here!!" she called, but her cries were somewhat muffled by the food in her mouth. Would her friend hear her cries and find her? So far all she had done was illicit more strange looks, but that was unremarkable.

[piosenniel]

‘Too much?!’

Pio flipped her long red tresses behind her shoulders and winked one bright green eye at Cami. The look on her old friend’s face was priceless, and she could tell the Hobbit was desperately searching for something ‘nice’ to say. ‘It is just for the day, my dear. Tomorrow I shall be back to my grey-eyed, dark haired self.’

The Elf leaned in toward Cami and spoke low. Though I am thinking of having a tattoo of a green dragon put here on my forearm by that fellow over there.’ She nodded her chin at a brown clad Southron who was plying his trade in the shade of the linden tree. ‘A few drinks of Dwarf Spirits he says, and he promises there will be no pain.’

Cami’s jaw dropped several inches at this last announcement, and she spluttered something incomprehensible. Pio howled with laughter at the Hobbit’s discomfiture. ‘Just joking . . . really . . .’ she chuckled, poking her friend in the ribs.

‘Oh, Auntie Pio,’ cried Daisy, that would be so cool!’

Pio raised her brows at this bit of slang dropping from her ‘niece’s’ lips. Cami sighed and gave a ‘what’s-a-mother-to-do’ shrug. But before she could admonish her daughter for the use of such language, Daisy went on, her eyes shining as she fingered the Elf’s red locks.

‘And Ima, can I please, please have my hair this color . . .puhleeeeeese!’

[Primrose Bolger]

‘Imladris.’ Primrose rolled the word about on her tongue. A pretty Elven name she thought, and it sounded familiar. ‘Very glad to meet you, miss,’ she said to the girl, smiling. ‘Perhaps, if you’re not busy later, we can meet and have a little something to eat and watch one of the plays.’

Prim pointed to the Floating Log pavilion by the entryway. ‘I have to go and work a bit . . . serving girl for while . . . to help out.’ She grinned at Imladris and pointed to where the actors were just setting up for a dramatic telling of ‘Frodo of the Nine Fingers’. ‘How about we meet there when I’m done . . . about mid-afternoon.’

Imladris nodded her assent and murmured a few words before Prim ran off, her skirts flying toward the Inn’s tent. Again the cheeky juggler winked at her as she passed.

[Kitanna]

Kitanna looked around at all the party goers. Everything looked so festive and she could not spot a sad face in the ground. She had only just arrived in Hobbiton and a large crowd was moving toward the party field. Kitanna had followed them through the gates and into the party.

She moved through the crowds smiling and muttering a few "pardon me" here and there as she bumped into a few people. Everywhere people were drinking, eating, and singing. Kitanna had picked a good time to return to the Shire.

She pulled her long black hair out of her face and searched the crowds for someone she might recognize from her last visit. If she found no one she would simply make a new friend. There were plenty of people there she was sure to find a new friend.

Kitanna moved toward the pavilion to hear what the people were saying.

[Firondoiel]

Firondoiel walked with the crowd through the gate. The dark green elven dress she wore reached down to her ankles but didn’t quite touch the ground. Her long brown hair was left down and blowing in the wind. Excitement was obvious on her face as she looked over the party. It had been far too long since she had seen several of them. They might not even remember her but she was delighted to see them all anyway.

Now to find the group of friends that she knew were going to be here. That would prove to be easier said than done. The party was not small and the promise of food thrilled many of the young hobbits (not to mention some of the older ones) to disorderly behaviour. Firondoiel had to be extra careful so that her tray of special almond flavoured lembas bread would not be upset amongst the many other things she was carrying. Her eyes roamed over the assembly. Where were her friends?

“Firi! Over here!” called a muffled voice as if in answer to her thought. Turning towards the voice, Firondoiel could just make out her friend, Luthien. As quickly as she could, Firi rushed towards her. After many near disasters for her lembas, she arrived at the pavilion where Luthien was.

“Keld!” cried Firi as she set down her armful and enveloped her friend in a hug. “It’s wonderful to see you!”

Keld returned the hug. “I am very glad to see you too!” she said with a smile. “What all have you brought?” she asked looking over the items Firi had put on the table. “Oh, lembas bread and tea.” Firi replied with a wink. Keld gasped, “Tea? It’s not…..poisoned?” she whispered. Firi shook her head, “Not to worry. It’s quite alright.”

“Ah, good.” Keld said relieved for she knew her friend’s tendency to poison tea. Not that it would matter much for all of them were undead here anyway.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

After finishing reading the last one, Hilde pulled out a bright slip of paper from her pocket and fastened it to the tree with the others, before walking off to enjoy the entertainments.

Happy anniversary dearest Barrow Wight,
Who through the ages dark and bright,
Has ensnared the careless traveler who,
In searching out fair Middle Earth,
Has stumbled upon the Barrow Downs.
And recognizing this site of worth,
Cannot cast off the pale gowns,
Nor gems that you bestow.
But haunting ever, linger here,
And still our ranks do grow,
And you in blackened Barrow lurk,
Amidst a greenish glow,
We hope with all our heart we do,
That you will stay here ever,
And that those slender links we have,
You do not choose to sever.

With thanks to all,
For your sacrifice!
H.B.

[Ithaeliel]

The sun was hot and high at that time of day, and clouds were scattered in wisps across the deep blue sky that hung over a traveling procession of elves. Their path took them through the Shire, where today it was serene and peaceful... supposedly.

Suddenly, the procession came upon a large field packed with people of all different shapes and sizes (hobbits, elves, humans, even a performing orc!), all of whom were making a great deal of noise and dancing around like a bunch of drunken fools. One elf who seemed to be quite occupied with the gathering was sporting a bright red mop of hair and glancing about with emerald eyes. One elf in the procession turned to another and whispered, "Contact lenses, perhaps?" The other shook his head in disdain and continued walking. The first elf, however, was interested in the spirited display, and she gazed curiously at the people there. I do wish that I could stay and see what they're celebrating...

"Lady Ithaeliel, we cannot make delays to accomodate your distractions," one of the elder elves called back. Ithaeliel scowled, and when no one was looking she took off her pendant and hid it. Eager to join the party, she called ahead to the front of her group. "I have lost my pendant while we have walked through these green hills! I must go back to find it. I'll rejoin all of you after a time. Namarië, for a little while, friends!" Ithaeliel ran back over the hill to to field as quickly as possible, trying to think what she could offer to the partygoers...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

On the back of a horse there rode an Elf. Not one of your humble pack-ponies, sturdy but without lineage, laden with burdens; nor a huge war-horse, tall, broad and massive, made to carry the weight of an armoured knight. No, this was a shieldmaiden´s horse, and that means style!

Falafel´s dainty hooves galloped across the Brandywine Bridge with just enough effort to make her dusky flanks glisten attractively, a grace that was worthy of the maiden she bore, and exactly the right speed to allow her mistress´golden tresses to flow behind her to great effect. Hobbit mouths opened as hobbit chins dropped in admiration; such a sight was rare in the Shire!

Merisuwyniel´s violet eyes sparkled with anticipation; after weeks and months of questing, a party would be a welcome change. She knew only what she had read on the notice fastened to the gate of Bree (or was it ´Beer´? The names were confusingly similar.). She had no doubt that she would enjoy herself among the many people who accepted the invitation.

She had been puzzled at first by the suggestion that each guest provide some food, since the Fellow/Galship had not prepared a meal on the road that day. However, the pleasant Forest* through which she passed had yielded berries and other fruits, which she placed in a willow wicker basket she had quickly woven with the skill all Elves have for handicrafts.

Then there was the matter of a gift; she was not sure whether birthday presents were given to or by the host of such occasions in the Shire, but just to be sure, she found an unusual leaf in her baggage, placed there by her inventor. It was large, fluted and fan-shaped, from a tree that grows in the southern lands where her creator was currently travelling, and it would serve well to bring cool air to the host, if his barrow became too crowded or discussions too heated.

Thus prepared, she jumped off Falafel when she reached the Party Field. The mare needed no tether; she was well-trained to be exactly where her mistress needed her at precisely the right time. Merisuwyniel placed her gift and the fruits on the tables and looked around to see who was already there.

(* Some may find the Old Forest gloomy, even depressing and dangerous, but for this Elven shieldmaiden, the sun found its way to light up her shinig hair, the branches were careful not to tangle it, and trees and bushes vied with each other to give her their fruits, twigs and whatever else she needed. Such is the life of a Mary Sue!)

[Lush]

The unmistakable sounds of college freshmen overturning trash cans in the hall snapped Lush out of her reverie.

"Great," she thought to herself, rolling over on one side and seeing the spring rain pouring. She was even more dismayed upon catching her distinctly hungover reflection in the spotty mirror.

Amid the jumbled memories of last night (Guinness, U2 blaring on the speakers, an angry bouncer, et cetera) a nagging thought that she was forgetting something would not let her be.

"Today is...Today is..." She thought whilst scrubbing her teeth. "Umm...May Day! Time to wreak havoc on the capitalist pigs, perhaps?" However, having sized up her considerable (for someone as impoverished) collection of pretentious shoes as she came back from the washroom, Lush decided that wreaking havoc would have been a tad hypocritical.

"So what am I forgetting?" She mumbled to herself irritably while munching on stale cereal. "Surely, after all that happened last night, I am not expected at another...Omigod that's it! A party!"

Money and time both being short, Lush threw on an inexpensive, yet flattering black sun-dress (though there were hardly an sun-rays to catch at her present location) and put an appropriately green scarf in her hair before running out the door, remembering her umbrella, running back, then running out again, then remembering her sandals, running back, and finally running out for good.

"Please...let...someone...have...aspirin...there..." She prayed, while fumbling with her cell-phone to call a taxi.

Having narrowly escaped losing her breakfast on the bumpy ride, the idefatigable, always-up-for-it-though-her-liver-thinks-otherwise Lush finally arrived at her destination and slipped in quietly among the reverly and gaiety and dwarf-tossing.

"Perhaps I ought to cure my hangover the Russian way," she mused to herself as she trotted through the grounds in search of ale.

[Lëowen]

Lëowen wandered through the gate with a few other arriving guests, and on to the party field itself. It was pretty crowded already, but it would get even more so as the party got started. But it was a nice day out, and the party promised to be most excellent.

Her friends were here somewhere, she knew. Now she just had to find them. Noticing the colourful pavillions rising above the crowd, Leo made her way over to one. It'd be easiest to check here first, anyway.

The first several pavillions were empty, and a few more along the way had been claimed by other Downers. Perhaps her friends didn't have a pavillion after all. She weaved through people and picnic tables, heading for the main crowd again.

'Leo! Over here!'

'Keld! Firi!' Leo sprinted back to a bright blue pavillion she had missed checking. They grinned at her as she pulled out a few green and black acorns out of her pockets and gave each of them one. 'Happy birthday!'

[Alatariel Telemnar]

Alatáriel made her way through the growing crowd, in search of someone to talk to, seeing as how she was forever bored. She wore a dark purple dress and her hair hung loosely on her shoulders. In her arms she was carrying some acorn pie.

'Keld!! Firi!! Lëo!!' Ala ran up to them to see that Firi was serving some tea. She looked at it, raising an eyebrow. 'Its almond flavoured, isn't it?!'

'No...' Firi gave a shifty glance.

'Ah, well anyhow, Happy Birthday!!' Ala whacked everyone with a rose she had been carrying.

[Meneltarmacil]

A rider on a very impressive brown stallion rode up to the gates and dismounted. As the party attendants took the horse to the stable, the rider, Meneltarmacil, entered. Dressed in a dark green cloak with gold embroidery, with a long sword on a silver belt at his waist and sporting long blond hair, Meneltarmacil had just gotten to the party field when Alatariel Telemnar whacked him with a rose she had been carrying.

"Hey! What's that all about?!" he called after her, but she had already run off. He headed to the stage, got up on it, and began to recite a poem.

There once was a spooky old wight,
Who once made the greatest website,
We are all here today,
Because we all wish to say,
Happy birthday to this wonderful site!

Meneltarmacil walked over to the table by the Wight's barrow, then reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a small sliver figure in the likeness of a great eagle with green jewels for eyes. He laid it on the table, then walked away. He conveniently forgot to mention the enchantment that made it give an extremely loud and high-pitched scream whenever somebody other than him tried to pick it up. He took out the big bag of tortilla chips and the spicy nacho cheese mix that he himself had perfected and put them both on the food table.

"Ah, Imladris, I see you've also arrived. Looks like we're going to have to take a break from fighting the Mouth of Sauron at the Hills of Evendim for a few days. But hey, I'm not complaining. What do you think of the festivities?"

[symestreem]

A figure slithered down the inside of the wooden fence and landed in a heap at the bottom. Symestreem picked herself up and dusted off her cream breeches, blue shirt and silver tunic; then she checked on the contents of the large pot she carried under one arm.
Edging through the crowd, she deposited the pot of macaroni and cheese on one of the tables. Then she nervously approached the mound under the mallorn. She fished a rolled-up scroll (http://www.angelfire.com/fl4/willow/barrowpicture.html) tied with gold and silver out of her pack and deposited it on the table with the other mathoms. Making a deep bow in the direction of the mound, she made her way back to the fence. Then she swung the odd-looking instrument off of her back and went to find the dance floor.

[Nerindel]

Nerindel looked down one last time at the emerald green dress that her friend Léspheria had insisted she wear to the party. The intricate gold leaf embroidery on the rather tight (well at least in her opinion) low cut bodice shimmered as she walked and she felt more than sure that at some point she would stand on the hem of the flowing skirts and fall flat on her face. She had been all ready to attend the celebration in her usual rust coloured breeches, her subtle calf length hunting boots, forest green tunic, and with her leather armour firmly in place, her weapons belted to her waist and her long golden hair tied back in an untidy but controlled mass at the nape of her neck.

However, the Lady Léspheria was having none of it, she had her attendants ambush her and nearly drown her in a steaming hot basin of water. “You are an elf maiden and should present yourself accordingly!” the elven woman had admonished. “You have spent so much time in the company of the rangers and elven hunters, that you have forgotten what it is to be a lady!” Nerindel laughed remembering her friend’s admonishments. She had off course been completely right, all her adult life had be spent on one adventure or another, causing her company to consisted of mostly men and rarely was she required of her to put on the airs and graces of her kindred.

“And why should I start now!” she laughed to herself. So hitching up the delicate skirts in one hand and carrying a large plate of wild berry muffins in the other, she strode purposely towards the wonderful variety of smell’s and sounds coming from the party field.

Her grey eyes casually scanned the many guest looking for a familiar face in the sea of people. Finding none, she placed her plate of muffins on an already crowded table, then passing the ale tent set up by the green dragon staff she grabbed two foaming tankards and made her way to the spreading Mallorn that sat in the centre of the celebration. Carefully placing one of the ales near the dark entrance to the Barrow, she raised her own in toast,

‘Happy birthday old boy!” she said with a wink, then draining her tankard, she took out her gift and placed it on the table along side the others, the hand carved pipe looking slightly out of place among the shiny treasures the other guests had chosen to bring.

With a shrug, she moved on allowing the other guests who followed behind her to bestow their gifts and best wishes, while she looked to refill her tankard and find a familiar face.

[The Saucepan Man]

The pleasant, happy sounds of a party in full swing were suddenly dispersed as a terrible cacophony (a corpus of cacophony no less) arose from somewhere in the vicinity of the Party Tree. There, on the ground below it lay a jumble of pots pans and kettles, their metallic surfaces reflecting the light from the lanterns above and shimmering and glittering much like a mirrorball. Those nearby remarked how peculiar it was that a collection of kitchenware should fall from the Tree.

“Mr Pan Man, must you always arrive like this?” said Piosenniel, standing over the pile and glaring down at it sternly.

The pile of pans lay there for a while, before slowly organising itself into a human shape. A wizened face crowned with a large silver saucepan peered out.

“Eh? What’s that? Alive? Yes, thank you, Madam. I am quite alright. Somewhat shaken, but certainly alive,” the Saucepan Man replied as he stood up.

“I said must you always arrive like this?” Pio retorted impatiently.

“Ah, Mistress Piosseniel,” said Saucepan, blinking in recognition. “Erm, yes, I am afraid so. It is the only way I know.”

The mischeivous glint in his eyes softened Pio’s stance somewhat, although she still had a bone or two to pick with him.

“And what, may I ask, were you doing in the Party Tree?”

“Hearty glee? Yes I …” began Saucepan, but thought better of it on catching the glare in her green eyes. “Er, well, when I heard of the party, I crept up there to polish my pots and pans. You know how much I feel at home in trees. I was intending to arrive early to help with the preparations, but I … um … well … it was so comfortable up there that I’m afraid that I fell asleep. Still, it looks to be going well."

Saucepan favoured Pio with his best practised sheepish grin, but she had not quite finished her admonishment.

“And you call that Middle-earth wear, do you?" she said, indicating his metallic attire. She still had not quite forgiven him for clouting her with one of his pans at last year’s party, even though it had been wholly unintentional (and somewhat fortuitous as matters had turned out).

Saucepan regarded her red hair and green eyes, but thought better of making an impertinent remark.

“But Madam. This is my very best formal kitchenwear. And I am wearing waistcoat and breeches beneath in true Hobbit fashion, I can assure you.”

“Well, if you say so. I trust that Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow Downs Club Band will be making an appearance later.”

“All in good time,” replied Saucepan, winking and tapping his nose with his finger. “But first I must deliver my gifts and secure myself some refreshment. Farewell for now, Mistress Elf.”

Piosenniel grinned affectionately, and took the sensible precaution of clapping her hands over her ears, as the shiny figure clanked and clattered his way through the crowds, stopping every so often to exchange greeting with those he knew.

[Everdawn]

At the edge of the field a lone tall figure of a woman stood and smiled to herself. It had been a year since he had departed the shire and now upon her return she was indeed fortunate enough to discover the goings on of a party.

A familiar voice was upon the air and the hauntingly aloof woman raised her head as if being summoned to listen. “Piosenniel” she smiled again and let the hood of her cloak fall to reveal a snow-haied elf. The elf known as Umbariel the Everdawn to elven kind and Elfsun to the western men.

In the year before she had come to the inn in search of her daughter, and she had found her with the help of two rangers. Having found her daughter, the elf had then travelled into the vacant Lorien to seek a final solace and now she had come on her way to the Grey Heavens; the gateway to the west.

Her graceful floating strides took her closer and closer to the party until she was in the misdt of many Halflings and men alike. She glanced around to look for the one whose familiar voice she had heard upon the air before finding among a group of hobbits. Carefully she approached it and looked in amazement at the other elf and bowed."a strange day it is when elves should journey into the shire" she repeated the same words she had spoken when she first laid eyes on the Shire. “But not so strange that they wander to reach the gate to the west.” She grinned. “I have been gone for what in the first time in my life seems an age, so much so that I do not expect you to remember me…I can now plainly see that you do not carry a child within you.” Elfsun gestured to her stomach. “Was it a boychild or a girlchild which you bore?”

[The Saucepan Man]

The Saucepan Man had no difficulty making his way through the crowd that thronged the Party Field. The clamour of his pots and pans assured that all were aware of his approach and instinctively made way as he passed. Partygoers of all every conceivable description were gathered there chatting excitedly in small groups, enjoying the entertainment on offer, or simply helping themselves to the startling variety of food and drink on offer. Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, Men, and even an Orc, were all availing themselves of the delights of the party. He nodded to friends old and new as he went, momentarily stopping to enjoy the antics of a juggler outside one of the beer tents, before tossing some coins into his hat and moving on. Catching sight of a familiar shade of green, he ambled noisily up to a mound raised amidst the party trappings.

“Happy Birthday, old chap,” he remarked cheerily as he stood before it.

Reaching into one of his pots, he took from it a small pouch. Attached to the pouch was a small label which read “Stardust of Zîgg’ï”.

“Enjoy!” he said with a twinkle in his eye, as he placed it on the mathom table.

Coming to one of the food tables, he unhooked two of his pans and tipped the Pop Biscuits and Toffee Shocks contained within them onto some empty plates. He grinned mischievously as he imagined how the Toffee Shocks might go down with Hobbits’ voracious appetites. From another pan he produced a large helping of Lemon Jelly, remarking to himself that it might be appreciated later when guests exhausted from a surfeit of dancing were looking to mellow out.

The Saucepan Man then made for one of the bar tents. He sat himself on a stool at the bar and asked the barman for a tall glass filled with ice and a slice of lemon. Unhooking one of his kettles, he poured a surprisingly clear liquid into the glass before retrieving a pouch from a pot and filling his pipe with a good measure of Longbottom Leaf. Suitably settled, he sat back to enjoy the pleasant atmosphere that surrounded him.

[symestreem]

After playing four rounds of dancing on her fiddle, symestreem bowed out (no pun intended) and went to look for some food. Mortal by birth (at least that's what her mother told her), she was a hobbit if you looked at her appetite.
Resisting the urge to steal the entire plate of chocolate cookies, she wandered among the buffet tables, listening to the other partygoers. Was there anyone she knew here? It was too crowded to see. She dodged the hobbit children stealing drinks from the beer barrel and wandered off to mingle.

[piosenniel]

‘Ah, Umbariel!’ Pio looked the Elf up and down remembering their first meeting in the Green Dragon. The face of another who had once accompanied her, Bebberyn she thought, flashed into her thoughts for a few moments. A guard of Dol Amroth she thought. A half remembered story of corsairs accompanied the man’s face.

‘You have been in Lorien, have you not?’ Everdawn’s face looked serene, as if she had come to terms with the passing Age of the Elves. ‘Time passes a little slower there, under the golden leaves. I have three children now. The twins, Isilmir and Gilwen, are six years old. Little Cami is five. They have not come yet to the party, but will be here when it begins to get dark and the fireworks start.’ The two women spoke for a few more minutes, their heads bent close together, red and silver intertwining. Then a familiar sight caught Pio’s eye and she excused herself saying she hoped they would see one another again.

There by one of the food tables stood the Saucepan Man, looking quite sly. He was dumping things from out his pans . . . treats for the party goers. He’d clink-clanked off by the time she’d got to the table, and her eye strayed to the enticing sweets he’d brought down from the top of the tree. ‘Toffee shocks! Oh my,’ she said laughing at the thought of greedy Hobbits gobbling the goodies. ‘Best I should leave a note beside them.’

Toffee Shocks: Quite Good! she printed in a clear hand on a card she’d found in her vest pocket. But be warned! Take a small bite only. It grows larger in your mouth until it explodes!

She helped herself to a Pop Biscuit and a stray Google Bun and wandered off to see to the other guests. Behind her, the trees, their leaves moving in the soft breeze, were making a wisha-wisha sound . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Cami had rolled her eyes at her daughter's pleas to have a head of hair just like her Aunt Pio. Cami muttered a few words under her breath and promised to think of a way to get even before the party ended. Then she sauntered over to the spot just beneath the party tree, intending to add her present for the Wight to the mounds of gifts already heaped on the table. She had gotten hold of a giant size linen shroud and had embroidered it with bright green and yellow threads with pictures of gruesome things, thinking that the Wight might occasionally want a change of clothes. She wasn't sure if green and yellow were popular colors in the Barrow, but Hobbit folk were quite partial to them.

Rory had managed to get lost in the crowd some ten minutes after they'd come through the gate, but Cami still had the two girls in tow. Full of curiosity, Daisy was rummaging through the piles of gifts on the table, holding each piece up to her nose, scrutinizing it closely, and then carefully setting it down again. The girl's eyes widened with delight as she glimpsed a statue of a silver eagle that had gleeming green jewels for eyes. The gift had a tag on it with the single name Meneltarmacil .

"Ima, look! Look what I found!" Daisy grinned and motioned toward the statue. Before her mother could object, the lass seized the object at the base and yanked it up. Instantly, there was an ear-splitting shriek, one so loud and raucous that it caught the attention of all the partygoers.

"Put that thing down!" Cami commanded. "That's a present for the Wight and if he sees you fussing with it, he may not be too happy." Cami glanced nervously towards the bleak hole in the ground where the Wight had taken up residence of the duration of the party.

Frightened of the noise, the attention, and the mere mention of the Wight's name, Daisy hastily returned the present to the pile and stepped back from the table, obediently following her mother. The raucous shrieking immediately stopped.

"Mommy, is that thing 'ensorcelled'? Like the smart people were talking about in Books the other day?"

"Ensorcelled, my foot. I don't know about any discussion in Books, but that thing is mechanical. When you pick it up it bellows. But come...enough of this! Let's go get something to drink."

Cami nodded towards the girls, steering them to one of the pavilions where tables and chairs were set out. She went up to the barman and ordered two lemonades for her little ones, and a dacquiri for herself. By the time Cami got back to the table, Daisy had already found another diversion to amuse herself. She was seated on the ground banging with a large stick against a number of pots and pans that hung down from the waist of another gentleman who was seated at the bar.

Looking up embarrassed, Cami whispered to herself, "Oh, dear, that's Saucepan Man . Out loud she merely said, "I'm so sorry, sir. My daughter gets a little carried away. I'll tell her to leave your pots alone straight away."

Before the gentleman could even answer, Daisy looked up with a grin, "And look what I picked up from the sweets table earlier for Holly 'n me." With that, each of her two daughters stuffed a large Toffee Shock into their eager open mouths.....

[Kransha]

Hands still clasped in front and thumbs twiddling away, Kransha made his way through the crowd yet again. He hadn’t had good exercise like this in a while, but he hadn’t had a drink in a good while either, so he headed very ceremoniously and forthwith towards the bar tents and multitudinous buffet tables that speckled the area like spots on a spotted gorcrow, if such a thing existed. Kransha distinctly remembered eating a spotted gorcrow, or at least seeing one hanging from the sticky mass of webs in Shelob’s cave back on Cirith Ungol janitorial duty, but he couldn’t place the exact look of the aviary creature that, for all he knew, was a figment of his orc imagination brought on by a night of partying on Gorgoroth Party Plain.

Fetching a small plate for himself, Kransha sauntered jollily to the lavish tables, decked with every sort of food imaginable. He quickly rooted through the finest delicacies, omitting every imperfect foodstuff from his very sight as he dipped conservatively into the well of edible material. As he continued on into the nearest bar tent to sit down in a more subdued atmosphere, he looked down hungrily at the platter he’d constructed for himself, which at the moment consisted of a Everholt Boar Burger, some cheesecake stuffed with strange-scented Gallows-Weed, several ample strips of lemon-sprinkled venison, a trio of bramble pies, and a whole handful of Turkish Delight (to be devoured first and foremost).

He took a seat coolly on one of the jutting bar stools. Smiling to himself over the food, hovering above the plate like a ferocious feline ready to pounce, he made the dire mistake of looking to his right. The poor orc couldn’t help but stare at the figure he saw, which, in his keen green eyes, could barely be called a figure. It looked much more like a brimming mass of twisted metal, but after Kransha gave it swift inspection, he found that this ‘person’ was more or less a mass of pots, pans, and a number of things that were either pots, pans, or something else. The orc always avoided rudeness, but he found his beady little orbs fixed irreverently on the being, his jaw narrowly avoiding a long fall to the floor. He took acknowledging notice of a girl who was curiously rattling an oversized stick against the pan man’s pots. He managed to turn his eyes away, nodding politely to the fellow as the smell of his food wafted through a pair of great nostrils set upon his snout.

As he refocused on the food, he felt a very horrible feeling come over him. He knew what it was instantly, and resisted the urge to utter some foul curse in the Black Speech as he realized what was happening (his mouth was too busy pouring out saliva for him to say such a thing anyway). Orc genetics did funny things, as Kransha knew. Now, Halflings and their kin obviously had a love of food, but there relishing of it was more in fun. Orcs had a very primal way of dealing with food, and even a cultured uruk such as Kransha could not fight his hereditary instincts. He fought them all the same, but it was too late already. The orc’s head plunged forward with ravenous intensity and, for almost a minute, was buried in his plate, from which a veritable cornucopia of gnashing and munching noises emerged as the contents of Kransha’s plate splattered everywhere around him in a surprisingly wide radius. Bits of Turkish Delight soared across the innards of the pavilion. After a lagging moment of extremely loud eating sounds, the orc emerged from what remained of his delicatessens. As he pupils halted their dilation, Kransha realized what he’d done.

“Blasted orc table manners.” he mumbled with caustic irritation to himself as he attempted to clean the great mess from his chin and face. He looked around very nervously; fumbling with a handkerchief stuffed into his coat pocket and swiped all the clinging venison chunks from his lips. As he dabbed mercilessly at his face, he felt another uncomfortable sensation surging up his throat. The hapless uruk, whose day this most certainly was not, let loose a rather incendiary belch that blew his empty plate right off the bar and over behind it, where it flew forward and ripped right through the pavilion wall. As a shocked shriek could be heard from outside, Kransha promptly covered his mouth and gulped.

“Excuse me.”

[ElberethVarda]

Elbereth nervously put her hand to her hair to make sure her kerchief was in place. Her hands were cold and sweaty; this was the first time she'd been here and she was nervous. What if my friends aren't here yet? I wouldn't know what to say to strangers, Elbereth thought nervously. She took a deep breath and straightened her royal blue linen skirt and matching bodice. She brushed the soil off the silver embroidery on the neckline, and stepped inside.

Immediatly, the noise and smells nearly overcame her. She clutched her basket tightly and looked for a sign of her friends; sqeaky hammers, an Agent lofty shirt, mabye even a penguin. Anything.

[Saraphim]

The crowd around the gate had cleared somewhat by the time Saraphim strode up the lane. A huge, wicked smile was on her face, a leather pack on her back, and her best dress was dancing lively around her feet in the dust.

As the mischievous-looking young woman walked imposingly through the opening, she looked around as if daring the party-goers to dispute her late appearance. None did, of course, and Saraphim marched resolutly up to the tree and mound and opened her pack.

Out came a wad of packing material that was soon divested to reveal an ornate dragon carving, made of some green stone, and polished to an glorious shine.

Setting the carving carefully on the table, Saraphim stepped back and yelled: "Congratulations, O Wight of the Barrow-Downs!"

Having shown proper respect, Saraph turned and left to find a good pint, and perhaps her friends.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

"Oooo!!! A PARTY!!" Eowyn Skywalker screamed, because she hadn't realized that there was a party going on, and she loved parties as much as food, and tormenting Luke Skywalker.

The elvish, hobbitish, humanish girl jumped around. "Happy birthday, Barrow-wight!" she shouted, as she felt the need to make herself heard. After screaming delightedly, she entered into the party scene, and made herself at home around the food, one destinctly hobbit personality, though she was quite human.

After eating some food (she never ate too much...), she pulled out her gift to the Barrow-wight, a shiny medal pole, complements of the Middle-earthian conspiritors of the purple dye, and left it (nicely wrapped) on the table by the barrow-- a rather creepy place, in her opinion. And how did a barrow get to the Shire? Eowyn Skywalker wondered, but gave up on wondering. It was, after all, a party. And that could explain everything, including the twisted canon.

She decided to look around to see if there was anyone that she knew in the whereabouts, as, being a party, there should've been a few people that she knew.. or knew of.

Eowyn looked around, but there was no sign of squeaky hammers, medal poles, purple dye, garlic (for which she was grateful, though she herself was known for the garlic at times), or anything else that she recognized, though she thought she knew one female, an Elbereth Varda, but she wasn't too sure. She was not that well known around those of the squeaky hammers.

Ah well, Eowyn Skywalker sighed. There was only one way to figure out if she knew this one. She straightened her cloak, and went over to talk to the blue-clothed female that may've been of Rivendell.

[Oddwen]

From the cold North strode a figure. At first glance, it appeared to be wearing a Jawa cloak (darn you Tweak!) but as it got closer, it settled into a young woman wearing a homemade cloak affixed by a pin that read "Down with Low-Carb!"

After wiping the snow from her glasses, she strode purposefully up to the gate and through.

Looking around, the party seemed to be off to a good start. The table did seem to be indeed laden down with all kinds of good, wholesome food. Her pan of applecrisp soon joined the melée.

She then edged over to the party tree, skirting the mound at a respective distance and climbed nervously up to the stage. After staring doe-like for a moment, she began to sing:


Without getting out of my chair,
I can learn all things of Tolkien
Without looking up from my screen
I can know the ways of Arda
The farther one travels, the more one misses
I'd miss the Barrowdowns
Without getting out of my chair,
I can learn all things of Tolkien
Without looking up from my screen
I can know the ways of Arda
The farther one travels, the more one misses
I'd miss the Barrowdowns
Search all before posting, I just love the color scheme,
Do the Wave for the Disco King!

"Though it doesn't give justice enough," she muttered as the hubbub caused by the extremely loud sitars died down. Hastily, she walked to the table and deposited her mathom - a small green glass bead, though cunningly made.

"I won't ask you to wear it," she called politely.

And now, off to the tables.

[Everdawn]

"I hope Ill see you again" Piosenniel had called to her before hurrying off.

The Everdawn closed her eyes and bowed her head once more, "Don't think on't, These last days are passing swiftly for me, and I will be gone sooner than I may know." she smiled.

She then let her strange grey eyes wander over the party until they came to rest upon passin hobbit children who were looking at her in awe. Elfsun knew that it was strange to see a Silvan elf in these parts, she meerly waved to them before passing. She came to a table away from the buzz of the general populus and decided that she would sit for a while before commencing her journey again.

Elfsun was sitting captured in her own thoughts when upon the stage infront of her a girl began to sing a very odd song indeed. The girl finished and spoke though Umbariel was still to mistified thinking about the song in question to speak praises right away.

"I though that was wonderful" she said eventually to the girl.

[Imladris]

"Ah, Imladris, I see you've also arrived. Looks like we're going to have to take a break from fighting the Mouth of Sauron at the Hills of Evendim for a few days. But hey, I'm not complaining. What do you think of the festivities?"

I turned and laughed. "Menel!" I would never admit it, but I was too lazy to say his full name. "Yes...whoever thought that fighting via the pen could be so tiring?"

He nodded, and I continued, "I don't know what I think about the festivities as I haven't really been here long enough to get involved." I craned my neck and saw a Southron in the tattoo business. "I suppose I could get a tattoo...or have a bit to eat..." I shrugged, and helped myself to some toffee shocks.

The toffee was smooth and delicious. I could feel the small bit begin to grow in my mouth, and smiled. With a sharp crack, it exploded and the inside of mouth was sprayed with shards of candy. Chewing on them, I asked, "Would you like one, Menel?"

[Aredhel Ar-Feiniel]

“Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow? With Silver bells and cockle shells, and Pretty Maids all in a row.” Sang the merry, merry voice of another directionless female who happened at this point of time bound into the party. Her Black hair was covered by a pink bonnet from under which dark eyes glittered.

“No knave stole these Tarts” she mentioned in passing to an elderly hobbit man who was looking hungrily at the plate which she had bought. Tapping her feet along the ground as she walked it was obvious that this girl had had too much sugar. “Hyperactivity is not a bad thing!” she shot at the same old hobbit man who was by now a fair way behind her. This had been a mistake because no sooner had she turned around, she bumped into three more hobbit women which sent her tarts flying to the ground. “Betty Crocker won’t like that now will she?” She muttered dusting herself off and leaving the tarts where they were.

“Could be worse, could be raining” she told the women and kept walking until once again she stopped dead. There was an elf at a table which she knew… “Elfsun!” she cried “It is I the ever so illustriously named Aredhel!... and I have dropped my tarts!”

[piosenniel]

Pio had made the mistake of asking the Elf with the violet eyes where she had gotten her contacts. Merisu wrinkled her brow, but barely, and with two flicks of her golden tresses had laughed quite prettily and wagged a slender, well manicured finger at Pio. ‘Silly! Gotten them, indeed! I was born with them!’

‘Yes . . .well . . .’ Pio was having trouble concentrating, entranced by the sight of the glistening strands of blond hair lifting gently in the playful breeze. It was with great restraint that she held back her hand from giving Merisu’s lovely locks a yank to see if they were indeed her own.

Taking a deep breath, her eyes focused on the toes of her boots (which were scuffed and worn – quite unlike the footwear of the Elf before her), Pio gathered her wits and invited Merisu to join her for a drink and a plate of savories. ‘You do eat and drink, do you not?’ she asked warily, thinking that perhaps the warrior-maiden had reached a state of perfection which precluded such things.

On their way to the food tables, a darkly clad, pasty skinned woman in a green scarf walked past muttering something about dwarf-tossing, ale, and Russian cures. ‘Dwarves are that way, Lush,’ called Pio as the figure passed. ‘And you are quite in luck – so is the Guinness and the vodka.’

Pio nodded at the Elf with the messy blond hair and the full, foaming tankard. Nerindel she’d heard someone call her. And it looked as if someone acquainted with Merisu had dressed the poor woman for the party. There she stood, tugging at the lacing to the bodice of her rather form-fitting dress, trying to give herself a little room to breathe. Pio watched as the Elf barely caught herself, her shoe catching on the hem of her dress as she strode along. Ale splashed down the front of her dress and she muttered an imprecation that would curl the toenails of an orc. Pio snapped her fingers and a serving wench appeared at Nerindel’s elbow with a fresh pint. ‘Over there,’ said Pio, drawing near to the wet Elf. ‘Behind the actors’ stage is dressing room and any number of much more comfortable outfits.’ She stepped back and looked at Nerindel from head to toe. ‘Breeches, I think and a soft tunic, loosely belted at the waist. And boots – find yourself something more comfortable. This is a party, not the court at Rivendell . . .’

Having reached the food at last, Pio placed a plate in Merisu’s smooth-skinned hands and bade her fill it as she wished. Pio herself picked the stuffed mushrooms and a small stack of chocolate chip cookies, topped off with a generous scoop of macaroni and cheese.

Nearby she noticed the figure of Hilde Bracegirdle, husband in tow, standing at the Party Tree, their attention engaged by the well-wishes others had affixed there. Hilde, she saw, had pulled a piece of parchment from her own pocket, and smoothing it out had pinned it up with the rest.

Another had come up to the table and then wandered off. Symestreem the young woman was called, another of the partygoers had told her. ‘And she plays a mean fiddle,’ the guest had added, nodding her head at the stage the musicians used. And apparently is quite fond of chocolate chip cookies noted Pio as she watched the young woman disappear into the crowd with a handful.

Merisu had remained quiet for some time, but now she nudged Pio’s elbow and tilted her head ever so daintily toward three newcomers who had made quite an entrance. They were in good spirits and seemed glad to have found each other. Pio sent a server over to them with pitcher of drink and mugs and a platter of savory eats.

Two hobbit lads had run up by this time, hats in hand, to tell Pio they’d repaired a hole in the side of one of the pavilions and bandaged a passerby who’d been injured in the incident. An Orc, one Kransha she learned, had eructated as beings of his sort were want to do after eating, sending his plate flying through the fabric of the tent with great force. A Dwarf had been knocked in the head and it had taken the Beorn security force to keep him from going after the orc with his ax. ‘Secure the weapon,’ ordered Pio. ‘And give the Dwarf a small cask of those special Dwarvish spirits from Erebor. And the Orc – see if the fellow will try some ‘Beano’ before he eats again.’

The two Elves found a table near the music stage and sat down to relax. Pio shook her head in quiet amusement as Merisu’s pearly white, perfectly matched and even teeth bit into an overstuffed pasty and a bit of gravy dripped onto the bodice of her gown . . .

[Dininziliel]

The tarts & toffee bits scattered upon the ground were briefly revealed by moonlight as clouds passed across the silver face above. The first day of celebration had ended. All were resting peacefully, smiling & dead to the world about them as well might properly be expected. Having made a hasty departure from her barrow in Kansas, another middle place on earth in the 7th age, she had arrived too late to join the merry-making. "I can see there has been no lack of food nor drink here!" A weary yet knowing grin appeared on the face of the traveler as she leaned against the tallest tree and surveyed the tents, banners, & clothes of the party-goers. All their bright & riotous colors were rendered now as ghostly shades of black, grey & silver. What powers she possessed to bless the snoring, snuffling, & blissfully sonorous inhabitants & fellow travelers were focused in gratitude and thanksgiving. Many happy hours were fondly recalled as she gazed on the faces of those who had welcomed her & shared their store of treasured lore as well as wisdom and erudition. "Long may their missives pour forth on the waves of ether, and humor abide in this place, boundless in source & substance!"

The hem of her dress & cloak made the only sound in the clearing, brushing the silver-tipped blades of grass as she left the spectral shade of the tree. Making her way toward the entrance of the beckoning barrow, her exhaustion diminished with every step until she came to the place where she need step no further. Here was the chief and final destination of her journey. Determined to arrive with all speed, having stopped rarely and only briefly across plain, hill, and water, she stood now before her goal. "Perhaps the gift I bring will assuage any ire or peevishness that lingers having been caused by my incessant clamoring to be restored to my original resting place, as well as my overly long and nigh unpronounceable name." To the ancient ones who lurked in the shadowy bogs nearby her words sounded as a prayer or incantation.

Although it was small, the gift was mighty. She removed the plain, soft cloth that had protected it for many leagues, and laid it near the opening to the Wight's private barrow from whence the beloved forum issued. All clouds disappeared, scattered by a sudden wind from the West. The moon sent a beam like an arcing arrow loosed from a Lorien bow. It found its target--the runes fashioned from ithildin. They erupted with a blinding light revealing the name placed upon the object: Acme Portable Gondoran MetaServer. Many spells had been cast upon it so that it neither would nor could crash; it would not waiver in service to the Wight and all the good folk for whom he labored. To her dazed and wondering mind, it seemed as if the gleaming runes had made a sudden, loud noise. Dininziliel became alarmed that the Wight would be roused and discover her swaying like one stricken over the gift that now seemed a small and mean thing to offer. Turning abruptly, she did a quick courtesy in the direction of Mod’s Hill and retreated to the safety of the tree.

Nestling into a knothole at its base, she quieted down to think. “Ah, what a ninnyhammer I am! I forgot to sign the tag! It’s probably just as well since I’m more than likely above my station to think anything I could offer would be grand enough for the Wight. He must have already been given two or three today at least! I’ll just have to face the music in the morning. No doubt there will be plenty of that to dance to. All I can hope for now is not to embarrass myself in the company of all these fine folk!” Her right hand lifted itself listlessly to stifle a yawn. Its effort was in vain. She was asleep, her head resting upon a large and fragrant mushroom, before her hand fell down to join the other one upon her lap.

[Novnarwen]

Nova hurried out of the door, holding a huge plate with food in her hands. Fried potatoes (!!?!!), fried tomatoes and juicy mushrooms were the only things she had been able to make. She frowned, as she thought about what the others might have brought with them. She was a terrible cook, and she knew that. She had tried though, but still, she knew she had failed. The look of the potatoes, tomatoes and the mushrooms revealed quite a lot. Oh, how embarrassing, Nova thought, wondering if she should just leave the food at home and pretend that she had brought something. It seemed like a good idea, but she wasn't really sure. What if someone asked? What could she possibly say; that she had made something and placed it on a table? Maybe she could pretend someone else’s' dish was hers! Yes, that was a good idea . . . But what if that 'someone' told the same person, that had asked Nova about her food, that the food Nova had pointed out was his or hers?. She would be in a really tight squeeze if tha happened. That, indeed, would be embarrassing. Nova decided to bring her food, nevertheless, and stand the embarrassment. If it didn't taste very well, she would go and hide her plate, so that no one could 'mock' her for her terrible food.

As she was about to walk down the sloping path, leading to the Party Field, a new idea popped into her head. She hadn't tried tasting it, so she didn’t really know if it was that bad. She grinned, but didn't really like the idea of tasting her own food either. She dropped the idea, she was better off not tasting. If somebody fell sick after trying the fried tomatoes, the mushrooms or the potatoes, she would indeed be grateful for not trying first. After all, she wanted to attend the party.

***

The Party had already started, as assumed, when Nova, dressed like a Hobbit, showed up. Nervous and anxious about leaving her food at one of the tables, she quickly trudged over and placed it in one of the ends. Hopefully, no one would get harmed. Out of the corner of her eyes, Nova soon discovered a plate, a plate with cookies with huge chocolate chips. "Those are familiar," she muttered. She looked around, before taking one to thereafter push it into her mouth. "Yummy," she bellowed. The Hobbit wannabe realised that some people had turned to look at her, and she grew red and wandered off.

She opened her mouth to take another bite of the delicious cookie, before she realised that it was Orofaniel's work. I knew it! she thought, eating the rest of it. Well knowing that someone she really knew had arrived, she went looking for Orofaniel.

With eyes, constantly on guard; like a hawk, she wandered around at the field. She saw a whole lot of people she knew from the Role-Playing section, but also others, who she had just seen on the "Who's Online?", (which indeed was a really awesome function at the Forum.) Nova went silently by herself, admiring the gigantic Party Tree. Slowly, she found her way towards it. Nova enjoyed reading all the Birthday Greetings, which were nailed to the tree-trunk. When she found Oro, she would ask her friend if they were going to nail their birthday greetings together. Yes, that would be fun. The Hobbit, by appearance, tried not to bump into too many, but people gathering around the tree made it impossible for her to read all the notes. She would have to continue later.

She settled herself by the stage, seeing Pio, the Moderator, sit nearby.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

In search of a steaming cup of ginger tea, Hilde walked from tent to tent, eliciting strange looks from the bartenders until she happened upon one she knew and who took pity on her letting her see if she could fix something for herself. “I don’t have no ginger for ginger tea though, Miss Hilde.” he apologized.

“I’m sure there is something back here that will do”, Hilde replied eyeing the strange bottles with even stranger hued liquids within them. Just then a very tall man in a flowing black leather coat and an eye patch strode up, the bartender being busy with a large group this strange man asked Hilde for a pint of Dortmunder gold. “Dwarfmunder?” Hilde repeated rummaging around behind the table. “I’m sorry, we don’t have none o’ that. But we have plenty o’ Schaeffer…on tap no less!”

“No, Ach no!” the man protested muttering an extra comment or two about hobbits and Schaeffer that Hilde didn’t quite catch. “Rum then! You do have rum don’t you?” Quite flustered, Hilde ducked down and found a bottle of the stuff under the skirts of the table. With a nervous smile she handed the unopened bottle to the man, who gave her a mock bow with a flourish before stalking off. Hilde looked quickly to see if the barkeeper had seen this transaction, thankfully he was quite busy with his blender preparing some rather exotic concoctions.

Grabbing a cup of coffee and hastily splashing in some whiskey, for flavor, Hilde headed for the food. She saw her husband had planted himself at a table, and already had several empty glasses beside him as well as two plates. Having a lively conversation with a couple of dwarves, his loud laugh could be heard erupting with surprising frequency. Ah, he is enjoying himself, she thought.

Surveying the food spread out across several tables, Hilde picked up a few strips of lemon scented venison, setting them on her saucer, and spying a dish of toffee that was quickly disappearing, she picked one up and plopped it in her coffee before rejoining her husband. Walking back toward his table, the hobbit recognized Miss Pio by the stage. And catching the elf’s glance she raised her cup of coffee aloft for a toast, “TO THE SHIRE!” , she shouted at the top of her voice, where upon she felt an odd feeling of warmth trickle down her arm, as her coffee bubbled over and then quite unexpectedly exploded.

[symestreem]

Gliding around sleeping partygoers, symestreem noticed someone at her plate of chocolate chip cookies! Several someones- hobbits. She shook her head. It was all over now. Ah well, there would be other cookies. She must try and find the maker of these and express her gratitude. Or, she could...
Leaving a note under the plate, she resumed strolling, looking for someone to serenade. Everyone was asleep, though. Even the noises emanating from the barrow had stopped. Did wights sleep?
Stepping around a drunk dwarf, she saw a huge pile of shiny stuff on the ground. Who dumped all these pots out here? Everything from kettles to a saucepan to an exotic dwarven stewpot was in a heap. The cooks are asleep. I might as well put these away for them.
The items were surprisingly hard to pick up, and the kitchen tent was far away. She had just come back with a cart when she gasped. Under all the kitchenware was... was... a person! The cooks must have dumped their tools on top of him. He could be hurt!
"'Ere now, what are you doin' with our Mr. Pan Man?" An indignant hobbit stood behind her. "And where's all his other pots?"
She tried to get across with gestures that she thought the man needed medical attention. When that didn't work, she took out her special stick and wrote in the dirt.
The hobbit scratched his head. "Well, now, I can't read that." He saw the pots and pans in the cart and gasped. "You... you were takin' 'is pots!"
She frantically tried to assure him that this was not so, that she had had no idea there was someone making his abode under kitchenware, but he grasped her by the arm (a reach for him.) "I think you'd better come with me," he said, leading her away to a tent whose sign read 'Beorn Security'.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Aman sat like some watchful hawk on the sill of the topmost window of the Inn, swinging her feet gently as she watched over the pavillion on which the party was taking place. The Innkeeper had spent the last few hours rushing around attempting to give last minute orders, most of which she strongly suspected had been completely disregarded, and the peace of her high perch was very welcome. The sounds of the party wafted on the air towards her from below, sounding distant and pleasant like birdsong on the wind, the silk breeze swept her wavy brown hair from her face and she closed her eyes, sighing contentedly...

A sudden icy roar made the Innkeeper's eyes snap open and she very nearly fell off the sill, clutching it quickly with her slim fingers as her gaze shot down to the pavillion...

She relaxed and sent a scathingly raised eyebrow in the direction of the two hobbits who had disturbed the Wight. The gesture was utterly lost on the pair, of course, as they were scrambling away as fast as possible from the eerie barrow, wreathed in giggles, knocking several of the noisier mathoms from the present tree as they did. The Innkeeper recognised one as Cami Goodchild's youngest, Daisy, and the other as a possible Pimpernel Brandybuck. She was fairly sure he had been banned from the Inn, but ah well, it was a party, she was quite prepared to turn a blind eye to it.

"Miss Aman?"

Aman turned her head into the round attic window to see a sturdy hobbit tween standing a little nervously a few feet from her. He jumped when she turned, then edged forward a little to peer out of the window. With a whimper, he jumped back, then hastily tried to cover up his discomfort.

"Ah, Brando, won't you join me?" Aman teased, her green eyes glinting mischievously. Even for a hobbit, Brando Proudfoot had never been one for heights. He gave the Rohirrim woman a concerned glance, then shook his head.

"Dear me, Miz Aman, never will get used to that..." he muttered. "Anyway, 'just came to tell you that Goodwife Goodchild asks you to come down, she'd like to say good day - and I'd like you to come down and all, you're making me fair nervous here! - and that there are a few rather strange looking folk down on the pavillion..."

Aman grinned widely at Brando then turned back outside, dropping her head back onto her shoulders and closing her eyes to the wind. "Of course there are, Brando. It's the Barrowdowns party!" Opening her eyes, she caught sight of something which made her eyebrows shoot up suddenly. "Brando...When you said strange...were you referring to the southerners, wights and various elven nobility...or to Daisy Goodchild who suddenly seems to have bright green hair?"

"I think you see my point, Aman!" Brando replied triumphantly. Aman laughed, then cast a slightly worried glance at the barrow where the master of the Downs had taken up residence for the party.

"Ah Brando...of all the bars in all the world, why did he have to come to mine?"

There was an awkward silence.

"Shall I take that as a 'you'll-be-down-in-a-minute', Miz Aman?" Brando ventured carefully.

"Yes, yes, do..." Aman replied, sliding her legs back over the windowsill. "Don't know what came over me...


OCC: All characters mentioned in my post, except Cami Goodchild and Piosenniel, are free for use.

[Orofaniel]

Orofaniel had now, eventually, started to get in the party mood. She just had to find a drink, and her friends. The drink however, would be easiest to find and therefore it was also her first priority. There were also loads of delicious food that the BarrowDowners had brought with them, but Orofaniel figured that she shouldn't eat just yet. She passed the tables, but he had to admit that those lovely toffees tempted her.

After she had grabbed a drink and was sipping it cautiously, she went looking again. She walked towards the stage where she could see Piosenniel. Next to sat...Nova! "Nova!" Orofaniel cried while she hurried towards the stage. Novnarwen didn't take any notice of her at the moment, probably because she hadn't heard Orofaniel's voice among all those other voices from the other guests. I'll sneak up on her then, Orofaniel thought and smiled evilly. Hopefully I'll manage to surprise her, she continued. It wasn't hard to sneak up on her either, because it seemed like Nova paid all her attention to the stage. Besides, the crowd around her made it impossible for Nova to see anyone sneaking up on her.

"Boo!" Orofaniel cried as she was standing right behind Nova. Nova jumped in her seat and turned. "You scared me like....Oro!" She said when she saw that the face was familiar. Then Nova slapped her teasingly on the shoulder. "You're so mean!" She said and grinned. Orofaniel laughed and said;” Well, you know me..."

"Ooo, I see you've dressed like a Hobbit," Orofaniel said and looked at Nova's outfit. It was very pretty and it had earthy colours. "Yes, it is a Hobbit dress," Nova said proudly. "I see that you have dressed in your best eleven cloak…Nova continued now smiling widely. "Yes, dear," Oro nodded; “Only the best for such a merry occasion….”

"Um..is that the cookies I made?" Orofaniel asked suddenly when she noticed that Nova was holding something, that probably had been a cookie a while a go, in her left hand. "Yes, it is indeed. You baked them right?" Nova asked and took the last final bite of it. She chewed it carefully and swallowed. "Yes, I did bake them," Orofaniel confirmed. "They tasted really good," Nova assured her, but Orofaniel wasn't convinced. "And they are popular too," Nova said while she looked over at the tables. There were many people gathered around the tables, and Orofaniel could only get a short glimpse of her own plate; it was almost empty.

"I expect we have to nail something up on that Party Tree," Nova said and looked at it. There were many people gathered around it, and all of them wanted to give their birthday wishes. It was only natural that they, Orofaniel and Nova, would do the same. "Absolutely!" Orofaniel said enthusiastically. "I just have to finish my drink here," She continued and drank until the mug was empty.

Before they left the stage to nail some kind of Birthday wish on the party tree they talked to Pio for a moment. "It such a wonderful party," Orofaniel said and smiled. "Oh, thanks...Yes, it is wonderful that so many people have made it," Pio started. "And, I can't believe that they brought so much good food with them!" She continued now laughing.

"Oh well, we better get going; the birthday wishes are waiting," Nova said finally. "Yes, of course," Pio said and smiled. "As a matter of fact, I should take a little walk around here myself," Pio continued and waved.

"Have a good time then, you two!" She said as she went into the crowd and disappeared.

[Nerindel]

Nerindel exited the actors tent a bright smile on her elven features and in more comfortable attire, the dark breeches and soft green tunic made her feel more like herself, but still smartly dressed that her friend Lespheria would have no cause to be disappointed. Her cheery mood had also been increased by the pleasant company of the singers and actors she had met in her hunt for the clothes she now wore. In fact she had spent the whole night in their company exchanging tales and songs spanning all four ages of this world and the southron dancing women had even help her to tame her unruly mop of golden hair, but still old habits would not die and she pulled it back, tying it in place with a leather band.

As she crossed the grassy field to find some breakfast, she spotted the red headed woman who had directed her towards the pleasant company and the less constricting attire. With an appreciative smile she nodded her thanks, gapping as the red locks slip forwards to reveal the woman’s delicate elven ears, once over the initial shock and once the elf had lifted the wig enough for her to see that it wasn’t real she laughed shaking her head. It seemed she was not the only out of character elf at the party! What would Lady Lespheria of Rivendell think! She wondered with a knowing smile.

Finally finding her way to the buffet table, she loaded a plate, to the approving looks of all the hobbits present, 'It's good to see at least one elf that knows how to eat' one hobbit woman smiled.

'How can I not with so much wonderful delicacies on offer?" she smiled in reply.
The hobbit woman laughed in agreement then put out her hand, "Mrs Bracegirdle, Hilde to my friends." She smiled warmly.

'Nerindel,' she smiled wiping her free hand down her breeches before taking the hobbit woman's out stretched hand and shaking it firmly. "And well met,” she added remembering her manners, at the last instance.

"Are you enjoying the party?" the woman asked striking up a conversation, "I am now she smiled taking a seat next to the woman and telling her that she was looking forward to the fireworks display. Telling Hilde that someone had told the bar man who had told the actor who had told the dancer who told her that the fire works where to be of the calibre and like of those said to have been made by Gandalf himself."

An excited glint came to the woman’s eyes and she leaned in and whispered, "Well I heard, from a cousin of a friend of a cousin, that the old wizard himself had been seen coming down the greenway!" She finished nodding at Nerindels anticipated surprise reaction.

"Then it is sure to be a party of most excellence!" she laughed, "But what of you Mrs Bracegirdle, how are you finding the celebrations?" she asked stuffing a mouthful of deliciously seasoned mushrooms into her mouth.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Cami looked at her younger daughter aghast and wagged an accusing finger at her. “Daisy, how could you do this? Shock toffee is one thing, but emerald green hair? . Miz Aman was the one who noticed it and let me know. Even your Aunt Pio didn’t go that far!”

Daisy showed no signs of backing down in front of her mother. She put a hand to her unruly green mop and defiantly pushed it through her curls in an effort to show off to everyone around her.

“Ima, stop worrying! The Elf at the booth said it would wash out, or at least he thought so. It’s some sort of minor Elvish spell, the kind we’re not supposed to use in the Shire.”

“He’d better be right!” Cami retorted. “Or you’ll be the only Hobbit in Middle-earth with permanent green hair! And what were you doing with that awful Pimpernel Brandybuck? He’s always getting in trouble. Miz Aman and I saw the two of you over near the mathoms and the gift table sorting through some things.” At this point, Cami abruptly closed her mouth as she saw Pimpernel approaching.

Daisy stood on tiptoe, whispering into her mother's ear. “Ima, he’s nice, really nice. You just don’t know him.”

“Well, maybe so.” Cami sighed in resignation and bent down to give her daughter a kiss, being very careful not to touch those awful green curls. “Alright then, I give up. Go have some fun together. But you’d best mind your manners. I don’t want to hear you’ve gotten into trouble!”

With that the two Hobbits scampered off. Once they were safely out of Cami’s earshot, Pimpernel stopped and tugged two items out of his pocket. One was the Acme Portable Gondorian Metaserver and the other a statuette of a green dragon. Both had been sitting on the gift table. Neither had a tag on it, but everyone had seen that the Gondorian Metaserver was presented by Dininziliel. Daisy’s eyes widened in surprise, “You told me you were going to put those things back. We could get in a lot of trouble. There’s one of those dark creatures making a list of all the things that folk gave the Wight and, if any are missing, they’ll track us down and have our hides.”

Pimpernel looked furtively at Daisy, “I tried, I really tried. But they’ve got guards stationed at the table now so that it’s impossible for me to slip it back.”

“So what are we going to do? You told me you were just ‘borrowing’ them for a minute. What happens when the guards realize they're gone. That green hand thing will kill us…..”

Pimpernel shook his head, "I have no idea! Anyways, do you know what this thing is?" Daisy examined the Metaserver closely, shrugged her shoulders, and shook her head, while still turning the strange item over in her hand.

*************************

OOC Moderator's comment: Anyone is welcome to pick up on Pimpernel and the guards and the missing dragon statue. You can carry along Cami’s daughter. Just don’t get her killed, please! But please don't use the Wight in your posts, at least not yet.... Signed: Cami Goodchild

[Bêthberry]

A creaky, battered old wheel barrow clattered and rocked over the mossy green of the Party Field. Like all parts of Middle-earth, the Party Field had been seeded, howed and rowed by hand, in ages so long ago that its true origins were known only in myth and legends. Some said it was the work of one Gardener; others insisted that the work of all other gardeners labouring over the field should also be remembered and acknowledged. Indeed, it was difficult at times to tell what the original plan of the Party Field had been, so overworked was it with winding old paths from previous parties, stumps of trees that had decayed and fallen now used as seats and legs for table planks, large patches of grass worn down by dancing feet and then reseeded by later hands. Still and all, whether this was an archetypal Party Field or some enchanted grass land, there was no denying that mobs of party goers were having a great deal of fun experiencing the Party rather than attaching any particular meaning to it.

However, the result of all this seeding and reseeding was a bumpy field even though the finest Gardener had attempted consciously so in the reweeding to clear a straight and narrow path through it. So it was that a wheel became stuck, and no matter which way the woman pushed or pulled, the wheel remained rutted in place, the heavy contents of the wheel barrow making it too difficult to lift up and out. It was full, piled high with mathoms, perennial plants that the woman had divided and dug up from her garden.

"Whew and humpft," said the woman. With that stupendously critical comment, Bêthberry paused to look around and put the barrow down.

[Guinevere]

Slowly a slender woman in a light grey cloak approached, hesitating at the entrance to the partyfield. Pushing back her hood she revealed shoulder long brown hair and a rather worried face. Shyly she peeped round the gate and nearly turned back. Such a crowd and bustle! So many witty and eloquent people!
Guinevere hesitated. She couldn't make up her mind whether to enter or to turn back. She had never been to the Shire before and had no experience in RPG's whatsoever, and felt wholly inadequate. Should she dare join the merry crowd all the same? It would be wonderful to meet some of the people she had come to know and to like and admire from afar. And of course she really, really wanted to congratulate the Barrowwight and express her heartfelt thanks for the wonderful place which she had frequented for almost 2 years now.
At last, she took a deep breath and entered, glancing around with wide eyes.

[Durelin]

The lane was too quiet and much too empty. She was late. The sound of joyful laughter and loud chatter, along with a few screams, came from the field just around the bend. It had not been that long since Durelin had last been here, and it was near impossible to forget where the Party Field was. It was just around the bend. It did feel good to be back, as she had been too lazy to venture from her home in Bree. At least, she hadn't since her return from Rohan, and that was a good while ago.

Rake, the mount beneath her, had slowed down considerably since the beginning of the trip. Durelin only gave it an encouraging pat, knowing that attempting to stir it to a livelier pace would only worsen the situation. Such was the temperament of such a mule. But it was certainly better than no mount at all. Imagining how much her feet would be hurting her at the moment, and how damaged her Shish kabobs would have been. Perhaps it was not so smart to bring your favorite food to a pot luck, but she was feeling very nice today, and very generous. Only secretly did she hope that no one else shared her belief that anything was good grilled.

Finding herself at the gate, she tethered the mule to a nearby tree, which seemed to be serving as a parking lot. Noticing a horse wandering on a nearby hill, with a shining coat, either white or gold in color, without harness or saddle, Durelin stared in amazement. Was it the same horse that had bore the most beautiful, most astonishing, most intelligent woman-quester who had graced Bree with her presence only a short time ago? Durelin had heard only few of her great tales of adventure, and had not the chance to meet the Lady before she discovered that this woman of greatest esteem was also attending the party. In her excitement, Durelin rushed in her tying Rake to the parking tree, and almost forgot her Shish kabobs and Barrow gift.

Rushing in through the gate, her eyes scanned the area for the woman, and she immediately spotted her. The gorgeous Lady was even more beautiful than she had heard. And all the stories of elves were true! This woman did glow, shine with a soft light that filled the air around her with wonder and warmth! She shined all the more brightly among such rough company that crowded curiously around her, with hobbits and men, farmers and blacksmiths, as lowly as Durelin was in comparison to her. Durelin was drawn to her, but a pushy looking ghostly-spectre seemed to be awaiting her gift. Somewhere, this ghostly-spectre was looking upon her and all the partygoers. Quickly then she found the mathom table and pulled out a long, thin noodle. Inscribed upon the noodle were runes, letters of the Old Tongue. In the Common Tongue it read: "Scourge of the Wight Upon the Poster Who Has Posted A Previously Discussed Topic". Perhaps it would be a useless gift after the completion of the Forum Index, but Durelin highly doubted that.

Now that her respects had been paid -- respects that would be lasting and that would put an end to any of her urges to post a new topic, hopefully -- Durelin rushed over to her. When she reached her, she immediately curtseyed, a little awkwardly, as she was embarrassed to face this woman in her plain village-maiden dress (complete with an apron). "Dear Lady, your beauty and strength only adds to your majesty as one of Elvish kind, and though I be but a lowly village-girl of Bree, I have heard the stories, I know of your greatness. And now I beg of you that I may be you humble servant. I beseech you, tell me that I may aid you."

The beautiful Lady smiled down at her in great kindness, her face glowing brighter. Durelin lowered her eyes, unable to hold the woman's powerful gaze. "Rise, my child," she then said, and Durelin immediately obeyed. The beautiful Lady then looked at the large dish that Durelin held again in her hands (she had had to put it down to curtsy, of course). "Are those Shish-kabobs?" she asked. Durelin nodded vigorously. The beautiful Lady then dutifully pulled off the plastic wrap with her long, slender, nimble fingers, and picked out the kabob with the most mushrooms.

(OOC: Forgive me, Estelyn. I thought your Mary Sue was a terrible thing to waste!)

[The Saucepan Man]

The Saucepan Man awoke to find himself nestled amongst a pile of cushions in one of the tents placed at the outskirts of the Party Field, for use by those who might wish to catch forty winks. Saucepan suspected that he had probably caught more like four hundred. Looking around, he saw others sleeping in the tent, similarly recuperating after the delights of the previous night. One of the Hobbit attendants sat nearby, watching him closely.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Pan Man sir,” said the Hobbit. “But you fell asleep slap bang in the middle of the field last night. And I happened across a young lady trying to make away with your pots and pans, like. So I took it upon myself to have you brought here and thought that I’d best stay here to watch over you and the others here while you slept.”

“You are most kind, Master Hobbit,” replied Saucepan, checking his kitchenwear and finding to his relief that all was present and correct. “Although I am sure that she meant no harm.”

“Mayhaps you’re right, sir. I believe that them Beorn security guards reached the same conclusion.”

Saucepan gratefully drank down a large glass of water that the Hobbit handed to him, as he mulled over the events of the previous night. After passing a happy half hour showing some young Hobbit children how to get maximum noise and effect from banging on his pans with sticks, his attention had been drawn by the alarming table manners of the Orc sitting at the bar next to him. Ignoring the loud and windy manner in which the Orc had signalled the end of his feast, Saucepan had engaged him in conversation. The pleasant discussion which ensued had caused Saucepan to revise his opinion of Orcs considerably.

He had then drifted through the party, mingling with the other guests, every so often replenishing his glass (and those of others) from his kettle, which seemed to hold a never-ending supply of the clear fragrant liquid. He had enjoyed discussing with Merisuwyniel the antics of the Entish Bow Questors, with which he seemed to be strangely familiar. Later, he had ended up in a vodka speed-drinking contest with Lush, the likely cause of his impromptu collapse in the middle of the field. Somehow, he suspected that Lush had been the victor.

Shielding his eyes from the sunshine as he left the tent, Saucepan surveyed the Party Field. Crowds of people were still present, enjoying the entertainers, stalls and side-shows. He waved cheerfully at Bêthberry as she arrived with a well-stocked wheelbarrow. Then he noticed someone else who he recognised standing nervously by the entrance.

“Guinevere!” he shouted (although his pounding head immediately regretted it), and clattered over to welcome her to the party.

[Lush]

"Amateurs," Lush thought as she saw Saucy stagger to greet a few lovelies, the naughty Bêthberry and a dish named Guinevere among them. He clearly had the hangover of a lifetime. Lush beamed proudly. Might as well show off her drinking skills, if nothing else. Well, perhaps her legs too. And academic skills...

Nah, the legs and the drinkage will do.

Pio's advise about the beer did come in handy last night.

Lush stretched like a cat in the sun. A light, golden tan was appearing on her skin. She was beginning to look more and more like a sorority girl. All she needed was a slightly more expensive handbag, uglier shoes, and a lout in tow.

In the absence of any louts nearby, Lush made her way over to bawdy Bêthberry to invite her to smoke a hookah she had recently discovered in one of the tents (Lush's tastes, as of late, had been decidedly Middlea Eastern in nature; must have been the Easterlings looking so Arab in that Peter Jackson movie), or say hello, at least.

[symestreem]

After fleeing from the security guards when they let her go, symestreem hid among the beer barrels while she regained her courage. It was too early for dancing, but there were other strolling minstrels like herself. She joined two pipers and played a couple of trios with them, then excused herself with signs and went for some juice.
On her way back, she overheard two women talking about the cookies.
"Yes, I did bake them," one said. The elusive master cook!
Symestreem grabbed her paper and pen that she was never without, and wrote a note of appreciation for the cookies. She caught up with the pair at the Party Tree, and deftly pinned the note to the woman's cloak. She'd find it when she next used that item of clothing. Then symestreem looked for the pipers, but they were gone.
She strolled around the field. What were all the bales of hay over here for? They made a pit at least twenty feet square. And why was there a target in the middle?
"Incoming!" an elf yelled. She ducked as a dwarf flew over her head to land in the hay by the target. "That was closer than any of yours!" the elf said to his companions. Meanwhile, the dwarf was picking himself up out of the hay.
"I told you not to do that!" the short creature fairly bristled with indignation. Actually, his beard really was bristling. "Now you'll have to answer to my axe!" He started chasing the elf, seemingly not realizing that his axe was still in the hay.
Symestreem raised her glass in a toast to the competitors and walked on.
Two hobbit-children were deep in conversation ahead of her. She did a double-take. Did the lass have green hair?! Or had there been something in that juice? No, the child's hair was definitely a verdant shade of green.
The hobbit-lad was holding a small dragon statuette in his palm. Symestreem could have sworn that had been on the mathom table earlier. When she walked forward for a closer look, the hobbit saw her and hid his hand behind his back. He smiled innocently at her, but his eyes brimmed with mischief. She smiled back just as innocently and walked on by.

[Roa_Aoife]

Roa strode up to the party gates, present and soda bread in tow. She had traveled non-stop from her college, and she was sure her friends there would be wondering, but it was just another of her many dissapearing acts. She fell in line to place her bobble on the gift table, her blue-green eyes scanning for her friends. Roa adjusted her bun before placing her gift on the table and walking off. She had worn her regular slacks and and a somewhat nice shirt. Roa was hoping for some games and she didn't want to be overly hindered.

A she walked over the hill she spied a familiar, if odd, form. "Kransha!" Roa called out, and began running in his direction.

[Novnarwen]

Nova and Orofaniel hurried over to the Party Tree. It was not so crowdy now, and Nova thought it an excellent opportunity to finally write a Birthday Greeting. The two of them stood still, silently watching some of the other notes. (Nova went ahead and read those she had previously missed.)

"So, what are we going to write?" Nova asked curiously. She found two pens and some paper, of which she shared with Orofaniel.

"Happy Birthday?!" Orofaniel said questioningly, her tune revealing a strong sense of sarcasm. Nova looked disappointingly at her friend in the Elven Cloak.

"But..." she started, hesitating. "We need something new, something special."

Orofaniel didn't say anything.

"We need something which is.. extraordinary.. something which takes the breath from people!" Nova explained.

Orofaniel nodded, rolling her eyes at the same time. Nova ignored her, continuing:

"We need something which will make people think: Ah! Why didn't I write that? Or: This is a really nice Birthday Greeting, I wish I had come up with such a greeting as well . . Are you following me?" she asked Orofaniel. Her friend nodded again, while growing impatient.

Still, Nova continued:

"You see, my dear friend, Orofaniel . . . This is a special day, it's precious. This is an amazing event, of which we, or at least I, am very happy to be a part of!" Nova bellowed.

Orofaniel sighed, muttering under her breath: "You aren't a part of the party, you are rambling."

Nova gave no heed to Orofaniel. This Birthday Greeting was important to her; she would have to find the 'right' thing to write. She thought for a while, before opening her mouth again, seeing Orofaniel at her side trying to escape the insanity. Nova, however, grabbed her arm and started talking again:

"You see, a greeting is a personal thing. It's a way a person can express herself or himself. It's something that you give, it's therefore important that we take time to think about this. Now, if we try to drain our brains of all useful or un-useful thoughts, we might be able to think clearly . . . " She felt Orofaniel trying to make Nova let go of her arm, but she kept her hand firmly around it.

"See! You're trying to avoid this. You're trying to pretend that this doesn't matter. Orofaniel, try expressing yourself !!! . . . Drain your brain . . " Nova said, concentrating, closing her eyes . . . "That rhymed, by the way," she said merrily, still having her eyes closed.

This, obviously, was the last bit of insanity Orofaniel could handle. She made Nova let go of her arm, and stepped backwards. Nova didn't care, she just continued rambling.

Orofaniel grew redder and redder.

"What about just: Happy Birthday BARROWDOWNS!!!" Orofaniel asked aggressively.

Stunned by the brilliant idea for a Birthday Greeting, Nova jumped into the air (which she is very good at) and shouted: "THAT'S IT!! THAT'S IT!!!"

Nova frowned:"Tis much better than your first suggestion," she added.

They wrote in a hurry. (Nova added a whole lot of exclaimation marks and wrote in caps, just to get this effect Orofaniel had so nicely expressed.)

Nova was pleased by the Birthday Greeting, which was brilliant, and thanked Orofaniel for draining her brain. "Let's go eat, shall we?" Nova asked, taking orofaniel's arm again.

"Let go of my arm, will you?"

[Nuranar]

Two figures strode briskly through the wide-open gate into the Party Field. A random hobbit boy took one glance – then stood more motionless than an ice sculpture on Forochal, his eyes as big as saucers as he stared.

It wasn’t the first figure that had flabbergasted him: a young woman, clad in a long gown of lightweight rose-colored wool. Her deep honey-colored hair fell in a thick wavy curtain to her waist, and she was carrying a large, heavy willow basket. She was a little tall, certainly, even for the race of Men; but still she was only 5’8”, and her soft, brown leather shoes added no height. Furthermore, she was talking and smiling in the friendliest manner.

But her companion was definitely out of the ordinary. He was tall, even among Men, standing a full 6 feet and 7 inches about the ground. And it wasn’t merely his height. This man – or was it boy? – seemed nearly skin and bones, his considerable height all in his extremely long legs. He wore a long tunic of green over slim trousers which on him still managed to bag. Their length might have been sufficient, but his tall boots (of which the feet seemed impossibly long) concealed any deficiencies. His short, light brown hair was uncovered, and a carefully carved wooden sword hung at his side. He too was grinning, and walked with a slight stoop to hear what his sister said more clearly. A drawstring bag of striped mattress ticking dangled from one hand.

For Nuranar, the young woman, was his sister. Despite their obvious differences in build, their features were strikingly similar, and their smiles nearly identical.

The hobbit boy’s immobility caught her eye, and for an instant she looked at him in puzzled curiosity, then glancing (up) at her brother, she laughed in comprehension. “Halladan, you’d think the hobbits would be used to the sight of Big People by now, but I guess they still don’t see people quite like you very often!”

The boy grinned bashfully, then gestured to a (human) girl off to one side. “Hobbits aren’t the only ones,” he pointed out. The girl’s stunned expression showed all too clearly that she was not accustomed to giants, skinny or no.

Nuranar shook her head. “Well now, we’re just used to it. Growing up with a father an inch taller than you, it’s hardly surprising that my recognition of height is a bit skewed from the rest of the world’s!” she concluded, chuckling at herself. “Now, where do we go?” She paused in front of the scroll still displayed on the gate.

“Names, check. Dress, check. Food, check – right?” At the deafening silence beside her, she spun round with a killer eyebrow arched in suspicion. “Ok pal, if you – I’ll –”

“Naw, it’s here.” Holding out the still-heavy bag, he grinned at her just-you-wait look.

“Watch yourself, tall man. Now where was I?” She deliberately turned her back. “Birthday greeting – Botheration! I knew I forgot something. Now I’ll have to write,” she growled. “Ok. Mathom, yep. Entertainment – oh yes, that’ll be fun,” she said, glancing at Halladan in pleased anticipation.

“I’ve got lots of ideas,” he declared impressively. “But can I get rid of this first?” he continued plaintively, hefting the sack once more.

“Fine, if you find where to put it.” Nuranar turned abruptly round in her characteristically decided manner, intending to head to the food tables, but instead nearly stumbled over a tiny hobbit girl. “Oh, I’m sorry! Did I kick you?”

The girl gathered herself up, grinned wordlessly, and took off running, picking up the now-recovered hobbit boy on her way. Nuranar, still kneeling, gazed after her, shaking her head in amusement and puzzlement. The little thing’s hair had undoubtedly been green. “Goodness, what are the Downs coming to?” she tsk-tsked to her brother.

They reached the tables without further incident/accident/collision and deposited safely thereupon two goodly pans of homemade cinnamon rolls. Beside them, Nuranar set out butter in a little crockery “bell” and a knife, not silver. Halladan, freed from his burden, promptly headed toward the pile of plates. Nuranar barely caught the back of his belt in time.

“Oh, no you don’t! We need to finish our duties first. Then you can stuff your face – or fill that empty leg, more like it. You can deliver the gift to the table by the barrow over there, or you can write something to put on the Party Tree. Your choice.”

Halladan pursed his lips in mock thoughtfulness, glanced at the barrow, at the tree, at his sister, and the grin broke out again. “I shall relieve you of the matchless mathom, dearest sister!” he announced, bowing magnificently.

Nuranar snorted. (Yes – sad to say, but ladylike Barrow-Downers do snort, at least when goaded by one or more brothers.) “Here it is,” taking a parcel wrapped in a checked cloth out of her basket. “And please don’t antagonize the Wight! I’ve had a clean if somewhat undistinguished record til now, and you’d better not louse it up.”

“Fear not!” he said grandiloquently, and began marching toward the barrow as if into battle. Nuranar called after him, “Meet me by one of the stages after you eat!” He turned and saluted, still walking backwards and nearly running over a matronly hobbit lady.

Nuranar snickered, then absently grabbing a tortilla chip, wandered away, crunching thoughtfully and trying to come up with a verse worthy with which to bedeck the Party Tree.

[Bombadil]

He had made it. Noone saw him coming, for his movements were like the wind. Merrily he strolled into the celebration, catching many strange glances from curious onlookers. A short, stocky man he was, that's if he even was a man, with long blonde hair. He wore a green robe and as he walked one could catch glimpses of his yellow boots.

Some hobbits, a little tipsy from all the ale, laughed at his attire and at his strange appearance. Noone could tell who or what he was. He had bright blue eyes, which were skimming the crowd for any acquaintances. Then they fell upon one of his parents' old friends - Piosenniel! She was leaving the food tables, and he wished to catch her before she got too far away, so perhaps he could grab some food as well as talk to her.

"Hello! Pionsenniel!" he exclaimed. She turned gracefully to a face she didn't recall, but nonetheless replied, "Call me Pio friend!"

"Why hullo, Pio! I am known to the elves as Iadarion, and you don't know me, but I know you!" But Pio knew who he was now, for she knew the elvish language and that Iadarion meant "Son of the Father." (Not to mention she noticed his vibrant yellow boots!) "So this is the son of the lovely Lady Goldberry and merry old Tom!?" Pio said excitedly. For she was aquainted with the two.

So the two talked for long of things such as the Old Forest - and of course the Barrow-Downs - and eventually Iardarion was welcomed to some food and ale by his good friend Pio, who also introduced him to many more friends at the party.

[Guinevere]

Guinevere's face brightened when she saw Saucepanman advancing. She smiled broadly as she went forward to greet him "Soo nice to meet you! " She shook his hand enthusiastically, so his pans clanged. "What's the matter?" she exclaimed as she noticed his pained expression "have you got a headache?" When he nodded, she looked around. "Isn't there a healer for emergencies in one of those tents? They ought to have some medicine..."
She wanted to go on to the tables with the food and gifts to deposit what she had brought. But on the way there she came across Bethberry whose wheel was still stuck. "Can I help you ?" she asked. "Perhaps we ought to unload some of the things, so the barrow becomes lighter to pull out?" she suggested.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisu daintily downed the last mushroom of her shish-kebab and smiled at Durelin. "No need for apologies," she said, "your name is not unfamiliar to me, and I should thank you for the wonderful food!"

She saw another familiar face approaching and called out, "All´s well..."

"...as ends better!" Guinevere answered, grinning.

"How nice to see you here - perhaps you will find this location enticing for future journeys," Merisu exclaimed.

A blinding, shiny object drew nearer, clattering loudly, horribly so for her delicate Elven ears, but she was of course much too polite to say so. She greeted The Saucepan Man briefly before wandering on to speak with Bethberry and Lush. Unfortunately, she found that time flew with the speed of coins in a machine, so that she could not talk at length, but she eagerly looked forward to the next opportunity.

[piosenniel]

She was having a very pleasant conversation with Old Tom’s son, Iardarion, when slim green band on her wrist glowed ominously, chilling her arm to the bone with its cold light. Pio excused herself and walking away a bit, held her wrist to her ear causing a few odd stares. A tinny voice squeaked out its frantic message, a garble of word salad dressed with barely suppressed fear. And there in the background she could hear a low, out of tune hum just revving up.

‘Muddy Bells!’ she swore to herself as she dashed toward the mound by the Party Tree. As she raced closer she could see the partiers nearest the Wight’s barrow beginning to get a rather glazed look in their eyes. Worse yet, some were beginning to shuffle toward the dark doorway of the mound as the humming turned into coldly spoken words. A line of Beorning guards had ringed the mound and were trying to turn them back.

Pio waved frantically at the chief guard and shouted some instructions to them. He wrinkled his brow at her and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Take your ear plugs out, you overgrown lap rug,’ she yelled yanking the wads of rubbery material from his ears. ‘Get the crate of these we had sent from Khand and start passing them round.’ He nodded dumbly at her, his own eyes beginning to glaze over as the Wight’s dark ditty reached out for him. She stuffed the plugs back in his ears and sent him on his way.

~*~

‘By the One!’ The rank odor of rotted things and old sweat socks assailed her nose as she stepped beneath the mouldy lintel. ‘I set him up with a cleaning lady. Now where has she got off to?’ Pio stood in the half-light for a moment her eyes adjusting to the dimness. There to her right, on a small stone slab lay Mistress Chubb and her two daughters, hands folded across their chests, a long, stained sword resting across the three of them. Pale as ghosts, she noted, but still breathing.

‘Hostages . . .’ she heard the familiar rumbling voice hiss from the darkest corner. ‘Someone’s taken one of my treasures, Elf . . . and I’m about to start canceling accounts, so to speak, if I don’t get it back . . .’

If only we could have the party without Himself being here! she thought to herself. Things would go much easier if he would just stay in the background. Always wanting something . . . This line of thought being pointless and dangerous should he get wind of it, she snapped out of her wanderings and offered him a compromise.

‘I shall find your treasure for you, my dear Wight. Keep the Hobbits if you wish but don’t harm them. And please no more singing and swirling your naturally green eyes at the rest of the guests. Rest up. There are fireworks tonight. I can have another ream of paper delivered to you with some fresh quills and ink. Work on your book – you have a quota to meet, do you not? And Aman will send round a barrel of the Dragon’s best ale to get the creative juices flowing.’

She took the ensuing silence as a tenuous agreement and sprinted out the door, into the bright sun. Blinking her eyes like an owl, she bellowed to the nearest security person.

‘Make the announcement that a gift has been stolen from the Wight’s table. I want the offender found and brought to me as quickly as possible.’

‘Oh,’ she said turning toward the crowd who stood pressed against the security line. ‘You can all take out your earplugs, but keep them near.’ They shrugged of course as she mouthed her announcement, and she in turn sighed as she mimed what she wanted them to do . . .

---------------------------------------------------------

OOC (Out Of Character) - The Wight is in a tizzy. Someone has 'borrowed' one of his treasures from the table. A young Hobbit lad, accompanied by a Hobbit lass sporting bright green hair. Let's have some spottings of the offenders, but don't catch them yet. Yell for security if you wish to give chase to the slippery young'uns.

~*~ Pio

[Orual]

Every thud of hooves against the road brought Orual one step closer to the party. She whipped her green hat off of her head, revealing a wind-tangled mass of bright red hair (with brown roots) above brighter green eyes. She looked inside the hat and was disappointed to note that some of the henna colouring her hair had rubbed off. Alas.

She dismounted and put her horse in the stable, then went to join the party. She adjusted her green tunic, smoothing it over her hips, and dusted off her brown breeches. She was travel-worn, but not entirely unpresentable, so she was happy. She just hoped it didn't rain, because she just knew that her hair wouldn't stay red if it did...

She passed through the crowd, talking to people here and there. As she was bidding one farewell, walking backwards, she tripped over something--someone--and went head over heels.

"I am so sorry!" she exclaimed, picking herself up and helping the other person up. She started dusting her victim off when she finally looked at the other person's face.

"Nuranar!" she cried, embracing her old friend. "Are you okay? I'm really sorry. How have you been?"

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

“Oh, this is a fine party, by all counts!” Hilde said with enthusiasm. “No falling bits of ceiling plaster, or wild animals, the orcs even seem to be on their best behavior! Barring hail and high winds this should be a right good weekending!” the hobbit said eyeing the elf’s plate to see it’s contents. “Try this,” she said pointing at a pale golden mass. “I don’t know who made it, but it is very good.”

“They do say hobbits know how to carry off a good party, you know,” Nerindel said politely sampling the macaroni and cheese.

“Well, I won’t say anything about that, but we certainly practice a lot!” Hilde laughed. “And from what I hear elves throw a pretty fair celebration themselves. Leastways those in Rivendell do.”

“Have you been in Rivendell then?” Nerindel queried, her interest sparked.

“Oh no not me, but a dear friend by the name of Gilly has told me of it. Ah, but that brings me back to speaking of carrying things off, I once was at a party right here in this same field you know, where a strong gust came up and all the pavilions pulled up their stakes and when skipping down Hill Lane one after another like a bunch of pinwheels! That was something to see! Only happened once to my knowledge, but it was great fun to see the children running after them.”

And as if on que, two young hobbits sailed past in front of them.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim Hedgethistle arrived late for the Party – but then, it had been a long time since he had been above ground in the light of the sun and it had taken him a while to get used to it again. The land had changed too since he had last seen it, but he had stumbled across a couple of helpful trolls and they had been more than happy – or, well, at least willing – to tell him all that he needed to know. He had flown (or had he?) as quickly as he could across the long leagues from the Misty Mountains to the Shire in order to make it here in time to pay tribute to the Barrow Wight.

The Party Tree was decorated and all about the field there were tables laden with food and drink. Fordim looked about for anyone he knew, but his eyes had still not fully adjusted to the light. He did notice a few odd characters about who looked vaguely familiar but most who saw him immediately looked away. Two figures did stand out almost immediately. As soon as he saw them Fordim swirled away, cloaking himself once more in darkness, for he did not relish the idea of having to face either Fingon or Olorin. He’d never really liked either of those characters, particularly Olorin. “Ridiculous fellow” Fordim muttered to himself, belching black smoke as he did so, “Always insisting that we sing along with the chorus instead of making up a little ditty of our own…” He snorted and a trickle of flame that he had not intended scorched a nearby bush. One of the small folk shook a tiny fist at him and told him to read the Party Rules, pointing at a sheet of paper tacked to the tree.

Fordim read the notice and was happy to see that he met most of the criteria. The last two, however, gave him a moment’s pause:

“6.) No violence, swearing, or sexual innuendoes in the Party thread.”

The injunction against violence would be a hard one to obey, but he could probably manage it for a day. As to sexual innuendoes…he chuckled slightly, and as he did so the sky grew dark and the ground shook, once more drawing some disapproving looks. Well, he could behave.

“7.) You may bend the canon somewhat, just try not to shatter it into pieces.”

This one caused some real worry, but as luck would have it (if luck it was) at that moment a green-eyed, red-haired Elf walked by. Fordim relaxed immediately.

He moved through the crowd with ease, for those who looked upon him gave way immediately, the Elves crying “Ai” with despair, while the Men and Dwarves glared with open dislike and fear. There was another race there, much smaller than Men but like them. For the most part, they merely looked at him with open shock, not knowing what to make of him. Fordim had only been out of his deep place in the earth for a few days, but he had already become used to this from the folk he met, and he merely shrugged the vast shadows that spread from him like wings and moved on.

He quickly reached a dark hole in the ground in front of which there were piled a number of brightly wrapped presents. He removed a small package from somewhere about his form and placed it on the pile. He hoped that the Wight would like it, for it was especially dear to him: the shrunken head of the very first Elf he had slain at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He quickly moved away from the hole, looking for someone with whom to talk – for he had a problem, and he had finally decided that he needed help with it. For an Age he had lain in his dark place in the earth, brooding on the problem but to no avail. But of late, rumour had come to him of a place where problems such as his were considered challenges that people welcomed. It was a place where answers could be sought to supposedly insoluble questions. He saw a person clad head to toe in pans and pots who looked as though he could help him, but as Fordim approached the man disappeared in a clatter and a clank.

Fordim frowned and looked about once more. Off in one corner of the field he saw two figures who looked even more familiar than those he had seen earlier. One of them was a woman, clad simply and with her hair pulled up atop her head. The other was an oddly dressed Orc. “Roa!” he bellowed, nearly setting the Party Tree alight, “Kransha, you old rogue!” he roared. With a burst of flame and smoke he rushed (or did he fly?) across the field to them, waving his flaming sword above his head in one hand and cracking his whip with the other for the pure joy of seeing his friends. As soon as they were within earshot, he bellowed out, for he could not contain his question any longer: “DO EITHER OF YOU KNOW IF BALROGS HAVE WINGS?”

[Kransha]

So far, the party had gone rather well, despite the incident with the belching. After that, Kransha had engaged himself in a pleasant conversation with that pile of pots and pans who he splattered Turkish Delight over and left the tent feeling pleased with his social skills. Then, he’d been approached by a group of Beornings who said something about ‘watching his aim, next time,’ and headed off into the crowd. Now, he was ambling in an ambling fashion (as amblers often ambled) and trotting with brisk resolve past the buffet tables. As he strode along, his posture as fine as always, he heard a duo of calls from two directions. One was recognizably female, belonging to his friend Roa, and the other much more regal and terrible, which undoubtedly belonged to his other friend, Fordim Hedgethistle. As the monstrous being and delicate female alighted near him, he heard the deafening roar of Fordim’s question.

“Balrogs have wings, Fordim? Why, isn’t that sort of obvious? I mean; what sort of a question is that anyway? Do elves often have blonde hair and now how to surf? Are wargs actually hyena lemming hybrids? Are Dunharrow’s Dead Men green? I should say so…I mean, I should say not…or so…or, well, I’m not entirely sure what I should say, but I know what I will say, and that is ‘I have no idea.’”

The orc just realized that he’d completely and utterly dodged the question, but he didn’t care. Looking at Fordim Hedgesthistle, he really couldn’t perceive whether the shadowy silhouette, wreathed in crackling flames, had wings, stylish epaulets, a billowing cloak, or an up winded skirt, so he never even pondered a guess as to what those 'appendages' sprouting from Fordim really were.

Kransha had always thought Hedgethistle was a funny name for a balrog, but he never dared question the screen nom de perre his cohort had chosen. He’d seen, or at least heard what balrogs could do from his estranged second cousin, Raksha, a Moria sort of fellow, who’d told him several painfully excruciating and detailed stories about Durin’s Bane. They were a scary lot, though Kransha had eventually lost the perception that Fordim was scary, since many considered Kransha himself rather intimidating (he wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was an orc, or the fact that he was an orc who wore trimmed tuxedoes on a regular basis and enjoyed vodka martinis). At the moment, Kransha just stuck out his hand, still contemplated Fordim’s apparent scariness, and shook the huge, almost shapeless mass of shadow and flame that was Fordim’s hand with his own rough, clawed, gnarled one. He ignored the incredible heat, grimacing to himself as he masked that same grimace with a smile and extracted his smaller hand (still big by human standards) from the heated grasp of his quite-possibly-winged-but-not-entirely-sure-about-that friend. He turned, with an only semi-confident grin plastered on his face, towards the Wight’s barrow nearby as some person who Kransha didn’t know made a very loud, very noticeable announcement about a robbery.

“My, my, my, a gift stolen from the Wight. Now that’ bad news if I ever heard it…and I’ve heard it…a lot…Well, regardless, that’s very unfortunate. Fordim, why don’t you just fly up into the sky and see if you can spot that rapscallion who appropriated the old fellow’s trinket, hmm?” Kransha laughed an orcy laugh, which eventually degenerated into nervous chuckling as he saw a slightly disapproving look on Fordim’s face (if it could even be called a face).

[ElberethVarda]

As Elbereth stood uncertainly at the entrance, she heard her name being called. "Elbereth! Elbereth Varda!" it called. She looked around confusedly. Then she saw Eowyn Skywalker's familiar face. "Eoywn!" she cried and threw her arms around her friend. Eowyn laughed and hugged her back. "I'm so glad you found me! What do I do first?" she questioned anxiously, pushing her hair out of her face. Eowyn directed her towards the gift table and explained what to do. "I'll see you later," Eowyn said, and ran off to talk to another friend.

Elbereth made her way through the crowd to the table. It was already covered with presents of all shapes and sizes. Elbereth rumaged around in her basket for her gift. It has to be here somewhere... she thought. Finally, she pulled it out. I know it's the perfect gift, she thought proudly. She laid it on the table and looked admiringly at the three foot long sqeaky hammer, autographed by none other than Agent Lofty himself. It was a necessary tool for every forum owner, not to mention very rare.

Elbereth fought her way over to the table of food, and carefully set down her plate of delicate cookies, shaped like small One Rings. It had taken her hours to make them, and she was very proud of them. She looked up from the plate and looked around for her friends.

There was Keld! And right next to her was Firi, waving her arms in the air like a crazy person, which, of course, she was. It looked like the whole group was there already! Elbereth waved crazily back and ran over to them.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Dig faster!" Daisy commanded. "If we get caught with these things, they'll be trouble to pay!"

"I'm digging as fast as I can! Stop complaining and get down here and help me!" Pimpernel threw a wicked look in Daisy's direction. Rory Zaragamba was also beside him clawing at the dirt.

When the guards began combing the crowd and looking for the culprit, Daisy had scampered off to get her older brother Rory to ask his advice. The three Hobbits had put their heads together and considered tossing the presents in a remote corner of the party field. Then they would run off on their own, pretending that they'd had nothing to do with them. But Rory had nixed that idea. "The Wight has a great guard dog who can sniff out anything. I saw him pacing in front of the barrow, growling at passersby to keep everyone away. He'll turn the dog loose. And that will be the end of us. One whiff and our accounts will be as dead as we are."

"So... what should we do?"

"We do what Hobbits always do in bad situations. We dig. We dig a hole and stuff the presents in. Nobody will find them, not even the Green Man's dog."

"But I still don't know what this Gondorian thing is," his sister fumbled at the strange looking device.

"Whatever it is, a little dirt won't hurt it."

The three had quietly retreated to the far end of the field, which was fringed with a number of bushes, making a cozy and private spot to do their dirty deed. For the next thirty minutes, the two lads put their elbows into it and dug a large hole in the ground.

One time, Daisy objected. "Maybe we should just go and tell the truth. We only meant to look at them. We were going to put them back."

"Yeah, but do you think that Green thing will ever believe us?" The three looked at each other and began digging even more ferociously. Finally, Pimpernel stuffed the dragon statuette into the hole, and right next to it the Acme Portable Gondorian Metaserver .

[Nuranar]

Nuranar was pacing forth and back, trying to compose a suitable…something…for writing on her brand-spanking-new parchment note cards. To write a note, one must first salute the addressee. But how do you address a web site? This conundrum, unanswerable for the time being, was starting to annoy her, so as usual she decided to skip the introduction. She always maintained that introductions were much easier written last, anyway, because then she knew what it would be introducing.

That was when she started pacing. Looking picturesque and pretty, perched on a tree stump, was all very well, but the creative juices couldn’t flow without being stirred. Pacing kept her mind enough occupied to prevent it from being distracted by the seriously spellbinding scene of a party precipitately progressing toward peril.

She was just triumphantly sorting out the meter of the first couplet when a red and green blur appeared right under her nose, her ankles flew out from under her, and WHAM! she measured her five feet eight on the grassy but, as previously noted, thoroughly uneven ground.

Her first thought decidedly resentful thought was that Halladan had chosen this ill-advised manner in which to announce his early return from, and the consequent emptiness of, the banqueting tables. So already she was preparing to spring to her feet and flatten all seventy-nine bony inches of him when “I am so sorry!” a decidedly feminine voice said.

Quickly squelching the impulse to attack, Nuranar instead rolled over and accepted the offered hand up. The other was already dusting her gown off before she shook her head and realized that (a) someone besides her brother had tripped her and (b) that someone, a girl with suspiciously bright red hair, was right in front of her. That out of the way, her manners returned. “Oh, don’t worry about it! I’m never watching where I’m going anyway.”

The girl looked up for the first time. “Nuranar!” she cried, then embraced her. “Are you okay? I’m really sorry. How have you been?”

The lady so addressed looked closely, then gasped. “Orual! My goodness, it’s been such a long time! Oh yes, I’m fine. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the Green Dragon! For most of the last year I’ve still been working in the Shire. But I don’t get out much, I’m afraid,” she admitted, blushing. “I hope to soon, though. My concerns will never end, but they change from season to season, and I hope to have more time to travel from place to place. Maybe I’ll come back into the Inn sometime soon, or even travel to Rohan. What have you been up to?”

[Arestevana]

It was a fine horse, as befit a lady of the Mark. Of course, the rider was not truly of the Mark, but it does not do to dwell on such things. She was certainly taller than could be expected, and her hair was dark, not the golden color of the Rohirrim. Her eyes were dark as well, hinting at elven heritage. Her garb was not elven, though: a plain grey skirt, slit up the side to show a hint of the muslin beneath, and a simple white blouse. Swinging down from her saddle, the woman gave her horse an affectionate pat and turned it loose, pulling one saddlebag over her shoulder before the animal ran off. She turned and made her way up the path, toward the sounds of festivities further on. Arestevana shifted the saddle bag to her other hand, looking around and enjoying the bright colors of the pavilions and banners. She caught sight of the party tree over the heads of the jubilant crowd, and made her way toward it. She saw that people seemed to be keeping their distance, and the reason soon became apparent. The sinister shadow of a barrow created an ominous tone in the surrounding area.

Deciding it would be wise to keep her distance as well, Arestevana set her burden down several yards from the barrow. She reached into the saddle bag and pulled out the gift she had brought. A traveler chance-met on the road had told her what it was. She rolled the name in her mind. Mathom. Edging around the barrow, Arestevana set the gift on a table which held many such items. She crept slightly closer, mustered her courage, and yelled, “Happy Birthday!” before darting away again. Returning to the place where she had set her bag, she noted with relief that no one had bothered it. She picked it up and moved farther from the barrow, trying not to notice the small noises that hinted at a presence inside. An especially loud rumble sounded behind her and she risked a backward glance. Something caught her eye, and turning, she was shocked to see a hobbit woman and two young girls lying in the shadow of the barrow, pale and unmoving. Walking quickly away, she listened to conversations around her, gleaning information. Suddenly she remembered that she had not yet given a greeting.

There were stages set up all around the party field. Arestevana crossed to one of these and hoisted her bag up on the platform, climbing up after it. For a moment she wondered if her performance would be permitted, but at that moment a child with bright green hair raced by, and her doubts were assuaged. She reached into her bag and pulled out a large wooden instrument, which she rested on her lap. Then she pulled out two delicate wooden hammers wrapped in cloth. Taking loosely hold of a hammer in each hand, she gently struck several the strings that crisscrossed the wooden surface of the instrument. A sustained, harp-like note sounded from each one, blending into a gentle melody as more strings were played. Soon the woman’s voice merged with the music, flowing smoothly in several languages. She began in the rich language of the Rohirrim, followed by a more halting verse in Quenya interspersed with the Common speech.

Yéni avánier, lissi yéni,
Utúlie’n aurë, mi oro-mardi,
This is the day when we gather together,
In the spring’s forgiving weather,
To celebrate this land we love,
Watched by sun and stars above,
To bring our gifts with deep respect,
As memories we recollect,
Of another year gone by,
Yéni avánier, forever doomed to die.
Still we linger, still we laugh,
With good nature dealing chaff,
In the company of dearest friends,
Which fate in gentle kindness sends
Hurry! We come to celebrate,
Fearing justly to be late,
On the road we mustn’t stall,
Sí vanwa tenn’lumbulë ná i kal.
Yes, lost to shadow is the light,
We wish you well, great Barrow-Wight.

There was a scattering of applause as she finished her song. A crowd had gathered while she played. Rising, she returned her instrument to the saddle bag as the crowd dispersed itself. Picking up the bag, she jumped neatly down from the elevated stage and wandered off toward a pavilion, looking for a familiar face.

[Firondoiel]

Firi sat with Ala, Leo, Elbie, Éowyn, and Keld talking merrily. It was wonderful to be with her friends at the Downies. She served them all tea and lembas then excused herself to the Party Tree. A parchment and a roll of super duper extra strong scotch tape was produced and fastened to the tree. Firi took a step back to look over her work.

Dearest Barrow-Wight,

Congratulations on the loftiest forum ever and best wishes that the coming year will be very spiffyful. I’m not one for rhymes and witty sayings but I should very much like to say thank you for all the work you put into this forum!

~Firi (Firondoiel)

P.S. Save the Trees!

Satisfied, Firi headed back towards her friends. Just a few feet ahead of her were Oro and Nova talking together. Firi hurried towards them smiling happily. “Nova! Oro!” she called.

[Bêthberry]

With Guinevere's help Bêthberry had been able to unload her mathoms on the Wight's table. Growing perennials in the dark of his barrow would be a trick but Bêthberry was sure he could fix up his eerie green glow to work some kind of perilous magic. As luck would have it, though, they had missed the spectacular theft by turning their backs upon the table to pull the wheel up.

"Now isn't it just like a hobbit to do that!' exclaimed the healer, who reached into her pocket for some betony chewing gum and handed it to SaucepanMan to cure what appeared to be a hangover, the result most likely of Lush's careful ministrations.

"Why, they claim to be the truest sort of people most resistant to the dark powers but mark my word. There are those who tell of Bilbo's stealing and still other who tell of the terrible attack on the trees in the Bonfire Glade. Truly, these hole builders should not be left to interpret stories themselves. Just ask Kransha here for the orcs' side of the story. I am sure if we all dig hard enough we will uncover truths as to their treachery and thievery and other nefarious deeds."

Nova and Oro overheard this speech with a mixture of sarcasm and misbelief and offense. "Hobbits thieves?" they said. "Might as well expect elven children to run off and get taken by orcs or tied up by spiders in Mirkwood."

Bêthberry laughed at this and then thanked Guinevere for her help. "Shall I bring my potluck dish to the food table? Barbequed Balrog's Wings."

In the distance she heard Fordim Hedgethistle snort with disgust and not a little firey expostulation. She was sure that MeriSue would enjoy them, though, for the fair damsel had oft displayed a keen delight in the sort of wrong interpretations called Páhrôdie in the Fáirie tongue.

By then Bêthberry had caught up with Lush herself in time to hear her described as 'naughty Bethberry.'

"No, no, my dear Lushious. I am simply dirty Bethberry. It is all this weeding you see in the garden of perilous delight. I have been trying to determine if the Party Tree is actually the Tree of the Knowledge of Primary and Secondary Worlds but I think thought has floundered on who has an innie or an outie vision."

With that remark, Bêthberry overheard Piosenniel say something about Old Tom's son, Iadarion. "Boy," she thought to herself, "have I ever been away from home for a long time. I didn't know I had a brother. This longevity certainly makes it hard for siblings to stay in touch."

[symestreem]

A soaked symestreem was playing for the dancers again. She was careful not to drip water on her fiddle. When the song was over, she ran her hands through her hair to get out the excess water and wiped them on her breeches.
She had had the misfortune of standing too close to a dwarf who was smoking a pipe and drinking beer at the same time. When water was thrown on the resulting explosion, they were both soaked. Now, she was trying to remember where she'd put her cloak.
A new set started, and she had to continually jerk her fiddle away from the droplets of water rolling off her nose. A casual observer would have thought she was having fits. This would never do.
She left the dance floor, nodding her apologies to the other musicians. She'd left her pack under a tree, but which one? It had been near the cookies... As she wove through the tables, she noticed the macaroni and cheese was half-gone. Good, these people were all too skinny anyway.
Was that a Balrog in the pavilion? As she watched, massive wings flickered in and out of existence on his shoulders. She considered standing in his shadow to dry herself, but thought better of it.
After finding her cloak, she was on her way back to the dance floor when she heard the tones of an unfamiliar instrument. A dark-haired woman was accompanying herself on the stage with some sort of wooden box. Ever the musician, symestreem stopped to watch.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker left Elbereth to her own devieces, as the other female had not yet payed her respects to the wight. After explaining what she had to do, she left Elbereth, and went to walk around randomly, and contamplate what to do, and whether medal poles were mathoms.

They are rather useful... I wonder whther the fact that beyond whacking people on the heads, they are useless makes them into a mathom? Eowyn Skywalker wondered, walking around randomly. Without Luke Skywalker to torment (she had to leave him in Middle-earth, as the Barrow-downs was more Lord of the Rings then other things, so he wasn't allowed in), she was... bored. Eowyn shook her head. And that's unlikely?!

Wandering on over to the food, she was shocked to realize that she hadn't brought in her dish. She dug around in her pockets-- which seemingly, were bigger then they looked-- at least they held everything, anyhow. After studying the tables intently, Eowyn Skywalker realized that there was no way that all 152763 garlic pizzas would fit on the tables. "It's a conspiracy!" she cursed. "Why can't they make tables that'll hold all these pizzas?!" Each pizza had 'Happy birthday, Barrow-downs' spelt out in garlic on the cheesy toppings.

She suceeded in getting 58 of the pizzas piled on the table before she gave up, and stacked the rest on the ground. The smell of garlic wafted around the field, and they were lucky to be outside, or all would've fainted. The smell of garlic was, after all, quite strong!

Eowyn Skywalker left the garlic pizzas, complete with the birthday message, and went to wander around some more, as she knew almost no one that was there. So she went off, and wandered around aimlessly, as there was nothing left really for her to do, as was mentioned hitherto, Luke wasn't there for her to torment, and neither was Anakin, or she would've found something to do...

She snrked. Jandalf had banned her from seeing Anakin because every time they met, something happened... usually regarding neon pink dye, garlic flavored gum, or laundry chutes. They were a rather... unique pair at times.

But that was why Eowyn Skywalker wandered the party field aimlessly, taking care to avoid the barrow, and well, wandered.

The trees whispered in the light wind, and birds could be heard singing on the breeze. The day was fair, the elements calm while Eowyn Skywalker walked the grass of the Shire.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

Just as soon as she could, Aylwen arrived at the Barrow Down’s Birthday party. Having just run a two-mile race at a previous engagement, Aylwen was unusually frazzled. Her usually tame, straight auburn hair had been haphazardly put in a crooked, sideways horsetail and was tangling. Her fair skin was burned from the sun, and her cheeks were red as she still struggled to get her breath back. Aylwen had changed quickly out of a mandatory running uniform and into her party apparel. Her wine red dress nearly matched her flushed cheeks, but this did not daunt Aylwen. While she did not plan on staying long, she still wanted to look half decent for her birthday well wishes.

Time was of the essence, Aylwen being a busy girl and all. In fact, she felt rather happy that she’d made it in time to beat even two pages of birthday partying. Aylwen did not even make the party last year! All Aylwen needed was time to send a birthday wish to the place at which she had spent so much time for nearly two years. Four years of merrymaking, and despite all the hardships and many sudden changes and makeovers, Aylwen was proud to know the Barrow-Downs had survived to be four years old.

Arriving at the Party Tree, Aylwen scribbled down her note.

Here’s to four wonderful years of intellect, comedy, wisdom, learning, and fun. I hope -

(Aylwen scribbled this out, replacing it)

- I am sure four more years of intellect, comedy, wisdom, learning, fun, and so much more are in store for us here at the Barrow-Downs. Happy birthday to the Barrow-Downs.

Feeling that her work at the party was complete and that there was still more work to attend to, Aylwen took her leave from the party.

[Ithaeliel]

Ithaeliel arrived in the party field and searched around for a hint of instruction for newcomers. As she noticed the numerous guests trying to edge their way around her, she turned around to see what they were getting at, and she saw the large tree behind her which was now nearly covered with signs, posters and other such things. She read one and stepped back, furrowing her brow. "This is all in celebration of a barrow-wight! Why, how could people celebrate such a deadly, fell creature? If this isn't the most obscene thing I've ever--"

"Why, he's really a very nice man once you get to know him." Ithaeliel turned around to see two smiling orcs standing casually side by side. One was speaking to her. "He's got a cheerful disposition if I ever saw one."

The scream that came from the throat of that young elf made several pairs of ears reluctant to work, and many more heads than that were turned in the direction of Ithaeliel, whose face was now the color of the White Tree of Gondor. The two orcs blinked and fell back in genuine surprise while Ithaeliel stood frozen to her spot. After a few minutes, she managed to croak out a few words. "But... you're... orcs!" she spat the last word.

"Yes'm, we're orcs, as orcish as they come. Name's Kransha," said one.

"And I'm Fordim Hedgethistle. It's a pleasure," the other said as he bowed awkwardly.

Ithaeliel swallowed. "Well... yes, er, pleasure's all mine." She curtsyed politely and ran away quickly. It was best for her to just forget she'd seen them... she didn't take well with orcs.

The next place she found herself was at a dark hole beside a table was piled with gifts. "This must be where the wight is..."

A voice from the inside of the hole took Ithaeliel by surprise. "Why, yes, it is! Please feel free to leave whatever, and enjoy the party!"

The young elf maiden nodded and placed her mithril pendant on top of the pile. "Enjoy yourself as well, Mister... Wight."

Passing by the table stacked with all different kinds of food, Ith paused. "I didn't know this was a potluck. Oh, dear... all I have is lembas." She put down several nicely wrapped squares of lembas and moved on.

There was a stage nearby, and another performer had just come off of it. Ithaeliel smiled. "I'll bet no one else here knows how to sing gospel..."

Gliding up onto the stage, Ith looked out upon the crowd. It was larger than she'd thought, but she had no problem singing in front of people. She opened her mouth, and the notes overtook the noise as she gave her tribute to the Barrow-Wight:

If there is Wight... If there is Wight!
If there is Wight in the soul, there will be beauty in the person.
If there is beauty... If there is beauty!
If there is beauty in the person, there will be harmony in the thread.
And if there's harmony in the thread, there will be order in the forum.
And with order in the forum, there will be peace in all the 'site.
If there is Wight... If there is Wight!
If there is Wight in the soul, there will be peace in all the 'site!

Everyone was dancing by now, and they cheered for the gospel elf as she bowed and ran off the stage. Ith had made her presence known at the party!

[starkat]

Kat stepped into the party area and looked around. Dressed in dark blue with a grey cloak, she watched as people left gifts on one table and got food at another. As a newcomer to the Barrow Downs and fairly shy, she didn't say much as she walked over to the gift table left a Happy Birthday note and walked over to a tree and settled down to watch. After spending several hours watching the others, she decided to head home.

[Kitanna]

After posting her own birthday wishes Kitanna wandered around for a bit. She was drawn to the pavilion by a beautiful song. She watched as a woman with dark hair and equally dark eyes sang in Rohirrim, the Quenya, and finally in the common speech. The woman's voice captivated Kitanna and she joined in the applause when Arestevana finished her song.

As the woman stepped down from the pavilion Kitanna approached her to comment on the beauty of the song. "That was one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard." Kitanna moved a long, black strand of hair from her eyes. "I wish everyone could do justice to the art of song."

[The Saucepan Man]

Bêthberry’s gum had worked wonders, and in no time the Saucepan Man had felt much better. He had busied himself all day talking to the party guests, helping himself to the food (Macaroni Cheese was a particular favourite of his), and drinking a pale orange cordial poured from another of the kettles strewn about him. Spying Lush sunning herself, he had sensibly decided that discretion was the better part of valour and headed in the opposite direction. Perhaps a re-match would be in order later, but for now he thought it best to keep a clear head.

Luckily his intermittent deafness, the result of too much clattering and clanking close to his ears, had shielded him from the Barrow-Wight’s song, although it also meant that he had missed the announcement of the theft of the Wight’s mathom gifts. So he had remained oblivious to the comings and goings of the brawny and beorny security guards and the gaggle of shifty-looking Hobbit children. The fact that one of them had bright green hair did not surprise him in the least, given the odd assortment of guests merry-making in the early summer sun.

By and bye, Saucepan came across Kransha, the Orc whose company he had enjoyed so much the previous night. The fearsome but civilised fellow introduced him to his companions. A young lady by the name of Roa. And a fellow even more fearsome than the Orc himself who was introduced as Fordim Hedgethistle. He was shrouded in darkness and surrounded by a shadow which seemed to reach out across the Party Field like two vast wings. Whether they were in fact wings and, if so, whether they were capable of supporting flight, Saucepan could not tell. But despite Fordim’s intimidating appearance, they fell into conversation and Saucepan noted how he bristled with fire whenever he became animated. Soon others had joined the discussion, and Saucepan began to find himself ensorcelled by it, so much so that he felt as though he might never escape.

But, as dusk began to fall, Saucepan judged that the time had come for his tribute and reluctantly he made his excuses and left. He made straight for a tent, the many coloured decorations of which might be described as sïcadhélic in the Elven tongue. On the side of the tent was painted a tableaux depicting Barrow-Downs luminaries, old and new. Entering, he approached four Hobbits dressed in colourful military uniforms of pink, blue, orange and green respectively, who were hard at work practising on their instruments.

“The time has come,” he said to them, and they nodded in acknowledgement.

In no time, the four Hobbits, Jonwise, Perripaul, Geordimac and Bingo by name, had set themselves up on one of the empty stages. Bingo sat behind a large drum-kit consisting entirely of kitchen implements, while the other three stood ready with their guitars at the front of the stage.

“One – two – three – four,” said Jonwise and, all of a sudden, the air was filled with the electric sound of their twanging guitars. Then Perripaul began to sing.

It was but a year ago today,
That Sergeant Saucy taught the band to play
They’ve been going in and out of posts
But they’re guaranteed to please the ghosts.
So may I introduce to you
The act you’ve not seen since last year,
Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow Downs Club Band.

We’re Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow Downs Club Band,
We hope that it’s a great party,
We’re Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow Downs Club Band,
For the Downs’ anniversary.
Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow, Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow,
Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow Downs Club Band.

It’s wonderful to be here,
It’s certainly a thrill.
It’s such a lovely website,
We like to type our posts all night,
We love to type our posts.

I don’t really want to stop the show,
But I thought you might like to know,
That the Saucepan’s going to sing a song,
And he wants you all to sing along.
So may I introduce to you
The shiny noisy Saucepan Man
And Sergeant Saucy’s Barrow Downs Club Band.

At this, the Saucepan Man jumped noisily up on to the stage, while the Hobbit combo intoned his name. As the tune changed, he started to sing.

What would you do if typed the wrong key,
Would you log off and shut down on me.
Lend me your screens and I’ll type you a post,
Of Tolkien’s Canonicity.

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Downs,
Mm, I know why with a little help from the Downs,
Mm, gonna try with a little help from the Downs.

Where can I talk about Peregrine Took,
(Does it worry you to be alone)
How do I feel about films of the book,
(Are you sad because you’re on your own)

No, I get by with a little help from the Downs,
Mm, I know why with a little help from the Downs,
Mm, gonna try with a little help from the Downs.

Do you need any website,
I need a site I can love.
Could it be any website,
I want a site I can love.

Would you believe that the Books can inspire,
Yes I see it every time I’m on-line.
What do you see when you look in the Shire,
I can tell you of stories so fine.

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Downs.
Mm, I know why with a little help from the Downs,
Oh, I’m gonna try with a little help from the Downs.

Do you need any website,
I need a site I can love.
Could it be any website,
I want a site I can love.

Oh, I get by with a little help from the Downs,
Mm, gonna try with a little help from the Downs,
Oh, I know why with a little help from the Downs,
Yes, I get by with a little help from the Downs.

With a little help from the Downs.

As the chords of the song died away, the Saucepan Man turned to the Wight’s barrow, raised his kettle, and shouted, “To the Downs! Happy fourth anniversary, and here’s to many more years yet to come!”

[Roa_Aoife]

Roa shook her head at Kransha, and smiled a welcoming smile at Fordim. Understandibly, she abstained from the handshake. She noticed the odd looks from passer-by's. "Wings? I'm not sure. I've never really thought about it. And who in Arda would be foolish enough to steal from the Barrow Wight?" The thought of that green hand was enough to scare anyone.

Motioning to her friends, she moved down the lawn, away from the ruckus. Whatever had happened, Pio could certainly handle it. As they walked, Roa piped up, "How have you both been? I have not ventured to Moria in a while."

[Saraphim]

Waking late was always a specialty of Saraphim's, especially when the previous night had been filled with more drinking than she cared, or could, remember.

A vague recollection crossed her mind of a vodka-drinking-contest, and hoped that she hadn't been involved.

She quickly left her tent, eager to begin revels once more. On the long walk back to the party area, she saw a clump of hobbits gathered around something on the ground. Approaching as quietly as she could, Saraph caught a glimpse of something that looked familiar.

A shadow fell over the young hobbits, and a voice came from it. As menacingly as she could manage, Saraph said:

"What's all this, my little hobbitlings?"

The three froze and looked up slowly. In a half-filled hole there rested some foriegn shiny thing and a dragon that did indeed look hauntingly familiar.

"N..nothing, miss," said one, a girl with green hair.

"Well, then," said Saraph, fully aware that her current mannerisms were the reasons she was never asked to babysit, "I suppose, if this is indeed nothing, you can come with me and explain it to the mods exactly why you seem to have made off with two gifts that were given expressly to the Barrow-Wight. Why, who knows? Perhaps the Wight himself will want a word."

Carefully emphasising 'word', Saraph bent down and picked up the misplaced mathoms carefully and put them into a pouch at her side.

"Come on, little ones," Saraph said wickedly, and led the trmbling hobbits towards the tree.

[Everdawn]

Everdawn was surprised to see Aredhel, she began to wonder how on earth she had escaped from the asylum of Minas Tirith. But right now, she supposed it did not matter.

“Lo! Aredhel! What brings you here?” asked the elf holding out a hand to the girl, who looked at it for a second before throwing her whole body weight upon the silver-haired elf knocking the both of them to the ground.

“What was that for?” Everdawn replied angrily before brushing herself of.

“That was for remembering you birthday.” She laughed, and kept laughing, so hard infact that there were tears rolling down the sides of her face.

“You silly git.” Said Everdawn. “Its not my birthday.”

“It isn’t?” Aredhel stopped laughing as a wave of horror swept across her face.

“No.” replied Everdawn going back to her seat.

“Then what am I going to do with your present.” Aredhel was beginning to get angry.

“I don’t know, keep it for later.” The elf shrugged.

“Its just as well then.. I didn’t get you anything… sorry mate.” Aredhel broke out once again in a fit of giggles.

[Arestevana]

As she left the stage, Arestevana noticed someone watching her. Trying to glance over with out being too obtrusive, she saw a woman carrying a fiddle. Curious, she walked over, nodding politely to an elf who filled the recently vacated stage. She smiled in a friendly manner as she approached, though her smile faltered a little in surprise as lively gospel music sprang up.

She waved to the other woman, signaling her wish to talk. Before she could walk over, though, she was intercepted by another woman, raven-haired. "That was one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard. I wish everyone could do justice to the art of song." Said Kitanna.

“Thank you.” Arestevana replied. “I am glad you enjoyed my music. I was about to speak to another here who seems to much appreciate music as well, though perhaps not through song.” She gestured to Symestreem “Perhaps you would like to come as well?” she added, hoping it was true.

[Kitanna]

Kitanna smiled slightly. "I would love to join you, but are you sure? I would not wish to burden you." She looked over at Symestreem and then back to Arestevana.

She didn't want to seem like a third wheel or hinder Arestevana in her conversation with the other person. "Do not get me wrong, I do wish to join you, but only if you are sure I will not be a bother."

[Bombadil]

With all the merry singing and dancing going on, Iadarion was longing to go on stage and sing songs of his father, or the forest - But as he made his way towards the stage he noticed the Saucepan man and the Barrow-downs club band were on. After thouroughly enjoying their music, Iadarion was too embarrassed to try and follow such a great act. So he ran up to Sergeant Saucy and complimented him on his music. "It reminded me of a great band I saw in the Green Dragon once! They were all form Bree, and called themselves the Breetles. Delightful their music was, but i believe you've outmatched them chap!"

The Saucepan man smiled and the two had a long conversation. In it, Saucepan man gave word of Bethberry. Iadarion almost knocked Sergeant Saucy over after hearing the news. "My sister!?" He exclaimed. "I have heard so much about her from my parents! I must find her! Thank you friend! We shall meet again one day! I've heard you are quite an Iron Chef. I's be delighted to cook off against you one day, although i doubt I'd stand a chance! As the elves say - Namarie!"

And with that, the Saucepan Man smiled as he watched Iadarion run off to find his long lost sister Bethberry.

[symestreem]

Symestreem smiled at both of them. She took out her paper and wrote,
I'm not much in the way of conversation, as you can see. But I'd love to discuss music with both of you, as much as I am able. I am in agreement with Kitanna, that was one of the best songs I've ever heard. what is that instrument called? As an afterthought, she added,
I don't suppose either of you can read lips?
Then she handed the paper to both of them. As they were reading it, she noticed something. Waving to get their attention, she pointed at the band that had just started playing. Music! she mouthed, her meaning clear even if they couldn't understand her.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Rory laced his arm tightly about his sister's waist. Daisy looked as if she was about to cry, but was trying very hard to hold her tears back. She kept glancing sideways at the bulging bag that held the two presents and then up at Saraph's stern face. Perhaps, Rory reflected, Saraph was some kind of an Elf. In any case, she appeared enormously large and dour, and not at all likely to believe anything they said.

Nabbing mushrooms and apples was a normal part of any Hobbit childhood, as well as borrowing little items from friends and occasionally forgetting to return them. Rory had never heard of anyone who'd been sent to jail for such things. The most that would happen would be a stern lecture or two and perhaps being sentenced to a week of weeding and hoeing, or other comparable chores. But now, things looked very bad. If he and his sister got off with a stint in the Lockholes, they would consider themselves lucky. He could imagine far worse happening in the clutches of that Green Wight.

Still, Rory was not going to give up, and he vowed to try and protect his sister, especially since she was so much younger. No Green Wight was going to shake the stuffings out of her, or deactivate her account, at least if he had anything to say about it. Leaning over towards Pimpernel and Daisy, he whispered a hasty warning. "When I count three, everybody go for the Elf. That bag is the least of our worries. Daisy, just hightail it over to the tree where we were the other day. Maybe we can hide there."

On the count of three, the Hobbits attacked in unison. Rory slammed in from the front, Daisy from behind; Pimpernel lunged at the bag and hurled it to the ground, dumping its contents into a patch of tall grass. The trio plunged through the tall grass back towards the gate where a few lonely trees stood near the edge of the party field. There were no crates to help them reach the lower limbs, so they could not climb up into the same tree as before. This would have let them scramble over the fence and out into the freedom of the Shire. But they did manage to heave themselves up into the branches of another tree, this one a willow with limbs hanging close to the ground. Squatting back in the comparative safety of its leafy curtain, Rory looked around to make sure everyone was safe.

Pimpernel spoke first, leering at his two companions, "Look what I have: this Gondorian thingamabob. I scooped it up from the ground."

Daisy groaned and shook her head, "Why couldn't you leave that behind? It's only going to cause more trouble."

"Maybe,....maybe not," he countered with a shrug.

With that the three Hobbits settled back in their leafy perch, hoping that night would soon arrive.

**************************

OOC Comment: Please don't haul my trio in just yet! Other than that, you may do anything with them that you like. Thanks.... Cami

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil heard an ear-splitting screech as a young hobbit picked up his little "gift", and could barely keep himself from laughing out loud. He helped himself to some of the food, including a rather generous helping of Toffee Shock. Suddenly, he felt something strange. He barely managed to spit the candy out before it exploded, knocking him backward. He didn't have a soft landing, as he smacked into a number of pots and pans.

"Just my luck." he said, then remembered hearing an "OUCH!" directly behind him. He got up, turned around, and (to his astonishment), realized that the pots and pans were in fact being worn by a very strange little man.

"I'm very sorry," he apologized. "I didn't realize that the candy was so dangerous."

[The Saucepan Man]

As the Saucepan Man watched Iadarion run off, he smiled and wondered why people always seemed to assume that his metallic attire automatically meant that he was a wizard in the kitchen. He was no such thing, if the truth be known, but he was happy to perpetrate the myth. Noticing the crowd growing impatient around the stage that the Barrow Downs Club had vacated, he decided that it was time for their second set.

In no time (and having disentangled himself from one of the "victims" of his Toffee Shock treats), Sergeant Saucy was back in front of Jonwise, Perripaul, Geordiwise and Bingo, regaling the audience with the song composed specially for this year’s party.

Let me take you down,
‘Cos I’m going to the Shire Party Field.
Where Hobbits are real
And gather there to celebrate.
Shire Party Field forever.

Frodo is sitting with eyes closed
Dreaming of lands beyond the sea.
It’s getting hard to comfort him
But it all works out.
His story means so much to me.

Let me take you down,
‘Cos I’m going to the Shire Party Field.
Where Hobbits are real
And gather there to celebrate.
Shire Party Field forever.

Lanterns shine from the Party Tree,
With fireworks bursting high and low.
Samwise tells the tale of Turin
Turambar.
That one I think is rather sad.

Let me take you down,
‘Cos I’m going to the Shire Party Field.
Where Hobbits are real
And gather there to celebrate.
Shire Party Field forever.

Of berries, and mushrooms, I take my fill,
And apple pie with triple cream.
When offered beer I say “Ah yes”
In a mug that’s long.
That’s how they serve it down in Bree.

Let me take you down,
‘Cos I’m going to the Shire Party Field.
Where Hobbits are real
And gather there to celebrate.
Shire Party Field forever.

Shire Party Field forever.
Shire Party Field forever.

Since the crowd seemed to be enjoying their performance, the band decided to finish off their set with an updated version of the previous year’s party song.

On Barrow Downs there is a Member reading highlights
Of every thread he's had the pleasure to have known.
And all the spirits that come and go
Stop and say hello.

In the Forum there’s a Newbie with a question,
Of Bombadil and Beorn and Tolkien’s words.
But the Newbie never does a search,
He talks of Balrog’s wings, of all the things!

The Barrow Downs is on my screen and in my head.
There beneath the black and orange threads
I type, and meanwhile back

In the Books there is a scholar with a theory
On Rings and Elven immortality.
He likes to talk of Eucatastrophe,
And Norse mythology.

*Gondorian regal trumpet solo*

The Barrow Downs is on my screen and in my head.
Just post your thoughts on what you’ve read
of Arda, meanwhile back

Upon the Downs among the Middle-Earth Mirthies
The Disco King is dancing every night and day
And tho' Boromir’s in his grave,
We all do the wave.

On the Downs the scholar quotes another Letter.
We see the Newbie now happily settled in.
Then a fangirl rushes in
From an Orli site, what a fright!

The Barrow Downs is on my screen and in my head.
There within the black and orange threads
I type, and meanwhile back

The Barrow Downs is on my screen and in my head.
There within the black and orange threads

Barrow Downs.

As the applause died down, the Saucepan Man thanked the crowd. The performance over, the four colourful Hobbits made straight for one of the bar tents, while Saucepan poured himself a drink from his kettle and wandered off to enjoy whatever the evening still might hold in store for him.

[Saraphim]

Saraphim sat stunned on the ground, but her silence did not last long as the ridiculousness of the situation caused her to break into peals of laughter. She continued to sit on the grass and laugh until it began to get cold.

Getting up and brushing herself off, Saraph continued to giggle intermittently as she headed to the nearest bar and sat down.

"A pint of your finest, good sir," she said to the barkeeper, who hurried off to oblige.

A moment later, Saraph burst into laughter again as she remembered that the hobbits had called her an elf before she had been knocked down.

"An elf!" she exclaimed to the surprised barkeeper, who had returned.

"Erm, yes'm, there are rather alot of them about, aren't there?" he said, confused.

Saraphim continued to laugh wholeheartedly through sips of her ale, remebering the scene and finding it more than amusing.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim Hedgethistle was so happy to see Roa that he flapped his wings…or spread out his vast shadowy form in the shape of wings…or loomed about as a great shape…in joy. His encounter earlier with the…person…who had mistaken him for a lowly Orc had left him in a particularly foul mood, and it was only with the greatest of diplomacy that Kransha had been able to prevent him from blasting the insolent being from the face of Middle-earth. (As a matter of fact, Kransha had not really done much at all to prevent his friend from going into a full Thangbadorian fury. On the contrary, the fellow’s Orcish nature had seemed to relish the prospect of a bit of a toss-up, but the darned rules that Pio had put in place prevented them from having any real fun.)

The three friends moved off to find a quiet place for a chat, pausing only long enough to listen to Saucepan Man’s song, but as good a tune as it was, it only served to deepen Fordim’s abiding existential crisis, for throughout the duration of the performance all he could think was, “Do Balrog’s even like music?”

For a while he was able to make some small talk with his friends, but as Roa asked him more and more questions about his life to which he did not know the answers he finally broke down and began to cry. Huge tears rolled down the smoke and shadow where his face should be, turning to things of slime by the time they hit the grass where they smoked and emitted a foul odour. Covering her nose delicately, Roa cried out “Why, Fordim, whatever is wrong?” Kransha merely busied himself inspecting the slime (and did Fordim actually see him taste a bit of it?!)

Through his great blubbering tears Fordim gabbled out his woes. “Oh Roa! Oh Kransha –stop eating my slime! – I can’t tell you how miserable I am. I have so many questions about my life! About my self!! Whether these are even wings or not” and he shrugged the vast shadows “is the least of my concerns. I spend most of my days with Orcs, and I don’t even know if they are descended of Elves, or Men or some other race entirely! And my fate – what of my fate!? Sometimes, you see, I think it might be nice to go back to Valinor. You know, apologise to the Big Chiefs and settle down in a nice little house near Aule – he was always so much fun to go out hunting with! But can I even go back? Do I have the option to repent? Sometimes, I try to figure these sorts of things out and I’m lead to remember the very earliest days…but even then I get confused. Were the heavens made when Eru hung lamps from the dome of the sky, or did they alight when He sang? And is Eru in charge of my decisions, or is there something else going on?? And, and, and…” here his words came in huge rasping gurgles of agony, “what does it all mean anyway? And does it mean anything to me, or only to the people in the stories I remember? Or is it all meaningless? Or, or, or…” He broke down and wept like a pitiable babe.

At that moment a helpful hobbit ran up to them bearing in his hands a large volume with “The Red Book of Westmarch” written in gold leaf on the cover. “Here,” he said, “read this, it has all the answers!” But then another hobbit ran up with another book that said “The Lord of the Rings” on the cover. “No no” this hobbit said, “read this book!” Then another person arrived with something called “The Silmarillion,” claiming that it had the truth, but soon there were three others who claimed that this book had been badly edited and they were compiling a truly definitive edition of the book, which they were also calling “The Silmarillion”. The next to arrive, with a clank and a bang, was that nice Saucepan Man but rather than resolving the issue he flung a book called “The Letters” atop the increasingly disorderly pile and said that it had some interesting nuggets.

From here, things got steadily worse. Some people suggested that he did not need to bother reading any of the books, but some of those suggested they did not really matter, while others said he could write his own book with his own answers. Then there was a small but determined group who argued that he shouldn’t really be bothering with asking the questions at all. “Just sit back,” they said soothingly. “Relax, enjoy the stories for what they are.” But then someone said, “But how can we know what they are intended to be?” and this set off a new round of questions and answers.

Fordim turned to his friends once more. He was well beyond tears now, having settled into a profound resignation to his fate. “You know,” he said in his loudest voice possible – and all those about him fell silent. “I think I just want to have some fun for the moment. This place is really quite wonderful. THANK YOU MR WIGHT!” he bellowed. He looked down at the people about him, and the stared up at him in shocked silence.

But then they all began to talk once more, and Fordim smiled, and listened, and learned.

[Luthien_ Tinuviel]

Well, it looked like everyone from Luthien's group who was going to arrive had already done so. She was safe to leave the pavilion in their care and take her baked goods to the refreshment table. First she handed the basket around to her friends and let them each choose something good to munch on. It didn't do to go on an empty stomach all the way to the food tables.

"I'll be right back, hopefully," she announced, and sauntered off to the area containing all the food, and thus most of the people. Once she had relieved herself of her burden, she would have to reward herself for her great toil, she thought. Meanwhile, a scone or two would do nicely. Her trip took longer than she had expected. Two sonces became three, and a cookie as well. By the time she actually got to the table to lay out her food, her basket contained a grand total of one cookie. Oh, well, she reflected. At least they went to good use. And I still have my present for the Barrow-wight, so I suppose that may redeem me. Could I convince everyone to do a skit, I wonder? Her thoughts trailed off as she sighted a big pot full of taters. Right beside it lay a stack of plates, and oh glory! Mushrooms! Honoring hobbits as she was on that day, she thought no more of skits.

[piosenniel]

Pio had the sudden urge to chew on a sheet of blotter paper. As it was, she resisted, hauling out instead her old pair of blue tinged, wire rimmed granny glasses and fixing them firmly on her face. The world turned a lovely shade of aqua as she made her way to the tent from which issued the enchanting Faerie tune. The images it engendered danced on the edges of her consciousness making her think of times gone by.

A partygoer, wandering by in all innocence, was beset upon by the smiling Elf who attempted to impart some old pearl of dead wisdom in passing. ‘Own all their albums . . . vinyl . . .’ she whispered to the befuddled woman in blue. ‘one of the tracks, if you play it backwards says Perripaul is dead, you know . . . and then of course there’s the walrus . . .’

The woman in blue had backed away by this time, muttering something about needing to see to her sick aunt . . . ‘Vinyl?’ she could be heard babbling . . . ‘album . . .walrus . . .?’

The set was finished by the time Pio arrived at the swirly paisley tent. ‘Just as well,’ she sighed, perching the glasses on the top of her hair. From the corner of her eye she saw a bright swatch of green hair running pell mell toward one of the willow trees on the other side of the field – soon followed by two other small figures. Thoughts of the Wight and her promise came to the fore and she put away dreams of earlier days. Keeping her eye firmly fixed on the willow, she made her way stealthily toward the three little miscreants.

[Oddwen]

Oddwen jumped as a very regal looking silver-haired elf commented on her song.

"Oh, thanks very much. Though I can't even think to compare with Sgt. Saucy, of course."

They parted company companionably, and Oddwen continued to the tables. She managed to snare a few of the fast disappearing chocolate-chip cookies before too many hobbits visited them.

An elf pulled out what appeared to be some sort of dulcimer and played a lovely tune.

Then a sight met her eyes that made time stand still.

Garlic. Pizza. Lots of it. A sight to make any other person (especially a garlic lover) tear up.

Choosing three of the 152763 pizzas, she then looked around for a place to sit. All of the tables nearest the Barrow seemed to be strangely empty, so she took advantage of the table space to spread her food.

The table had a nice view of the stage, if you liked staring at the backs of the performers. At least she could view the style of the drummer without the strange facial expressions that seem to come with the job.

A sudden yank on her cloak brought her about quickly.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she cried. "I thought...you looked...your cloak makes you look as if you were a Jawa!"

"Nope," said Oddwen dryly. "I am enjoying your pizzas, though. You do have a way with garlic."

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker got rather bored of wandering around the fields rather fast, as she never had liked wandering randomly that greatly. So, as the wind rustled around her, and shadows seemed to grow longer, the shortish, slightly elven human walked back to the main scene of the party, though there was really nothing there for her either.

She carried a droll face as she walked back to the food tables, and nearly fainted, as her garlic pizzas were rather strong sented, as it were. The yong woman took a slice of the pizza, and munched on it, as she oversaw the party from her place at the food tables, not that it did much for her, as she was rather short. "I suppose that 152763 pizzas was a little much," Eowyn Skywalker reflected on her third slice of pizza. She snrked. So what if no one liked garlic pizzas? It reflacted her personality, if nothing else.

After munching down 456 slices of pizza, Eowyn Skywalker decided that it was pointless to resist. She stood up, and screamed, "WE ALL KNOW THAT THERE ARE ORCS, BUT WHERE DO THE LITTLE ORCS COME FROM?! ARE THERE FEMALE ORCS OUT THERE?!" She coughed. "Akk... must.. not... shout... so... loud. Think of the voice box..."

Everyone turned to stare at her. "It was inevitable," she muttered, and screamed again, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BARROW-DOWNS!!!"

[Saraphim]

Saraphim had downed her third ale, and had started in on a fourth and a slice of garlic-infested pizza. She listened appreciativly to the Saucepan Man's music, and to Fordim Hedgethistle's speech about the great Downs.

Suddenly, however, Saraph remembered something. It seemed as good a time as any, as she noticed a hobbit playing a fiddle near the stage.

Downig her pizza and drink, Saraph stood up and walked over to the musical hobbit. Bending down, she whispered to him. He smiled and struck up a spirited tune on the fiddle.

Saraph jumped onto the stage and sang the old Barrow-Song with slight differences:

Cold be keyboard and monitor and mouse,
Cold be your skin when you reside in your house,
But nevermore will you rise from stony bed,
Without logging on and checking the Dead.

Everyone had heard that verse before, of course, but there was more Saraph had prepared for this very event:

On the black screen some threads may die,
But still discussing the reasons why,
Until the Dark Mod lifts a hand,
Over thier books held together by a rubber band.

Grabbing a mug of ale from a passing tray, Saraph cried: "To the Barrow-Downs! May our books never fall apart beyond recognition!"

She drank deeply to the health of the Barrow-Wight, the Mods, and all her fellow members.

[HerenIstarion]

Third day of feasting was well on when grey-clad figure approached the party field. Taking a closer look, if an onlooker not busy with merrymaking may have been found, it may have been noticed that garments the figure has been wearing were rather blue, but dust-covered to the extent it was hard to place a bet on it. H-I was late for the party and knew it. He was away on pressing business of his own to the Havens, and, however eager he was to join the celebration, could not help coming up belatedly. "I'll find them all snoring when I get there, whatever may be said about wizards being never late" he reflected as he was approaching the party field. But whatever his thoughts on the subject, decent amount of din were radiating in every direction. "After all, some snack maybe left for weary traveler too" he laughed heartily and turned to the gate.

But prior to taking the step in, H-I took care to beat some of the dust off, adjusted his hat and scarf and dropped his knapsack by the post. "The wizard must appear in a proper fashion, otherwise who'd be awed?" He raised his staff, which exploded into the night with the golden fountain of a firework. H-I seemed quite pleased with the effect. 'I have written HerenIstarion is here in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin.' he murmured into his beard as he moved forward. 'I may be less good than Olorin was, but now that he's back to Aman, I'm the best this side of the sea"

But, to his displeasure, not many took heed of the mounting flames at the entrance. "They are all drunk, as I should have expected." he grunted. "Should I blow up some piece of after-the-feast garbage that is to be found in plenty around here to draw their attention?" By now he turned his gaze to the party tree, "Hum, what a waste of parchment, all stuck up the trunk and the very branches of it. But let us take a closer look and learn what it is all about" For a while, he was reading birthday wishes, smiling now and again as pieces of good poetry caught his sight, and eventually noticed quite a large scroll titled Rules for the Partygoers, almost entirely covered under all sorts of leaflets and posters. "Kind of spelling contest, is it? Let us see, let us see… I once knew every spell in all the tongues of Elves or Men or Orcs that was ever used for such a purpose. But now I must dash off on the spot, seemingly. But I can do better than nailing it to the tree" he chuckled, "Am I not the Deadnight Chanter?"

The wizard turned to the field, raised both his arms and started to rock gently, than faster and faster, spinning, revolving, now squatting, now kneeling, making complex moves with his arms and hands, fingers held tightly together. He was engaged in a dance unnoticed, until he began to chant, softly at first, but as the dance quickened, the chant too gained strength and sound:

Be ye cheerful, be ye mirthful
Ale be flowing, sing ye gleeful
Rare be anger, beef be roasting
Real be made yer table boasting
Oft be singing, rare be weeping
Wood be burning, bones be heaping
Dark be fearless, stars be shining
Oft together ye'll be dining
Wights be feasting, minstrels derry
Night be dancing, morn be merry
Sing ye joyful, sing together!

One by one, as the chant filled the field, guest and host alike, the faces were turning to the tree, lips were moving almost unwittingly, as here and there people were starting to sing, and hundred of voices uttered concurrent sigh: 'HerenIstarion is here!'

[piosenniel]

She had not quite reached the willow tree, when the green band on her wrist began to glow again. In the background, near the Party Tree she could hear a great chant had gone up. Looking back back she saw another wizard had entered the party. And what an entrance! Her brows raised at the flames licking round the front gate, then relaxed as she saw the SVF (Shireling Volunteer Firefighters) already organising a bucket brigade.

The green wrist band glowed brighter.

‘Yes, your Wightliness,’ she said in a hurried tone, her eyes trying to penetrate the leafy branches of the willow no too far away now. ‘I’ve finished my writing for the day,’ came the familiar deep voice in a peevish tone. ‘Is it time for the fireworks yet?’ Pio glanced at the position of the sun – ‘Going on evening just now, Wight. Give it a couple of hours, two at the most and I shall have the old fellow start lighting his rockets and star-bursts.’ A few mumbled words followed, something about a silvered dragon having returned and what about . . .

‘You are breaking up, Sir,’ replied Pio crumpling a piece of notepaper she’d fished out of her pocket near the bracelet. ‘Take a nap . . .you sound tired . . . .’ She crackled the paper a few more times and clicked the off button on the band.

She had just reached her intended target when a gentle voice called out to her. ‘Piosenniel! I’ve finished my preparations along with the aid of my three good helpers here!’ The old man stood at the edge of the path, a bouquet of rockets held in his hand. From behind him, hidden by his voluminous robes, came the sound of laughter and quick shushings. ‘Ancalimon,’ she said, crouching down as she tried to peek around him. ‘Who is that hiding behind your robes, I wonder?’ A chorus of giggles followed, and three smiling faces peeked out from behind the old man. ‘Ammë!’ cried the three as they hurtled toward Pio, nearly knocking her over. ‘We’ve sorted the fireworks out for Uncle,’ said Isilmir. ‘By color,’ said Gilwen, her comment following closely on her twin’s. ‘And I’ve sorted the straws out he’s going to use to light them,’ added little Cami, a serious expression on her face. Her three little ones grabbed Ancalimon’s robes and drew him near their mother. ‘Go on, tell her,’ prompted Isilmir, his grey eyes on the old man’s face. ‘Yes, tell her,’ chorused the girls. Ancalimon, his blue eyes twinkling, laughed at the eager trio. ‘I’ve promised them they might each light one of the smaller fireworks when the show opens.’

‘Ooh!’ came a piping voice from the branches above the little group. ‘It’s Rory!’ cried little Cami, peering up through the leaves. ‘What’re you doing up there?’ asked Gilwen, coming to stand beside her sister. ‘And Daisy . . . where did you get that green hair.’ ‘Ooh! I like it,’ joined in little Cami, her eyes shining.

The two Hobbit children climbed down to the ground, and were soon taken up in asking questions about the fireworks and when were they to see them. Pio could hear the leaves rustling above her. ‘You had best come down, too,’ she called up through the leaves. ‘And bring down that last present that needs to go back on the table, if you please.’ Pimpernel shinnied down the trunk and walked sheepishly over to where Pio stood, the Metaserver in his hand.

Ancalimon took the six children in hand, saying he could use them all as his assistants. Pio mouthed her thanks to him, and taking the wayward gift went to replace it on the table . . .

[Evisse the Blue]

The Deadnight's Chanter's rousing song was still echoing round the field when Evisse the Blue managed to finally join the party, descending ungracefully from a tired eagle, her blue gown rumpled and her hat askew. 'Well, if wizards are never late, half-breed witches most certainly are, and fashionably so, too', she replied to anyone who questioned her about her late arrival, refraining from giving any reasons. And wisely so, since it was entirely her fault for confusing the meeting place at the Party Tree in the Shire, with the White Tree in Minas Tirith. Anyway, here she was now, saved by the eagle whom she intended to repay with hobbit-food and ale. Staightening her garments, she smiled broadly, imagining the feast and merriment that was to come. After all, she was in the Shire. What could possibly go wrong?

[piosenniel]

Night – the Firework show begins

The party swirled on as the sun dipped below the horizon. Near the western edge of the field, guests settled in on blankets they’d spread on the ground or sat on benches they’d dragged over from the pavilions. The entry way to the burrow faced west, and from within could be seen a ghastly glow as the Wight settled himself in the doorway to watch the fireworks.

Amidst the oohs! And aahs! of the crowd, a series of small rockets burst against the dark sky, lit by the children. Heren Istarion or so she had gathered the wizard was called, had assisted in part, turning some of the bursts into lovely patterns that delighted and thrilled those watching . . .

[HerenIstarion]

H-I was no longer grumpy, as his hunger and weariness were cured with the rich food of the Shire. Having helped Ancalimon with the fireworks, he was sitting quitely by the tree, smoking his pipe and feasting his eyes on their common handiwork. "Why, this Ancalimon proved himself to be skilled craftsman' he murmured' Even I can learn a thing or two from him. Once the party is over, I am going to have a long talk with him: such a talk as I have not had in all my time. We shall have much to say to one another'. He puffed out yet another smoke-ring and fell silent again.

[Evisse the Blue]

Pausing from her feast, Evisse stood up to watch the fireworks which lighted up the night, and applauded heartily along with the rest Pio and Heren Istarion 's magical efforts. She watched them for a few minutes, almost expecting a fiendishly realistic dragon to pop out, but nothing of that sort happened, and the delight of the onlookers was long-lasting. When they at last turned to their momentarily deserted meals and drinks, it was with a happy gleam in their eyes and a smile on their faces.
Evisse started from her own firework-induced euphoria and realized she hasn't payed her respects to the venerable Wight, the one who weaved the spell around them all, the Keeper of the Mystery. Making her way towards the willow, she stopped in front of it and whispered uncertainly into the darkness: "Happy birthday to Barrow Downs, Your Wightiness!" After a moment of silence, a few questioning mumbles were heard, which she took to mean that 'Barrow downs is a place, and I am a person, well, was a person.'
"Well, yes' Evisse stammered, but you are, well, you know, the , you know.."
"yes, I am the Barrow Wight, the one and only, I know", said a self-satisfied though strangely benevolent voice. 'Now go and enjoy the party!"
"yes, you Wightiness!", Evisse replied brightly, and headed off, refraining from teasing him with allusions of him being at the Gaffer's home made brew, and thus, outstaying her welcome. The eerie voice had sounded a little slurred.

The fireworks were still dancing in the sky when she reached her own mug of delicious beer. Looking around she spotted Heren Istarion blowing rings of smoke and waved happily. She knew he wasn't going to scold her for being late, because he was in fact, himself late. And besides, nobody was much in the mood for scolding these days...Hobbits, Elves, Wizards and Orcs alike were humming 'I'll get by with a little help from the Downs', and Evisse joined in, learning the words as they came.

As she hummed and sipped her ale, she remembered she had not made a formal birthday wish, or left a mathom. And knowing that 'late is better than never', she carefully extracted from the folds of her dress a bright red coffee cup, slightly dented on a side. She gazed at it lovingly, before depositing it along with the rest.

Then she cleared her throat, climbed on a nearby tree stump for effect, and began:

We read Tolkien all night and we log on Barrows all day,
Live uns ask us 'don't you have bills to pay?'
But we got something they can't take away --
Our Barrow: obsession's here to stay,
So keep on posting, lock the real world outside,
You don't need nothing when the Barrow's online
Our dreams, our pride,
My keyboard clicks like crazy -- all night,
And there's a chance yours is too, and it's alright,
And I'll never let go, cause there's something I know deep inside....

She paused, and those who listened held their breath expectantly...To everybody's suprise but lasting delight, she took up Saucy's tune:

I'll get by with a little help from the Downs...
Everybody joined in, enthusiastically, while Evisse sighed in relief that nobody mocked her crazy birthday wish...

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Merisuwyniel listened appreciatively to the various songs and poems, especially enjoying those of The Saucepan Man. She did dearly love the gentle art of parody, especially when she recognized the original source. She wondered if she should try to write a poem or song, since the member of her company who was usually responsible for poetic efforts had not come to the party. However, she needed some inspiration, and the only thing that had inspired her to poetic effort so far was - a beautiful dress!

The very thing!, she thought, and hurried away to find Falafel with her baggage. Her gorgeous Elven gown from the hallowed boutiques of Topfloorien was in perfect condition, as always, and as she changed into the star-strewn creation in shades of blue, she had time to ponder poetically...

~*~

Merisu carried her high-heeled Manwëolos as she walked gracefully to the center of activity; an uneven field, trodden by myriads of feet, was better navigated Hobbit-style. When she reached the platform near the Barrow entrance, she slipped into the Elven sandals (Her bare feet had stayed immaculate, of course; Elven skin is dirt-repellant!), rising to an impressive height that commanded the attention of all guests nearby. Though there was none of what mortals call ´magic´in her sparkling raiment, some power dwelt in them that inspired her to raise her clear voice. The light of generations of Elven aristocracy shone in her eyes as she spoke:

Bee-Dubbya is a forum king,
and of the Downs its members sing:
A Tolkien realm that’s fair, flame-free,
With book discussions and RPG.

Some threads are long, debate is keen,
With shining reputations seen;
And countless quotes in lengthy posts
Do testify of well-read hosts.

Some threads are funny, more or less;
On others, answers must be guessed
To questions easy or riddles tough.
The posters there can’t get enough!

Some threads do deal with movie lore,
And whether the characters should have been more
Like they were in the book - more noble, less weak.
Could PJ have done better? These answers they seek.

Some threads are stories, told anew
In Shire and Rohan, Gondor too.
Many Middle-earth gamers gather there
To write the adventures their characters share.

Four years ago the forum began:
The Barrow, idea of one Tolkien fan,
Became a virtual meeting place
For many - some, even, face to face!

Long ago we surfed this way
and now we dwell here; dead, so to say,
For into darkness we fell, deep and far,
In the Barrow-Downs where the Ghost Princes are.

Lift your glasses now all, in a toast to him
Whose vision, though green, is never dim.
Happy Birthday, dear Downs, and enjoy being dead,
All you Skeletons, Wights, and especially our Head!

[Orofaniel]

The fireworks were beautiful, and all the guests looked at them with great satisfaction. The party had gone so fast, yes, even for Orofaniel and her friend Nova. They had met Firi, and together they had eaten and drank, while listening to Sausy's songs.

"It's really pretty, ain't it?" Orofaniel asked Nova and Firi. They both nodded but didn't say anything at once. They both seemed to busy and too enchanted by it; they just watched. "Mhm.." Nova said finally while smiling. "I love fireworks..." Firi added. "I've always loved it," she continued and looked down from the sky.

"Erm...I'm a bit afraid of 'em actually..." Orofaniel said seeming insecure. Firi burst into laughter and looked at Orofaniel wondering if she really was afraid of it. "What?" Oro asked her with great eyes. "You...you're scared of 'em?" Firi asked and giggled. "Well...um...only when they come too "close", if you know what I mean..." Orofaniel said and straightened her back. "You're such a wimp," Nova said suddenly, teasing her. Oro knew that Nova loved to tease her and ignored the last comment. "Pff..." She said and looked up again. “They are not going to eat you, you know…” Nova said and made a grimace.

Nova then started to laugh and Firi soon joined her. "Um..Nova, you're afraid too..." Orofaniel said mocking her. "Really?" Nova seemed surprised over her statement. "Um..sure.." Oro said and laughed.

"Anyone care for something more to drink?" Orofaniel asked the two others after a moment with silence.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Aman stared, horrified as she watched, as if in slow motion, the three hobbit children - two of Cami's children and that pesky Pimpernel - rugby-tackled the woman leading them to the ground. Hurrying over to Saraph, she put a hand forward to help the woman up. "I do apologise, they are rather-"

To her astonishment, the woman burst out into peals of laughter. The Innkeeper withdrew her hand slowly into her apron and looked around nervously, wondering perhaps if there was something wrong with the woman. Just as she was about to risk enquiring whether the woman was alright again (a chance to be sure - the last time had, it seemed, caused such hilarity...), when Saraph stood up, wiping tears of merriment from her eyes.

"A pint of your finest, good miss," she asked merrily. Aman decided not to question it, simply smiling politely and wondering again why she had decided to let loose the odds from all over the forum into her Inn. As she was drawing a pint though, Saraphim burst into more laughter. Aman was beginning to get rather paranoid now - what, what, what was she doing to cause such hilarity?!

"An elf! They thought I was an elf!"

Aman looked the woman up and down, taking in the flowing hair and, yes, those ears were very slightly pointed... "Well, they are quite common around here...?" she chanced.

Saraph simply gave another chortle, shaking her head and taking a sip of the pint. Aman smiled weakly and moved on as hastily as courtesy would allow, hoping to get away from this bizarre elf-that-wasn't.

~*~*~*~

Later on, Aman sat on one of the hammered-in posts outside the marquee, not far from the Present Tree, wiping her hands and watching the fireworks. Nearby, two wizards (the pair who Aman thought had devised the display) sat puffing on their pipes and commenting critically on the fireworks. She smiled across at them and Heren-Istarion tipped his hat to her politely. She grinned. So much for gruffness then...

The guards had gone in for a drink and were taking their time, gossiping near the entrance of the Inn and apparently trying to chat up Bethberry and Lush (although Aman couldn't say much for their chances - Lush looked truly stunning and the Innkeeper rather doubted there was a male in the place who hadn't noticed her. Even the orcs seemed to be taking a vague, confused interest). Behind her, in a bush, Aman heard something rustling and paused, not quite looking around, just waiting. The next firework went off, a particularly spectacular specimen, and in the applause that followed Aman heard frantic voices whispering.

"Go!"
"No, you go!"
"Pimpernel, now is not the time to get cold feet about this!"
"Whose getting cold feet? If you're so desperate, you go and put it there, Daisy Zaragamba!"
"Put it there yourself, dragon's breath!"
"Dragon's breath yerself!"

Aman whipped around, plunging a hand into the bush and grasping a collar. The bush emitted a high-pitched squeal and the collar squirmed under her grasp but the Innkeeper held on. Then she felt little teeth sink into her hand and let go with a yelp, withdrawing her hand sharply and jumping back, more in surprise than pain. Looking back at the bush just in time, Aman saw three small, dark figures emerge with the speed of a greased adder and high-tail it away. One yelled over it's shoulder as they sped away only to be silenced by another.

"Sorry, Miz! Didn't mean to-"
"Didn't mean to? You just bit the flamin' Innkeeper, Daisy! Oh, Mama is going to kill us...we're really for it now..."

[Witch_Queen]

With today being the birthday for Barrowdowns, I want to wish everyone a good day. May the next year be a good one for you and your loved ones.
Witch_Queen (Witchie)
After writing and posting her birthday greeting Witchie decided that the party was the best she had ever seen even though it seemed to her that the Party tree was full of wishes and greetings.Yeah its a birthday party and for a change I was invited. Yippey! She always wanted to have a party in a bucket but decided that this one will do just fine. Looking around she saw all her many friends. People she had come to know and love through-out her travels. Some people she hadn't even seen before but was glad to see new faces. At the sight of Bethberry Witchie had to go see her old friend. "Bethberry!" she cried at the top of her lungs. She was glad to find someone that she recognized right off the bat.

Witch_Queen proceeded to where Bethberry was at. Making sure not to interrupt someone elses conversation she kept her voice down a bit. "Hello old friend." Bethberry isn't that old. Oh just forget about it. This isn't a time to reconsider your words this is a time to celebrate. Witch_Queen was so happy to hear some one call her Witchie instead of being formal and saying Witch_Queen. She knew her arrival was late but she thought at least she could enjoy the last little bit of the party before going back to her little hole in the hill.!!!!Party!!!!

[Hama Of The Riddermark]

Hama rode up to the gates in his full general's livery, the flowing cloak blowing out behind him and an ornately hilted sword at his waist. He dismounted, drew his bow and fired an arrow at the board. It hit home, and a note unwound from it, wishing the Barrow Downs a happy Birthday.

He looked up into the sky just in time to see a firework go off, and he smiled broadly. These shireflok were indeed a great people, never in Rohan would such a show have been put on...

[Maeggaladiel]

Lady Maeggaladiel of the Four Eyes cursed softly to herself. She was positioned on the floor in a rather unladylike pose, groping under her bed with one hand for something that could not be found. Batting aside dust bunnies the size of small Wargs, she stretched her arm as far as it would reach. Cold floor and dirty socks greeted her searching fingertips.

Suddenly she felt something cold and hard. Grinning, she grasped it and pulled it out from under the bed. Her grin melted away. This was not what she was looking for.

“How did a chainsaw get under here?” she wondered to herself. Perhaps the dust bunnies were out to get her… She made a mental note to vacuum as soon as possible. She dove back under.

Suddenly her fingers brushed what felt like a wooden box. Maeggaladiel’s head lifted quickly—BANG—and hit the frame of her bed.

“D’oh!” she yelped. Rubbing the sore spot (it had better not leave a lump), Maeg drew the wooden box from its hiding place. It was coated in dust. Maeg blew a puff of air across its lid. A white cloud of dust rose from it and settled three feet away on her party dress, lying on a chair.

“I’ll deal with you later, Dust of Evil,” she told it. She hoped that the dust bunnies heard this and were shaking in their fuzzy slippers. Pull a chainsaw on her, would they?

The box was of a dark wood, with a brass lock. Maeg closed her eyes and placed her hand on the lid. Within this box lay her greatest treasure, hidden from all other eyes and protected by an ancient spell.

“Edro, edro.” She spoke the elvish word for “Open” in her most dramatic Arwen voice. The box remained locked.

“Edro!” she commanded, less Arwen and more angry this time. “Open, stupid box!” The box was motionless. Making sure no one was watching, Maeg got a hammer and pried open the lid.

Inside, nestled among red velvet and scraps of newspaper, lay the jewel of Maeg’s collection; a pair of rose-tinted glasses. Smiling, Maeg removed her old glasses and put on the extraordinary eyewear. Everything looked pinkish. She looked in the mirror.

“Maeggaladiel of the Four Eyes, Founder of the Nearsighted Elves Foundation, is ready to PAR-TEEEEE!!” She made a disco pose.
**
Maeg edged up to the Barrow Wight’s table of presents. It was uncomfortably close to a suspicious-looking mound of earth. She couldn’t help imagining a giant green hand reaching from the barrow as she slipped her gift (a “Saruman’s Magical Manicure Set for Men, Istari, and Other Things, Living or Dead”) on the table. Then she moved towards the banquet table as quickly as she could without tripping over the hem of her rose-colored party dress. There she placed a plate of her favorite pastries, Beorn Claws, and a pitcher of Miruvor-flavored Kool-Aid among the other foods.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” she sang. Fireworks exploded above her, and a variety of creatures, from an orc to a balrog to a man wearing saucepans singing songs, meandered about, talking. She looked around for someone she knew.

[Nerindel]

Nerindel remained long in the pleasant company of Mrs Bracegirdle, unable to drag herself away from the woman’s delightful anecdotes, her eyes had widened in astonishment as two hobbit children ran past, one of which unmistakably had brilliant bright green hair. An elven magic she recognised but knew was much frowned upon, as it served no relative purpose. Nevertheless, she did remark to Mrs Bracegirdle that the child’s mother would now not have a hard time spotting her daughter in the crowd.

“Unless of course she finds herself a good bush to hide in, of which in the Shire there are many.” Hilde had replied with a laugh of her own. “I only hope that it is not permanent, I do not know if the good hobbits of the Shire could get used to such an outlandish change, next thing you know they‘ll all be wanting it, can you just imagine it a rainbow of tiny bobbin heads running thought the streets!”

Nerindel laughed at the sudden image of multicolour curly heads bouncing along the four farthings shocking the quiet peaceful folks of the shire, “oh the upset!” she laughed. “But do not fear my friend like all magic it fades with the passage of time, a day perhaps two and the child hair will be as it once was.”

“Well I only hope that none of my own children get the same idea!”

“Well at least I am here to fix such a catastrophe should it could about .” she laughed, then the two sat back and stared in awe a wonderful display of fireworks that light up the evening sky.

[Lyta_Underhill]

Lyta Underhill had great need of escape, although she lived in what she considered the most beautiful place in all of Middle Earth, a rather vast expanse past the Withywindle, where the Barrow-wight was much known and much-avoided. However, the rumors had reached Lyta's ears through the mouths of frogs and one Tom Bombadil that time, old restraints and old rules were to be broken for a celebration feast, the likes of which has not previously been seen in all of Eriador. She decided to join in honoring the Barrow-wight, for in all her years living in a rather dangerous place, he had never caused her any distress, and in fact, did her great service by keeping out random wanderers by reputation alone!

She was ready long before, having prepared a large batch of honeysuckle wine for gift and consciousness enhancement purposes. A long ago trip to Fangorn Forest had provided her with the crucial ingredient. Months it sat at the ready; days it hung on in large skins to her trusty wagon, the Internet. Somehow, she managed to skew her path slightly east on her way to this long awaited party and ended up torn and ragged from the pathless paths of the Forest next to the Green Hills. Therefore, thanks to the kindness and keen eyes of many Tooks down in Tookland, Lyta was saved from her own bad sense of direction. (She was also relieved of a good bit of her burden by the oh-so helpful Tooks). Thus, it came to be that Lyta arrived very late, with a battered wagon drawn by a scratched up (but well-tended!) pony and a rag-tag, loudly singing group of Tooks, none of whom could remember their own or anyone else's names, and all of whom seemed a bit overtall for hobbits. Lyta sang as well, but quietly, as she was very tired. A fair store of Fangorn-honeysuckle wine remained, but she had not the strength to remove it from the wagon. (Many of the Took lads had no problem with this, however!). She sat down on the edge of the party field at last, sprawled at the feet of her black and white spotted pony, herself a vision of mudstained splendor in a once-white dress shot with gold. Her crown of honeysuckle still clung to her tangled brown hair and scented the air, only partially covering the signs of her long and wavering journey through thick forested lands. "I'm finally here..." she croaked and passed out at the feet of her pony, a cup in her hand. A random drunken Took relieved her of the cup almost instantaneously.

Cheers!
Lyta

[Bêthberry]

Bêthberry, her arm draped over her long lost twin brother Iadarion's shoulder--or was it she who was long lost? who knew what that right interpretation was?-- had caught Aman's eye and noted the merriment in it at the orc's slavering over Lush. He really did not realise that here was, absolutely without question, a True Anti-Archetype, if only they could have interpreted her right. But there you have it. Orcs always doomed to be wrong.

And Bethberry had been so very pleased to see Witchie appear even at the eleventh hour of the party, so to speak. She moved to make room for Witchie so everyone could see the wonderful fireworks. Later she would offer her song of praise and thanks to the Barrow Wight but for now she was happy to enjoy the memory of the experience if not the analysis of SaucepanMan's wonderful ditties. And, yes, Bethberry did recognise the originals there, but she was a tad confused as to whether she remembered them at the time of Saucy's rendition or in restrospect. She gave up as she did not wish to break the spell of the moment. or the encorsellant.

It was difficult to appreciate the fireworks, however, much she wanted to recognise Others here, for she found herself rather too close to the firey balrog Mr. Hedgethistle, whose light and fire quite flared at times and out shone the fireworks themselves, expertly prepared by Piosenniel, Ancalimon and HerenIstarion. She coughed to clear her throat and raised her hands to cover her eyes as she turned to towards the flashing space of nothingness with the booming voice. She wondered what he might have to say to her, a denisen of Middle earth almost as old as he.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim was delighted to find himself standing next to the ancient and reverend figure of Bêthberry. It had been many an Age since they had spoken face to face – in fact, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure that they had ever really met face to face (if he even had a face…).

Shrugging his wings(?) against the doubt and uncertainty that was now a part of his existence, Fordim bowed deeply to the reverend woman, and asked if she were enjoying the fireworks. She returned his bow with an elegant curtsy, but when she arose her face was one of deep meditation. “To be honest,” she said slowly, “I’m not sure how I feel about the fireworks. I mean, they are pretty, but the implications of my pleasure – or, rather, my implication into a network of desire, should I validate them through an interpretative act, well, it’s rather a tricky moment don’t you agree?”

Fordim’s own brow furrowed (if he even had a brow) and his wings(?) rustled slightly. “Yes yes,” he replied slowly, “I do understand what you are saying. I myself have been attempting to determine whether the fireworks are ‘merely’ pleasurable or if they are connected to me by some more necessary means. I mean, they are from the West, after all, so are they more real than the fireworks I’ve seen in this Midde-earth, or do they share the same reality as this realm?”

Bêthberry shook her wise head and began to quote from some learned men and women of old with whom Fordim had but a passing acquaintance. He looked polite and nodded in what he hoped were the right places. Bethberry saw that she was losing him and gave him a grandmotherly smile, patting his hand (very) lightly. “Oh well,” she said, “I suppose, in the end, it doesn’t really matter…does it?”

“I certainly hope not,” Fordim replied, noncommittally. Bethberry saw the book in Fordim’s vast shadowy ‘hand’ – The Lord of the Rings.

“Oh,” she said with delight, “Do you like that book?”

Fordim grinned and a renewed flame ran up his back with pleasure. “Oh yes, very much indeed. It’s positively enchanting.”

“Well, that’s good,” she replied, and they both turned to watch the fireworks.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Cami had been enjoying herself immensely at the party. Merimac and the older boys had sent their last minute regrets, while the younger trio had managed to run off searching for fun on their own. For the rest of the afternoon and evening, she had been free to wander, waving her hand in greeting to a number of friends, some of whom she'd known for years and others she'd recently met.

Bethberry had been there and also Witchie . The latter, she conjectured, must have earned some time off from Marcho on the arduous march they were making towards Michel Delving. Cami was especially pleased to see Lyta Underhill pulling up with a whole passel of Tooks in tow. For some time, she had been coaxing Lyta to step into the Green Dragon and have a flagon of ale. Lyta had indeed made it to the Shire, but had apparently done a bit of tippling on the road even prior to her arrival at the party field! Even the less reputable in the crowd such as the Orc and Balrog, both of whom looked vaguely familiar from one tale or another, had been on their best behavior.

Cami beamed happily as her three children came bounding up; Daisy and Rory were talking so quickly that she could barely understand a word they were saying, "Oh, Ima, it was all so scary! We were just looking at it. We really were! And the great men guarding the table wouldn't let us put it back. We were afraid the Green Man would eat us, and then a giant Elf nearly put us in jail, but Ancalimon came and rescued us from a tree!"

Cami could not understand a word of this. Like most good mothers, Cami assumed her children were taking everyday happenings and embroidering them a bit to make an interesting presentation for her personal benefit. She patted Rory's curly tresses and confided, "That's nice dears. I'm glad you had fun. Now you did behave, didn't you? Just like I said?"

Daisy turned innocent eyes up towards her mother and smiled. "For sure, Ima, just like you said." Rory eagerly nodded his head.

At the exact moment of that exchange, Aman happened to stroll by. Cami ran over to extend her greetings, but by the time she got there she found the Innkeeper keeling over in laughter, totally unable to respond.

Was it something I did or said? Cami wondered, as she watched Aman go off in the distance, holding her sides to keep from splitting. Cami noticed that one of the Innkeeper's hands was apparently banadaged; she wondered what misfortune had befallen her on this festive night.

[piosenniel]

It was at this point that a small stray rocket, launched from an unfortunately overturned wine bottle, found its way hissing and zinging toward the ancient pair as they perused the leaves of a mildly scorched book.

To the dark, smoky Flame-of-Udun boy it was naught but a small fiery midge to be flicked away with a flaming thump of finger and thumb. But as misfortune would have it, a stray ember or two found purchase on the cloth of Bethberry's gown. And she swatted at then to put them out.

The Hobbiton brigade of the Volunteer Fire Department ran lickety-split to throw a bucket of water on the burning lady - her own efforts inneffective in the face of Fordim's attempt to help her with swats from his own flaming hands.

'Stand back, if you please Master Balrog!' cried Hamfast Greenburrow. 'You're turning our efforts all to steam!' The embers were put out at last - the damage minimal.

Hamfast, as he had been directed, followed the scorched landing path of the rocket and brought it back to Pio.

'It's one of those Acme Absolute Rockets,' said the Elf, peering closely at the charred cylinder. 'On of those that reflect well against the dark night sky.'

'Shouldn't a' really burned her then, should it?' commented Hamfast, who was well known at the Green Dragon for his deep thinking, deep pockets, and the ability to hold his ale.

'Shouldn't have burned her?' echoed Pio, waving the still smoking missile under the Hobbit's nose.

'All smoke and mirrors it is,' said Hamfast, taking hold of the errant rocket. 'It's like this, Mistress Piosenniel . . .'

But before he could enlighten her, the cry of 'Buckets Here!' rang out and he scrambled off to a a nearby forsythia into which one of the candle lanterns from an overhanging tree had dropped . . . leaving Pio to wonder what he had meant by his metaphor . . .

[Ainaserkewen]

Knowing full well the lateness of this partygoer to be…he thought it would be wasteful to show up discreetly. So when the sun finally set on the seemingly endless day, and the fireworks exploded in the mess of blue and black sky, was the time when our latecomer decided it was finally time to try out…er, arrive at this event.

Never before had such a sound been heard in the quiet hills of the west. All the guests who had previously arrived could identify something familiar in the far off music that could be heard. But there was something strangely¾ well, strange.

“Is that a cat?” Someone’s voice rose above the mess of sounds that competed with the light display.

However, he was only 1 in 30 right. Unimaginable, crazy, absurd; some said. Rolling up, over the hill came a carriage. Nothing unusual about the carriage itself, though it looked quite expensive. But what was drawing the carriage. Not a horse, or pony, but dozens of cats! Black cats, orange tabbies, white ones, and brown ones. The lot were all different.

“Is there no end!?” Another voice called.

The whole vehicle, along with the cats’ steps vibrated with the unmistakable sound of “A shortcut to Mushrooms” from the Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack playing at full volume, bass pounding. A few guests nodded in agreement with the music selection and wondered who in Middle-Earth had a cat-drawn carriage.

Who indeed, was this stranger who stepped from the now still coach? Tall he stood, and stocky in an unusually coloured floor-length trench coat. Hardly Middle-Earth fashion. But something didn’t seem right. This man (for he so obviously was) seemed too tall, especially when he crossed the gate and the others saw his cheery face. He looked like a Hobbit! His face was round, brown and creased, but he was at least seven feet tall! Who in the wide-world-known was this!?

He smiled at all who looked but gave no name except “Mr. Big”. His walk was odd as he made his way through the crowds towards the food table, pausing briefly to catch his balance. People noticed his feet were bare and hairy, like a Hobbit’s should be. Also, he seemed to bend in odd places when he swayed, and shuffled a lot. He could barely walk. Some murmured that he must have gotten into his own supply of ale before he arrived.

“Walk straight!” Came a loud whisper. The stranger looked up in alarm to see if anyone had heard.

“If we had practiced this…” he muttered under his breath, and his odd hat.

“Excuse me?” The hobbit closest to him asked, figuring that this tall, foreboding character was addressing him.

The man looked surprised. “No, sorry, just talking to myself.” Then came a sound of impact and a grown from the man’s middle region.

“What was that?” The Hobbit asked.

“Nothing….just my uh…stomach growling. I need some food.”

And with that, he stumbled off into the grass, tripped and fell. All were surprised in what they saw. The trench coat had unbuttoned and come apart and instead of just one falling, three fell out of the coat when they toppled. Three Hobbits, all looking very red and embarrassed.

“Uh…hello all.” They said nervously in chorus.

[Arestevana]

“Of course you won’t be a bother!” Arestevana told Kitanna. “It will be delightful to talk.” At that moment Symestreem handed them a piece of paper. Scanning the paper quickly over Kitanna’s shoulder, Arestevana chose to answer the last question first. “I’m not sure if I can read lips,” she said. “But I am willing to give it a try.” She added, smiling.

Symestreem smiled back, then, noticing the band that had just begun to play, she pointed, mouthing: music! The trio hurried over to be closer to the band. As they walked, they discussed various things, and Arestevana responded to the other question Symestreem had posed: the one about the nature of her instrument. “It is called a dulcimer; it was made in Rohan by a minstrel of King Eomer.” She said. They had reached the edge of a crowd gathered around the band, and they listened in delight as the buoyant music made the air around them tremble.

When the music performance drew to a close, the crowd began to move to another part of the field, where a fireworks display had begun. Arestevana remained where she was, wondering what her new acquaintances would choose to do. It had been wonderful talking to them, and she was reluctant to part company just yet. Also, it seemed as if one of the others was about to speak. She turned to see who it was, listening attentively.

[Novnarwen]

Nova's eyes lit up as she saw the beautiful fireworks. Firi was just as caught up in the whole event as herself, and they kept their eyes at the dark sky. Oro, who claimed to be afraid, asked them if she should get them some drinks. They waved her off, Nova suggesting non-alcohol, since she was underage. Oro laughed. "Seriously, no alcohol, no fun!" she said, giggling. Nova heard the irony and waved her off once more, before turning her attention to the fireworks again.

As her neck was starting to get stiff by the whole 'look-up-into-the-sky-thing', Nova turned to Firi.

"It's fantastic, isn't it?" Nova exclaimed. Firi nodded. "My neck is stiff, though," Nova added with a grimace. Firi laughed. "Mine too."

"Where is Oro?"

Nova suddenly remembered that Oro had gone for a drink, but she hadn't returned. Maybe she was too afraid to come back, Nova thought, soon realising how sick that really was. She shook her head, thinking.

"Maybe she ran into someone," Firi suggested, after a while.

"That's possible . . . " Nova muttered. "But who?"

"I dunno. Someone she knows?!" Firi said.

"Oh, right. Someone she knows."

They settled down on a bench, not far away. Nova tried to get a glimpse of Oro, but she couldn't see her anywhere. It was quite dark though, so Nova stopped putting her effort in trying to find her friend. Nova glanced over at the Party Tree. When she thought about it, it had been quite brutal to nail Birthday Greetings into the tree. What kind of Greeting was that:' Happy Birthday, here is a note, which I am going to nail to your trunk?' Poor tree, it wasn't his or hers birthday; it was the Barrow downs' Birthday, but still the Tree was the one getting nailed. Nova realised that this too was a sick thought. What was wrong with her?

"So, did you nail a Birthday Greeting at the Tree?" Nova asked, coughing when she said the word 'nail'.

Nova didn't hear Firi's answer, as something else grabbed her attention. There, just a few paces away, was Orofaniel with drinks and . . . . . HER MUSHROOMS! Nova gasped, taking her hand to her mouth. "NOOO!!" she shrieked, pulling herself up from the bench. In slow-motion she ran, with huge steps, towards her best friend. Orofaniel, who was taken by surprise to see her friend coming straight at her, stood with her mouth open; drinks in both hands and about to push the mushroom into her mouth, helping herself with one of her hands of which she also held a drink.

"Doooooooooooon't!" Nova shouted.

Nova cast herself in front of Orofaniel, grabbing the mushroom (of which she only got the half, since Orofaniel already had it halfway down her throat). Orofaniel lost her balance and fell to the ground and landed just beside Nova.

"What do you think you are doing?" Orofaniel exclaimed, examining her Elven Cloak. Luckily, she hadn't spilled the liquid on her Cloak. Nova breathed heavily.

"The MUSHROOM!" Nova said, being hushed at by Firi, who had arrived. Nova lowered her voice.

"Spit it out!" she ordered.

"No!" Oro said stubbornly, rising.

"I'm warning you! It's for your own good!"

"HA! You're just jealous I didn't get you a mushroom!"

Firi grew red.

"Just do as I say!" Nova ordered, not being able to control her temperament.

"I won't . . I'm not a child. I eat what I want to eat, and I shouldn’t ask you to approve of it first," Oro said, offensively.

"Okay, listen to me! It's MY MUSHROOM!"

"HA! Just what I thought. It's mine. I brought it, and I eat it," she said, still having the mushroom in her mouth, not certain whether to swallow or not.

"No, I mean it! It's MY mushroom! I made 'em," Nova said, giving Orofaniel an evil stare.

"Oh, is it?"

Nova nodded.

"Oh MY! Why didn't you say so?" Oro made a grimace, showing how displeased she was by the fact that Nova had ‘prepared’ mushrooms and brought it to the party. She looked innocently at Nova before turning away, spitting it out.

"That was close," Nova said, sighing.

"You should have put a warning up. And, you can't bring those things to parties. People aren't supposed to get HURT!"

Nova turned reddish, trying to avoid Orofaniel's piercing look.

"I had to bring something."

" . . . . .But MUSHROOMS Nova! Everyone eats them. You could have damaged these people for live, maybe even taken their lives!"


Firi giggled.

" . . . Mushrooms . . . " Orofaniel muttered, as they decided to get some new drinks.

[Orofaniel]

When Orofaniel finally had gotten to her feet and offered the others a drink, as she'd already done earlier, she started to examine her elven cloak once again. "Why did you have to attack me like that?" Orofaniel asked Nova, when she first looked up. "Um..Did I? I mean, attack you?" Nova asked innocently. "Yeah, you did," Orofaniel answered, now looking down on her cloak again. Luckily it was undamaged, but the thought of it made her shiver. What if there had been a hole in it? She didn't even dear think about it.

"Why couldn't I taste the mushroom?" Oro asked, even though she knew that Nova had already defended her actions, which seemed reasonable at some point. Nova denying Oro mushrooms, however, wasn't actually a nice thing to do. "I already told you," Nova said and grabbed a drink as they now had reached the table where they served all sorts of drinks. "Yeah, but, you tasted my cookies!" Orofaniel exclaimed, even though she knew that cookies were quite different from mushrooms.

It was if as Nova read her thoughts; "Cookies are way different, Oro, and you know that," She replied. Firondoiel that were still with them nodded. "Your cookies were good, Oro," She said and smiled. "When it comes to Nova's mushrooms...it's a whole another dimension," She said and looked at Nova.

"Alright, I get it.." Orofaniel said and smiled. "Yuo wanted to protect me from your mushrooms because you love me..and you want me alive," Orofaniel said teasingly. "Sure," Nova replied with the slight of sarcasm. Firi just giggled.

The elven cloak hadn't been damaged at least, which was a good thing. While they seated with their drinks, Oro thought about the whole scene. Nova had looked like Gollum there for a minute; running towards her, screaming that it was her mushroom. The similarities with "My Precious" were extreme, or so Orofaniel thought at the moment. She looked over at Nova, who was now paying attention to one of the stages; she looked awfully a lot like Gollum as well; she had those big eyes, and...um.., yes, little hair on her head, (Maybe that was a bit drastic). She was very skinny, just like Gollum. Orofaniel shuddered, but sipped her drink and enjoyed it to the fullest.

[Firondoiel]

Firi was greatly enjoying her conversation and the fireworks with Oro and Nova. The night sky was filled with the bright and beautiful colours of the spectacular extravaganza. Cheers filled the air after each one sailed up then suddenly exploded.

After rubbing her neck, Firi turned to her friends, who were still standing by the mushrooms, and said, “Alas, I must leave you now and return to my group. Please come by if you get a chance!” With that she gave them both a hug and hurried back towards the pavilion. She stopped on the way to put a small parcel for the Barrow-Wight on the table with all the others.

“There you are!” cried Ala when she caught sight of Firi. “We wondered where you had gotten yourself to.”

“I spent some time with two dear friends but have now returned to your excellent, dear, and lofty company.” Replied Firi with a grin.

“Very kind of you.” Said Elbie, smiling as well. Firi laughed and sat down next to Leo. “Where are Keld and Éowyn?” she asked.

“Keld left awhile ago to put her best wishes on the Party Tree and Éowyn wandered off somewhere.” Said Ala.

“I do hope they return soon.” Said Firi, looking down while everyone else was looking up at the fireworks. Perhaps she would watch them some more later after her neck stopped hurting.

[Imladris]

I snapped my fingers and looked hastily into my basket. Ah yes, the note was still there. I heaved a sigh of relief and began to wade through the people to the big Party Tree. Unfolding the note, I read it through once, just to make sure it didn't have any embarrassing typos -- I mean, misspelled words in it.

Dear Barrow-wight Sir!

I would like to thank you for this most excellent, most bodacious website. The mods are great, the discussions get deep... So three cheers for the most triumphant Tolkien website ever!

So I leave this party with these parting words,

Be excellent to each other and party on, **** [Censored for an unseemly show of modern slang.]

I glowered as the starred censored markings began to replace my original word, and then pointed surreptitiously to my signature.

[symestreem]

Symestreem listened as Arestevana explained about her instrument, seemingly called a dulcimer. Then the band played, and she applauded with the others. When she heard the cheering, a shadow crossed her face, but then she brightened, scribbled something on a note and threw it on stage. None of the band members saw it, but when it was found by the cleaning crew the next day they were mystified by a note simply reading: Yea!!!!!!!!.
She jumped as fireworks started exploding over the field, then relaxed as she recognized them. We had those back home once, she scrawled. The consensus among the group seemed to be to stay where they were, which was fine with her. We have a good view from here anyway, she mouthed slowly and carefully. Then she wrote it on a piece of paper to be safe.
They were right next to the buffet tables, and the temptation was too great. After perusing the comestibles, she snagged a pizza to share with the others, hoping they didn't mind garlic. The mute fiddler returned to her seat as a particularly vibrant firework exploded and Kitanna started to speak.

[Kransha]

A lot happened in the next few moments, one of those happenings being the shock and awe inspired by a misfired rocket, one of the many sparkling beauties that illuminated the sky just a few moments prior. Kransha had been conversing politely with Roa while his Balrog counterpart engaged in discourse with Bethberry, another renowned figure at the party. Kransha, already a bit unsettled by the rocket, discontinued his conversation as he eyed a gleaming shard of sterling silver that was his pocket watch. He lifted it by a delicate, precisely forged chain and eyed the ticking, rhythmically moving hands of the thing, which rotated around a tiny picture of the Eye of Sauron (standard issue pocket watch for Gorgoroth Community Serviceorcs). He bit his lip nervously and kept taking nervous glances at the far off gates of the Party Field,

“Is something troubling you, Kransha?” bellowed Fordim, not meaning to bellow but bellowing anyway.

“Fordim, something burdens me.” Replied Kransha, not looking at his quizzical friend and instead keeping his orc gaze fixed, “I have a bit of a secret which I’m not to wont to reveal, much to my shame. But, as that time draws near, I think I must do just that. By the Eye, Fordim, I really must tell someone. I need to find someone of authority. If you’ll excuse me.”

Before either Fordim or Roa could say anything, the well-postured orc headed off towards the most authoritative figure he could see, one of the people in charge, as far as he knew, Piosenniel. She was obviously busy, but he’d expected that. As much as his problem seemed trivial, he really felt it necessary to make it clear that there was not going to be a sudden incursion into the Shire by Sauron’s leftover hordes. Nervously and carefully, he gained the elf’s attention with a curt tug to the sleeve.

“Mistress Piosenniel, ma’am, forgive the disturbance, but there’s something I really need to get off my chest…or back…or what you will.”

“You should know, madam…Yes, you really should know…After I took in these festivities, it came to my attention that I was the only member of my demographic present at this little gala, so I took the liberty of extending a few invitations…invitations to members of that demographic…mine, that is…Point in fact, they should be coming along any time now, since they remarked to me that they’d be here roughly 13 hours and 26 minutes ago, have a record of being exactly 13 hours and 28 minutes late…as orcs always are. I really do hope the Wight doesn’t mind the presence of my cousins (you see, I’m not entirely sure they are my cousins, but you can never tell). It’s just a few orcs…20 or so, perhaps…I’ll keep them from getting in the way, I assure you. In fact, I’ve heard that the great Wight has lost one of the mathoms presented him…I’m sure my cousins would jump at the opportunity to help you with the finding of the responsible knave or knavette…They have very good noses for that sort of thing. If you wish, or the Wight wishes, I will send them on their merry way…I admit, I have not the courage to face him, the Barrow Wight, that is. Some very bad rumors about our friend populate the Cirith Ungol gossip column. I would have addressed him personally, but…well, you know.”

As if on cue, a sound could be heard in the distance. Though muffled by crowd noises, it was very distinct, and sounded like a mixture of metallic screeching, raucous laughter, and Kransha’s all-too-familiar belching. Flitting in shadowy form through the crowd, dark figures in a huddled mass could be seen scurrying mysteriously past some cowering and/or cringing Halflings. Kransha sighed and took a full breath, which echoed in his orc gizzard, as he saw the other uruks putter along toward him and Piosenniel.

“Oh yes, that’ll be them right now.”

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Hilde tried to imagine her sweet children’s hair all the luminous colors of the fireworks she watched, brilliant reds, and greens, cool blues and crackling gold. They might look quite nice as long as it wasn’t permanent, she thought yawning. Good to know though, that there were folk about who could undo such things incase a hobbit’s hair proved a more stubborn type.

“I do apologize,” Hilde said. “It has been a long day and the fresh air and good food it seems has taken its toll. No reflection on your delightful company! You see my husband has nodded off already,” she said pointing to a stocky hobbit asleep propped up by an even stouter tree, and snoring rather loudly.

“Ah! What is happening over there?” Nerindel said turning to face up hill, as her keen eyes followed a misfired rocket. A small burst of flame was followed by overwhelming shadow and more fire, until Hilde saw the stalwart SVF (the heroes of Hobbiton) arrive with buckets of water to douse the blaze. “If I am not mistaken there is a Balrog on The Hill!” the elf observed. Both women shuttered.

“You never know who might show up at these parties with open invitations, now do you!” Hilde remarked. “Especially one where the guest of honor hold such a reputation.” she said with a wink.

[Kitanna]

"Nothing like garlic to chase the blues away." Kitanna joked taking the pizza fromSymestreem. She munched silently and watched the fireworks with Symestreem and Arestevana.

After finished her bit of pizza Kitanna turned to the other two smily broadly. "I always loved fireworks." She stated, looking up as another one was set off. "There's something about them that seems to magical."

Kitanna looked back at Symestreem and Arestevana. "So, Arestevana you are from Rohan? I was born and raised there myself, lovely country." Kitanna sighed and fell silent for a moment. "And you, Symestream, are you a musician?"

[Orual]

"I've been all right," Orual said, running her hands absently through her hair. They came away a splotchy red, and she groaned. Curse all cheap temporary hair colour! Nuranar leaned over to look at the newly crimson hands and laughed.

"Henna?" she asked.

"Henna," Orual replied miserably. She looked up at her friend and finally cracked a smile. "I was too cheap and too scared to go with the permanent stuff. I thought it might be nice to have red hair for the party. I even used the sealant...but it didn't take, I can only assume."

She looked around and surrepitously wiped her hands on the seat of her breeches, then pulled her tunic over it. When she looked up, quite pleased with herself, Nuranar was glancing at her with one eyebrow raised. Orual shrugged innocently. "What?"

[Ithaeliel]

"Excuse me... sir, may I try a half-pint of sweet ale, please? I've never tried it before."

The bartender looked up from what he was doing with a shocked expression. "Well, bless me buttons, Lady, whatever have you been doing your whole life? I mean, well... you're an elf! You've had quite a while to try ale before now, that you have!"

Ithaeliel sighed deeply. "Rather, I'm younger than you may seem to realize, sir. I am only sixty-three years of age; I've not yet the wisdom or the graces of most other elves you may know. I've only drank miruvor before, and there'll be none of that in the Shire, to be sure."

"Miruvor?" the bartender passed Ith her half-pint. "I've barely heard of it. It's elf-wine, isn't it? What's it made of?"

"I've no idea," Ithaeliel replied gloomily before taking a rather undainty swig of ale. She licked the foam off her lips thoughtfully. "This is good stuff, sir. I commend you and those who made it."

"Why, thank ye, m'lady. Do come back for another!" the bartender called as Ithaeliel finished off the glass and went to watch the fireworks spectular.

The entire crowd gasped with awe and glee as a blue cracker shot off into the sky, exploding into thousands of individual blue lights and creating the most starry sky that ever they had seen before bursting and whistling joyfully, showering the guests with blue sparks.

Ithaeliel was laughing amazedly at the fantastic display before she heard a familiar voice shouting nearby. She turned around to see none other than...

"Amanaduial!" Ith cried out as she ran to greet her old friend. "Aman!"

The innkeeper turned around, wringing one hand for some reason and looking irritated. She smiled a little when she saw Ithaeliel. "Oh, hello, Ith! Good to see you!"

Ithaeliel smiled back. "How are things faring for you, dear?"

Aman scowled. "Busy. I've just been looking after some hobbit children... causing quite a lot of mischief, they are. One even bit my hand a minute ago. Goodness, though, they ran off too quickly for me to do a thing!"

"Kids these days..." Ith shook her head in disdain. "Aren't the fireworks wonderful tonight? I never knew Mithrandir could put on such a display!"

[Arestevana]

“So, Arestevana you are from Rohan? I was born and raised there myself, lovely country.” Arestevana winced as Kitanna spoke. Luckily, she was spared answering a moment as a second question was directed towards Symestreem. Remembering Kitanna’s earlier observation, Areste took a bite of pizza, wincing as the strong garlic flavor overcame her. It did allay her melancholy, though, at least temporarily. She swallowed and turned her mind to a suitable reply.

“I was born and raised in Rohan, yes,” she said. “Though, my parents dwelt for most of their lives in Rivendell, the haven of our people.” She stumbled in the confused silence elicited by this statement, and quickly filled her mouth with another bite of pizza. Was it truly that uncommon for an elf to be raised by mortals? “Please, tell us more about yourself, Symestreem,” said Arestevana hurriedly. “As Kitanna asked, are you a musician?”

[symestreem]

Symestreem had long ago learned one of the advantages of being mute: you didn't have to chew your food before you talked. She took another bite of pizza and wrote,
Yes, I carry the fiddle with me but I also play the pipe and the accordian. I once played something called a 'piano', but I've never seen another one. Have either of you ever heard of it?
While they read this, she went to go grab more pizza. A short young woman was standing by the tables, apparently having a pizza-eating contest with herself. On a hunch, symestreem tapped the woman on the shoulder.
Excuse me, she wrote, but are you Eowyn Skywalker? I've been looking for you. Someone told me you knew songs from another galaxy. Then she added, You can come sit with us if you want, but I'm not sure if we'd be more engaging company than the pizza. Which is quite good, by the way. Then she handed the note to Eowyn Skywalker with a smile and a wave and headed back to her nearby table (with more pizza, of course, and some drinks that she snagged along the way!)

[Nerindel]

The two women the elf and the hobbit shared a spirited laugh, which halted abruptly at the sight that presented itself before them. For several moment Nerindel just sat and stared her eyes wide and her mouth hung open in silent disbelief, As a rabble of orc's pushed their way through the crowded party field their mere presence terrifying local's and guests alike.

Suddenly Nerindel's ancient hatred set in and her eyes narrowed as she reached for her sword, which was of course, not there as this was a party and Léspheria and the other elves had informed her that there would be no need for 'orqudagnir', her elvish long sword on this occasion.

"Are you alright my dear?" Hilde's concerned voice broke her intent watch of the newcomer briefly. "No Mrs Bracegridle, I fear I'm not. Like you said, You never know who might show up at these parties with open invitations and these new guests stir a great unrest in my heart." her fey words ended as she again turned her almond eyes suspiciously on the orcish rabble, who fast approached the elven woman with the red hair.

"I'm sure what ever it is; his wrightness and the Elven host Pio will take care of it." Hilde whispered soothingly, trying to elate the elven woman’s growing unrest.

"Perhaps you are right my friend, but my people and theirs have much grievances and I shall not find solace until I know there will be no trouble, if you will excuse me I will return as soon as my fears are rested."

With that, she rose and made her way to where Pio stood, surrounded by a host of orcs.

"Amin dele ten'sen, ye nai na rashwe!" (I am worried about them there may be trouble!) she whispered as she silently came up beside the elven host, she may not be armed but it did not make her any less dangerous should trouble erupt.

[piosenniel]

The minute the word demographic had fallen from the ill-shaped lips of Kransha, a curious image appeared in Pio’s mind. And all the incongruities of the Orc’s speech and demeanor fell into place. Elessar had gone through with his plans to build a second set of governmental offices on the old site of Barad-dûr!

Dress this Orc and his Uruk compatriots in plain grey tunics, stick a quill in one misshapen hand and a ream of vellum in the other and you’ve solved the problem of what to do with the left-over spawn of Shadow. Once trained as crunchers of Men and Elves, now they worked under the flickering fluöréscent lamplight in the cavernous halls of the great grey granite building . . . continuing in what they had been trained so well to do, though in a different manner. They still ‘crunched’ . . . but now it was numbers . . . myriads of numbers . . . and this demographics she recalled had been one of the King’s buzzwords when he’d talked about his plans.

His kingdom was large, she had heard him say at one of the parties she’d attended in Minas Tirith. Large and expensive; his Ministry of Treasury was stretched thin already. A new Ministry was needed to keep the coffers filled, the government running smoothly . . .

Now what was that name . . . yes, there it was . . . strange words on the tip of her tongue . . . Ministry of Cênsusántaxâtion . . . a bit Orcish sounding to her ears . . .

Best not to offend any possible emissaries from the High King, she thought, sighing at the sound of approaching belches and flatus . . .

‘Well, now Kransha, this is a party. And all are most welcome. Just let me not see any of you doing any ‘work’ while you are here. Relax! Enjoy yourselves! Show your compatriots round to the food and drink tables.’ She leaned in close to him, pleasantly surprised by the fresh minty smell of his breath. ‘You might want to make sure they eat al fresco, if you would. Out in the open is preferable . . . where the ventilation is adequate to their needs . . .’

. . . and ours! she thought to herself.

[Arestevana]

A piano? Arestevana re-read the note, puzzling over it. She had heard both the pipe and the accordion played in the halls of Edoras, and was quite impressed by Symestreem’s musical history. But what in Arda was a piano? It did sound a bit familiar, a feeling reminiscent of Déjà vu, but she was quite certain she had never seen or heard of such a thing.

Symestreem had gone to find more pizza, and Kitanna was still puzzling over the note. When the former reappeared with drinks, Arestevana replied apologetically, “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of a piano before. What is it?” Waiting as the fiddler paused to write another note, Arestevana reached for a glass. She took a sip: wine. Regretfully, she set the glass down again. The pizza had made her thirsty, but she had a strange feeling that she shouldn’t drink the tempting concoction. It probably had something to do with the kind but firm bringing-up she’d received from her foster parents.

Sighing, Arestevana leaned over to read the note Symestreem was completing. She suddenly realized how tired she was. Even arriving late, she hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours, if her exhaustion was any measure. Shaking off the subtle nagging of her conscience, she took another gulp of wine. It would keep her awake, and she really didn’t wish to miss the last hours of the celebration.

[Kitanna]

Kitanna read Symestreem's note. A piano? Sounded familiar, but then again she couldn't be quite sure. She would have to remember it just incase she ever came across one on her travels.

Kitanna felt as though she had offended Arestevana by mentioning Rohan. So when Symestreem was up getting more pizza Kitanna took the moment to apoligize. "I am sorry if my speaking of Rohan offended you or upset you in any way." She paused a moment thinking of something to add. "But parents from Rivendell? I'd like to claim I have been there before, but that would be one huge lie."

Symestreem returned with more pizza. Kitanna couldn't say she really liked the stuff, but she was fond of the garlic on it. "You really shouldn't eat so much of that Symestreem."

[symestreem]

She tried to remember all the details of the piano as she sketched it and wrote a description.
It has hammers... and strings... she added the legs to her drawing. They have these things called keys, and you play one, or two, or three, and the hammer hits something. I'm not quite sure what; I've only played it once. The keyboard is kind of like one on an accordian... I liked it because I could accompany singers. Wherever I go, I'm on the lookout for another one.
She noticed Kitanna picking at the pizza. When she said "You really shouldn't eat so much of that, Symestreem," her suspicions were confirmed. I don't like the garlic, I just like cheese, she mouthed, shaking the spices off of her pizza.
Are you a musician, Kitanna? she added. You seem to know about musical instruments.
She noticed Arestevana sipping at the drink and grimacing. Go easy on the stuff if you've never had wine, she wrote.

[Kitanna]

Kitanna read Symestreem's note. Are you a musician? "Not really. My mother wanted me to learn to play the fiddle, but I failed miserably at that." She remembered the first time her mother put a fiddle in her hands. Kitanna was about six and the sound she produced was unlike anything in this world.

Her mother had grimaced and declared, with practice you'll be the best. Well three years and thousands of hours of practicing later Kitanna had failed to lose the ungodly sound she produced from the fiddle. Her mother could no longer stand it and hid the fiddle. So, Kitanna had turned her talents to other things. "I sing," Kitanna finally said after thinking about her first musical encounter. "I know a little about instruements, but I am a singer."

[The Saucepan Man]

The Saucepan Man lay contentedly below a great oak tree which grew on a raised part of the Party Field, sipping at the strange concoction that flowed unceasingly from his kettle and puffing away on his pipe. He was glad that the Barrow Downs Club Band seemed to have gone down so well, and had himself greatly enjoyed the tributes of the other party guests, whether recited, sung or simply written and added to the Party Tree. Following the performance, he had clattered and clanked his way through the party, chatting to the guests and enjoying the entertainment on offer. He had even taken it upon himself to dance a merry jig to a tune played by a young lady with a fiddle, although the resulting cacophony meant that those nearby were grateful that he had limited himself to just one dance.

As Saucepan watched the continuing merriment, he noticed a contingent of Orcs arrive and make their way towards Pio. He felt a momentary twinge of concern, but that was soon dispelled by the memory of his pleasant conversations with Kransha and Fordim Hedgethistle.

“It takes all sorts,” he thought to himself, a maxim which, it occurred to him, might equally apply to the party itself, and indeed the very Downs that he was pleased to call his home.

He had come to his present vantage point to enjoy the fireworks, which had been quite the most spectacular that he had ever witnessed. But now that they were over, he was content simply to lie there in the cool evening breeze, enjoying the happy atmosphere and reflecting upon what a success it had all been.

[symestreem]

Symestreem was envious of her new friends for being able to sing. She didn't miss speaking, but sometimes she wanted to sing.
The three of us should do a trio sometime, she wrote. If we have time before the party ends.
There was a loud noise from the other end of the fields. She turned to see what it was and gasped, one of the few sounds she could make. At least twenty orcs had entered the party! She pointed.
I sure hope they're friendly. I'm a musician, not a warrior. Although we have plenty of the latter here should the need arise... She hoped it wouldn't, the party was going so well.

[Durelin]

Durelin groaned. She felt sore all over, and it was awfully dark around. Then she realized she had yet to open her eyes. She didn't remember closing them, though. She opened them to a less dark darkness, with a light from somewhere nearby glowing faintly through some kind of veil. It was a white veil...she tried as hard as she could to think of where she might be. Well, of course she knew she was at a party. The party, actually, but where exactly she had gotten in the time of this party... The coming of night, along with a little excess ale, had been just enough to close her eyes, it seemed. And how? How? It had been such a little bit of ale...Too little, now that she thought about it.

Durelin was about get out from behind this white veil that separated her from the food and ale, when a loud bang made her jump. Which promptly caused her to hit her head on something hard just above her. A flash followed, lighting up the glowing white veil to a bright green. For a moment she sat and thought this through, and it took her only a moment to reach this conclusion: "Kalbang..."

Quickly scrambling out, she reached another conclusion: she had been under the table. She stood there a moment before quickly moving her head from side to side to see if anyone had seen her. She caught sight of the food behind her on the table, and promptly grabbed a taquito. While munching on it, another bang brought about another jump, and she bit her tongue. A strange noise escaped her mouth, coming from somewhere in her throat, and again she looked around to see if anyone was looking at her.

Durelin continued to eat her taquito, finally adjusted to the sound of the fireworks (for the most part...), and watched the show. She waited for her favorite type of firework, the ones that looked like willow trees, white with bursts that ran down to the ground, trailing long tails behind them. She applauded as this firework finally came, thinking of how the Downs never ceased to surprise her. They even had her favorite firework...and taquitos.

Letting out a great yawn, and feeling stronger the ache in her tongue, Durelin decided that it was time for her to go to bed before she found herself under another table. Knowing her luck, it would be the Barrow Wight's gift table.

"I'm just a gift to anyone..." she thought aloud, and followed it up with a laugh. She cracked herself up. Looking around once more to make sure no one had heard or seen, she gave a shrug of her shoulders and, taking a taquito on the road with her (she would later curse herself for not taking an ale), went to find her mule, singing as she went (and no longer caring if anyone heard or saw):

"Happy Birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
You live in a zoo,
You look like a monkey,
And you smell like one, too."

Happy birthday to the Barrow of monkeys!

[Kransha]

Giving a very grateful, if not slightly confused nod of thanks to Pio, Kransha spun nimbly on his heels to accept the barrage of blood relations as they gathered around him, Roa, and Fordim.

They were a rowdy bunch, mainly made of tooth and claw that erupted from their massive, single, uniform bulk. A sight it was to so the clamoring mess of orc-flesh trying vaguely to ‘sneak’ through the party participatory ranks and towards the only person they know. At Kransha’s swift beckoning gesture, they separated like a diverse swarm, each falling into line. They were all different, in everything from size and color to clothing and posture. Some looked more primitive and Neanderthal-reminiscent, while some looked most civil, though not as much as Kransha. Glowering in anticipation at their cousin, they seethed and mumbled to each other in the unused tongue of Mordor, which caused more Halflings to cower and/or cringe. Kransha smiled grimly and turned to his friends.

“Fordim, Roa, I would like you to meet my cousins; Stinky (the one with the body odor), Slinky (the one hiding behind your left leg, Fordim), Finky (the one thieving Shock Toffees), Crinky (I’ve got nothing on this one), Clinkly (the one wearing custom made Nurn-Inc. Plate Armor), Shrinky (the small one), Kinky (the one with the cat-o-nine-tails and the ominous grin), Chinky (the one with the heavy bags on his belt and the prosperous attire), Winky (the one winking at you eerily, Roa), Pinky (the pink one, obviously), Blinky (the one with two eye patches), Hinky (the one sneezing, Plinky (the one who just stole my orc draught and is guzzling it), and Flatulent Bob. Yes, I think that covers all of them.”

They shot him more looks of question, and Kransha knew why. Growling under his ragged breath, he threw up his hands in dismay, “Alright, I admit it; those aren’t their names, but those things they call surnames are impossible to pronounce in Westron, so I took the liberty of giving them names that others could make out the syllables of. I doubt anyone here, save maybe Fordim, could even attempt the pronunciation of their titles, disregarding maiden names, honorific titles, pseudonyms, family names, and all other attachments.”

Slowly but surely, he turned back to his orcish relatives and gathered up his refined tone for a grandiose oration, “Ok, boys, there’s not much time left in this party, so I suggest you indulge yourselves. Just be careful where you…where you empty your surplus of rear carbonaceous fluids, yes?” there was a chorus of nods, “Other than that, do no ‘work’ (whatever on Gorgoroth Mistress Pio meant by that) and go wild, have fun, and party all night long!”

If ever a mistake was made in the history of mistakes, this was one mistake that was quite a mistaken mistake to make (Kransha couldn’t even think that five times fast).

They scattered like hounds after fresh meat. They surged over the crowd. Within instants, each orc was engaged in doing something illicit to someone, much to Kransha’s displeasure. “At least they left there ladles at the door. Thank Melkor for that.” Mumbled the poor orc as his cousins overflowed like a tidal wave onto the party. He watched them, his own beady eyes focused on them as if they were each superimposed above the field of greenery. He knew they wouldn’t hurt anyone, but he feared he would scare the Feanorian bejeezus out of most.

Looking over the crowd, or at least those being berated in a non-violent manner, he yelled out in as calming a voice as he could muster “DON’T WORRY, FOLKS, THEY’RE HARMLESS!”

After a moment, he added “AT LEAST MOST OF THEM ARE HARMLESS!” at the top of his lungs, and began to set his calculating brain in motion. He categorized them, one by one, into the felonious and heinous acts they were committing. He had little knowledge of the people being assaulted by his brethren, but he made a mental record all the same…

…Blinky was stumbling about blindly, looking for food, and had bumped into Miss Symestreem, knocking a slice of garlic-ridden pizza from her hand which was promptly sneezed on by Hinky and then, immediately, stolen by Finky.
…Kinky looked about ready to give Arestevana a random thrashing while Winky, totally enthused, kept winking at her in that ominous fashion and Slinky seemed to want to find his way between her legs and under the ample buffet tables for no apparent reason.
…Blinky, after the pizza incident, was using Shrinky to take some batting, sporting swings at Kitanna, but thankfully the totally blind uruk was missing by leagues.
…Flatulent Bob, with assistance from the ever-alert Stinky and his profuse smell, was aiming abothe ‘discharge’ at Eowyn Skywalker, figuring with their orc logic that her cross-dimensional screename would save her miraculously from the none-too-savory blast.
….Chinky was attempting to commandeer the Saucepan Man’s pots and pans to forge new armor for himself, though he too was failing miserably, since the aimless Crinky kept getting in his way.

The only one not doing something that could be considered evil was Clinky.

“Clinky, you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself. Shouldn’t you be engaging in foul activity like your brothers?” he queried, confused, enraged, muddled, puddle, befuddled, and quite possibly scuttled.

“Nonsense, cos. I’ve got a job to do. Orders from his majesty, you know. Finances must be seen to, Kransha old chum, and that’s my duty to the crown, dontcha know.”

Kransha didn’t reply, far too stupefied to speak. So much for family values…

Luckily, the party was beginning to resolve and Kransha knew that if his cousins got too out of hand, he had another card up his sleeve…or, rather, a large, possibly-winged, balrog companion with a thick volume that could easily contain every orc on Arda.

[Saraphim]

The last slice of the deliciously un-canonical garlic pizza disapeared right under Saraphim's hand. The orc, one of Kransha's crew, walked away happily chewing.

"Argh," said Saraphim. It wasn't a word she usually used, but during the course of the party she had become increasingly adicted to the offending pizza, and desparate times call for desparate measures.

"It's just as well," she said to herself, "My breath alone could knock that Balrog over there unconscious. Why doesn't it know if itself has wings or not?"

The memory of the hobbits earlier reminded her.

"Ah, yes. I don't even know what race I am." she said as she reached into her pouch for a breathmint, "I suppose I could be an elf, if I really want to make an effort."

Saraph's thoughts were interrupted by the feel of the dragon statuette in her pouch. She sighed and began the walk to the mound and the mathom-table to return it.

She skirted around party-goers who were trying to cram in the last few hours of the party, orcs that were doing awfully odd things, and a group of people having a fierce discussion on paper.

Setting the dragon down onto the table, Saraph peered down into the Barrow and said to herself:

"That Barrow-Wight. A genius, he is."

Turning around, Saraph looked around at her fellows. It occured to her that she'd never felt more at home.

[symestreem]

Orcs! They were everywhere! Symestreem watched in horror as they scattered all over the party grounds, causing instant mayhem. Some were headed this way. She shot to her feet, along with everyone else in the vicinity, but the orcs were impossibly fast. She was broadsided by an orc who was stumbling drunkenly around, and dropped her pizza. As she went to pick it up (hey, the ground's clean, right?) her hand and the pizza were covered in orc snot. She was too busy trying to get it off to notice the subsequent disappearance of the pizza.
The orcs were accosting her friends, too. One was swinging another by the feet at Kitanna, but it was the drunk- no, he was blind- one, and she easily dodged him. An orc with a whip was circling Arestevana and another one, who seemed to have dust in his eye, was watching her.
We'll just see about that, she thought. Orcs were all well and good at the party as long as they behaved like everyone else...
She carefully placed her beloved fiddle out of harm's way, then grabbed a whole pizza from the table. Coming up alongside of the whip-orc, she tapped him on the shoulder. His eyes lit up at the sight of the pizza, but she took a step back. He followed her. She took another step back. Again, he followed her. Then her remembered Arestevana and looked back at her. Which should he do?
He tried both, and started waving the whip as he went after the pizza. Unfortunately, this led to him being entangled in the instrument and falling to the ground like a sack of rocks. Symestreem thoughtfully placed the pizza on top of him and went to bribe some more orcs. Eowyn Skywalker's pizza appeared to have several excellent uses.
She looked over at the cook in question. Oh, dear...

[Kitanna]

The orc assualting, or at least trying to assualt Kitanna just swung at her missing her each time by a matter of feet. At first she thought he must be incredibly drunk, but she soon came to realize he was infact blind.

He tried once more to hit Kitanna, but she stood where she was letting him punch air. The whole scene made her laugh. It was all too funny for words. She looked over and Symestreem who was trying desperately to get orc snot off her hand. Arestevana was being circled by an orc with a whip while another one tried to crawl between her legs.

Kitanna had stopped paying attention to the orc in front of her. That proved to be a very stupid move the blind orc finally succeded in hitting her and hitting her hard. Kitanna was taken by surprise by the force and hit the ground with a thud. She sat there for a second confused about what had just happened. She looked up to see the orc still frantically punching air.

She wasted no time in getting to her feet and relocating to a safer spot near Arestevana and Symestreem.

[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker turned pale as she realized what was going on. "Why, oh WHY does that cursed garlic pizza always bring trouble?" she asked herself, as she turned strictly non-canon to protect herself by using the Force (hey, multi-universe user names come in handy sometimes...).

"This is a party," she said strictly. "You do not want to act like little monsters *coughthoughyouorcsareinmyopinioncough* and play with garlic," she said, waving her hand subtily, and hoping that the Barrow-wight wouldn't mind the non-canon use of the Force.

Seemingly though, the fact that the Force was non-canon protected the orcs, and others in the area from falling for her mind trick. She glared at the two, and screamed. "JUST BECAUSE I HAVE A CROSS DIMENTIONAL SCREEN NAME DOESN'T MEAN THAT IT WILL SAVE ME! IT'S A CONSPRIACY!!!!!"

She waved around her lightsaber that she had... umm... borrowed from Luke Skywalker, but, as it was non-canon, and there was to be no fighting, the blade disappeared, and the effect of the glowing green blade was lost on the orcs, who were being rather... orcish.

"And I thought that garlic smelt bad," she muttered, as fireworks clashed overhead, and exploded in brilliant flashes of color. She grabbed one of the many pizzas, and threw it at the orcs. "Ha!" She waved her hand. "You will take me to Jabba now..." And then she stopped. "Umm... that wasn't the right line. Curse cross-dimentions forever! It's a conspiracy!"

Then she seen someone she knew. "Hi, symestreem!" she said. Eowyn S. continued to look around, still angered at the orcs, and that, as it was non-canon, she couldn't use the Force on them. "Mae govannan, Maeggaladiel!!" Eowyn waved at the girl, she recognized her from Middle-earth mirth. "Hiiii!"

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil didn't really talk much, just sat back and watched the fireworks.

This has to be the best party I've ever been to. This site deserves it. Where else can one send several Tolkien characters on a road trip and watch their van get in the worst accidents imaginable and laugh his or her head off, or discuss how much of Tolkien's "magic" had really gotten into the movies, or brave life and limb to rescue Eodwine of Rohan from the Mouth of Sauron in the Hills of Evendim, or guess fifty billion times and never figure out that the "Odd Place Out" was actually Orthanc, or insert random words into a Mad Lib and laugh at the resulting "half-starved crazy rabid weasel kills a Tyrannosaurus Rex", or explore the deeper meaning of LOTR and what Tolkien really wanted to say to the world? Yes, this site deserves suich a magnificent party. And much more besides. he thought to himself.

He heard voices behind him, and went to look.

"Done!"

"You were supposed to stick it in the ground!"

"It is in the ground!"

"Outside!"

"This was your idea!"

Suddenly, the fireworks tent flew up in the air...

[Luthien_ Tinuviel]

The party was almost over, and Luthien still hadn't paid her respects to the Barrow-wight! She had spent most of her time by the food tables, talking to people she knew and some she didn't. But what with great volumes of good food and socialization, she had certainly honored her hobbit tendencies. Now, if she could only make it over to the Party Tree....

Pushing her way through the crowds and deciding to ignore the fact that there seemed to be quite a lot of orcs about, Luthien arrived at the tree, and looked at the ominous hole in the ground, made even more ominous by the half-light. Not wishing to place a spike in the tree, even though she knew it wouldn't really do any harm, Luthien got some tape out of her satchel, and drew forth her poem. She surveyed her work proudly.

Dear Wight, it said, Although this may seem strange,
The Downs is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Much growth it has seen, but is not de-throned,
And keeps the status of greatness that it owns.
Wraiths, all the members, their refracted Light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many posts, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the Web we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Winged Balrogs and their chasms out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons - 'twas our right
(used or misused). That right has not decayed:
we post still by the law in which we're made.

And now for the gift! Once more dodging orcs, and the mayhem they had caused, Luthien strolled over to the tables covered with mathoms and gifts of all kinds. It really wasn't very far to go at all, but the darkness made it more so. Upon an empty spot on one of the many tables Luthien gently and lovingly placed a dagger. It was one of her favorites, and the Barrow-downs forum was one of her favorite sites. It was only fitting. Luthien fervently hoped that the Wight would find some good use for it, maybe place it in the cold hands of one of his victims. Having given up her knife in offering to the creator of much joy, she quickly turned about and began to search for her friends. Surely they were somewhere in this throng, and she must spend at least some time with them before the party came to a close. She was the one who had made them come in the first place. She lifted her eyes to the sky to gaze upon the glorious fireworks. Their bursts of light would surely help her find her way - wouldn't they?

[Bêthberry]

While the orcs were orchestrating their oracular exercises, Bethberry, dripping wet from the fortunate and need we also say fortuitous foredunking of the Volunteer Fire Brigade, but in no way resembling anything quite so undignified as a wet tee shirt, began to hum that mythic song of elder days, "Orc on the Water, Fire in the Sky" by that infamous band, Pink Flordim. Or was it Pio Sentinel, the elf of great renown at standing guard over our gaming? It didn't matter much. Because then Bethberry called out in ringingly heroic, indeed, may we say, enchanting voice,

"Water fight!",

Well, this was too much for the many young hobbits to resist. Tittering gleefully, they grabbed every pot and pan available, claiming the right of societal norm, and, sad to say, that included Mr. SaucepanMan himself, despite his remonstrations that there was no objectively right way to demand his participation in this affair. Cami ducked out of the way as tweens, young ones and those pretending to be young took to the game with aim and strong arms, Aman doubled over yet again with laughter, and Kransha raised a considerable eyebrow in the sauvest manner he could muster, which for his orcish nature was saying a great deal.

Bethberry contemplated submitting a request for a discussion thread for the party gamers to consider the renaming of the Party, "REB III: The Revenge of the Water Can/on" but just then the fireworks tent took flight.

[Firondoiel]

“Keld!” called Firi when she saw her friend dodging the orcs. She raced to help her through the crowd when there was an explosion in the tent next her. The force of it knocked her to the ground as the stolen firework headed towards the stars and busted into it’s rain of colour. Some of the crowd clapped, others were too drunk to noticed, and others were hurrying to the flaming tent.

Firi shook her head in an attempt to clear the fogginess from it. “Firi?” asked Keld’s voice.

“Hmmm?” replied Firi groggily.

“Are you alright?” asked Elbie from the other side of her.

“Just fine. Should I be otherwise?” asked Firi with a lopsided grin.

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Replied Leo.

Her friends helped her up and they walked back to their tent. The night was wearing into morning and the party would end soon. The group packed up all their things and gave one last look at the party. It had been wonderful to be back with the Downers again and now back to home.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Cami ducked out of the way as tweens, young ones and those pretending to be young took to the game with aim and strong arms....

Oh, never, never, never quoth Cami. Respectable or not, a stout Hobbit can never pass up a water fight. Just witness the scene at Crickhollow. Good aim and a strong arm may lie far beyond an individual Hobbit's skills, but a water fight is truly irresistable......

With a whoop and a holler, Mistress Cami retreated to the side and discreetly "borrowed" one of Saucepan Man's larger containers, filling it up to the brim and making sure that a bit more spilled over the top. For as a former employee of the Shire Post, Cami had a serious bone to pick, and the water fight seemed like a good way to do it.

Turning about, her eyes gleeming bright, she spied exactly the folk she wanted: Fordim, Bethberry, Saucepan Man, and H-I ......those most responsible for filling up her mailbox with 1,346 messages from the canonicity thread to which she had so unwisely subscribed! :D There were other residents of Arda who also bore some responsibility for this explosion of knowledge, but they did not seem to be anywhere in sight, so this representative group would have to do.

Lifting the pan high above her head, she bellowed out a challenge, "For Middle-earth and the Shire! This is for all the poor Hobbit postmasters who had to deliver those tomes to folk's mailboxes for the past three weeks! It's not enough we have to deal with Farmer Maggot's dogs and the young lads who offer us exploding toffee, now we have mailbags that weight between five and six hundred pounds because of all this ponderous learning! And, I have it on good authority that, even as I party here, the mound of letters in my postbox continues to grow taller."

With that, Cami lowered her arms and sent the water spraying everywhere. If the fireworks tent had managed to stay in one place, she would have repeated this act more than once, just as she had been required to clean out her postal box any number of times to make sure that other important messages could get through to her. But the sight of the tent flying up in the sky was novel enough to give her pause, so she stopped to take a second look.

[Lyta_Underhill]

Lyta stirred out of her profound stupor once an uncharacteristically large percentage of ambient sound filtered into her subconscious, registering a high number of orcs in the area. Sure enough, when she managed to pry one eye open, she beheld a scene that reminded her more of a rainy night party on a Misty Mountain pass than a dignified hobbit-run affair. Not that she minded. She was three sheets to the West Wind and not prone to hangovers.

In the distance, she noticed Cami, who had actually been the one to send the invite (at much trouble to the wilds beyond the Withywindle, I might add, and much appreciated!). She was throwing water at several respectable Barrowdowners, strangely enough, not really affecting their respectability in any way at all, except to render them respectably wet. As Lyta had a need to wash her once-white dress after the long detour, she decided perhaps this was not such a bad thing to join in...summoning the strongest (and least drunk) Took lads around her, she managed to shoulder a good load of honeysuckle wine and venture forward (on a zig-zag path).

Lyta reached the oddly out of place mound and directed the honeysuckle wine to be deposited there. Once she had unburdened herself, she caught a face full of water from she knew not where. It ran down her whitish dress, not really washing it at all. She realized what a mistake had been made, but she also realized she had to find some water quickly. Spying a strange man surrounded by myriad saucepans, she crawled in his general direction, managing to lay hands on one small egg-poaching cup before falling on her face again. Luckily, a missed aim filled her tiny cup with a full dose and she let it fly at what appeared to be an orc wearing a polka-dotted bow tie. Lyta wondered if Treebeard had spiked her wine with something truly unheard of, as she rubbed her eyes and continued to see the same loud tie attached incongruously to a definite orc.

Lyta rose unsteadily and filled her egg-poaching cup full of a draught of wine and raised a toast to the Barrow-wight. May your barrow never flood in the rain and always be well-air conditioned in the summer! Cheers!

Lyta

[piosenniel]

From the edges of a half-dream, Pio could hear an irritating buzz in her left ear.

‘Pio . . . Pio . . .’

All Elvishness aside, the press of the party and its demands had finally caught up with her. It was late night. The children had gone back to the Inn with their nanny. And now sitting at the bar in the Green Dragon pavilion, head resting comfortably in the crook of her arm, she’d hoped to catch a few winks before it was time to see the guests off. Her red wig sat in a tangle by her elbow, and she’d given up on the green eyes – her contacts lying discarded in a dish of ale she’d set out as an enticement for an old friend of hers.

‘No rest for the wicked, you sorry excuse for an Eldar . . .’

Pio raised her head and stared blearily across the bar. ‘That you?’ she croaked, the hours of second-hand pipe-weed making her voice hoarse. The Elf knuckled her eyes and stared toward the dish of ale.

Neek . . . breek . . . came the familiar rasp. And more familiar were the raggedy black antennae waving wildly at her.

Bird!

The neeker-breeker bore a pained look as she buried her head in the remaining ale. ‘None of that Elvish mind-talk,’ she said spluttering and raising her head to fix Pio with a ghastly rictus of a smile. ‘You oscar-mayer me one more time and I swear I’ll flame you from here to the Tower Hills!’

‘The correct term is osanwë, you old dung beetle.’ Pio put her face down close to her chitinous friend. ‘Where have you been?’

‘No time for that,’ returned the neeker-breeker as she leapt to her friend’s shoulder. ‘Things have gotten wild while you were napping. The field’s all muddy from a giant water fight that broke out; those Uruk’s have run amok; and the tent where the fireworks were stored has sprouted wings and flown off.’

~*~

The scene outside the pavilion was as bad as Bird had laid it out to her. Folk were slipping and sliding in the mire as buckets and pots and pans of water flew through the air. ‘Still, they are having fun, are they not?’ chuckled Pio as Cami was thoroughly doused in a concerted effort from Saucy, H-I, and the upstart Balrog. ‘By the One! Is that not Tom’s daughter in the thick of it?’ The neeker-breeker raised her little voice in a rousing cheer for the Hobbit, who’d just scored a bucket on the River-woman’s offspring.

At the far end of the field, she could see the last of the fireworks flare up and sputter out about the area; they too had not entirely avoided the deluge of the water fight. The escaping tent had caught fire it seemed as it shot skyward and ignited the few Rohan candles and shooting stars left from the show. A few of the more inebriated of the guests stood in an unsteady ring about the spluttering display, raising their flagons at the light show as they shouted out their slurry words of acclamation.

A number of the wiser party-goers had gathered up their belongings, empty plates and baking pans, rounded up family and friends, and were heading for the gate. Oro, spying the Elf, waved wildly as she and her friends, Nova and Firi drove their cart toward the exit. Imladris, basket in hand, was following behind them on foot. And there, in a small wagon, were the three musicians who had performed so well . . . Symestreem was playing a traveling song on her fiddler, ‘Over the hills and Far Away’, accompanied by Arestevana on the dulcimer. Weaving in and out of their melody was the sweet, haunting voice of Kitanna. Pio waved at them as they passed, and they nodded to her, not missing a beat.

Kransha, she noted was trying to round up his cousins. ‘Herding cats!’ snickered Bird as she watched the poor Orc’s hapless efforts. Saraphim had joined the effort, having borrowed the whip of flame from the otherwise preoccupied Balrog. Memories of old bubbled up in the Uruk’s small minds as they fled before the hated instrument.

Other partygoers followed, keeping their distance from the whip; their hoods were pulled up and Pio could not make out their faces. Their voices sounded tired, but the tone of their conversation was merry and she smiled, hoping they had indeed had a good time. She thought she heard the voice of Meneltarmacil at one point and the voices of those most interesting denizens of Middle-mirth. And there was Luthien . . . she had found her friends and was now walking home with them.

Aman came out from the pavilion, having gathered up a small group of those she was ferrying back to the Green Dragon. They would spend the night there, then make for their own homes on the morrow. Nerindel held the reins of the Inn’s ponies as the group piled into the haywagon. Nuru and Orual, her hair a strange, streaky shade of red, settled themselves in the loose scattered hay to continue their catching-up. Cami, the children in tow, had her arm wrapped about a rather inebriated Lyta, and with the help of Ithaeliel and Roa was rolling the woman’s nearly inert form onto the wagon bed. Bethberry, Saucy, and H-I, all of them thoroughly wet, had left the field of ‘battle’ and accepted the offer from the Dragon’s Innkeeper of dry clothes and a warm bed for the night. Iadarion, striding along with Evisse, hailed them as they passed, and both climbed on the wagon as it slowed.

Hilde and her Mister walked arm in arm through the gate, their heads close together, laughing at some small shared joke. In like manner came Everdawn with her friend Aredhel, her pink bonnet tied firmly on her head. Dininziliel, too, had roused from her nap, and blinking her eyes in the starlight was picking her way carefully along the muddy path. And there in the shadows walked Witch_Queen and Maeggaladiel, tired by the looks of them, followed by three Hobbits attempting to share one large coat.

Last to pass was Guinevere, deep in conversation with Merisu. Lush, sandwiched between the two, dropped an appropriate comment here and there, punctuated by the occasional nip from her silver flask. The obedient Falafel trotted up at the sight of her mistress and bore the three away into the night.

~*~

Under the bright moon, the empty field took on a ghostly hue. The streamers hung limply from the trees and the candle-lanterns had all guttered out. The barrow that had earlier figured so prominently beneath the Party Tree was now gone; the Wight and his treasures fled back to his Downs until called out again next year. The tree’s trunk was bare; he had taken his accolades and well-wishes with him. All the staff that had made the party run so smoothly had gone home, too . . . tomorrow would be time enough for the final clean-up.

A shadowy form in the northwest corner of the field stepped out between two trees and into a patch of moonlight. The last guest. It drew itself up to a great height, its wings spread out from tree to tree. Swiftly it rose, and with winged speed, passed over the field as a tempest of fire.

Bird, having traded her neeker-breeker form for one human, poked her friend in the ribs at the spectacle. ‘What an exit! The guy knows how to catch your attention, eh?’ Pio nodded and looped her arm through her old friend’s. ‘If we hurry,’ she said, ‘we can catch Cami before she goes to bed. The children will all be sleeping. There’s a bottle of Old Winyards I hid in the cellar. We can sit under the stars and drink to the continued good health of the Wight and his Downs.’

Motioning for Pio to exit the gate ahead of her, Bird made a grand mock bow and tipped an imaginary hat at the Elf, saying, ‘You first, my dear Piosenniel . . .’ ‘No, after you, my dear Birdland . . .’ came the requisite reply from the Elf as she blew out the last candle-lantern.

Then laughing, they left the darkened field, arm in arm . . .

[piosenniel]

~*~ FINIS ~*~


(See you all next May!)