Unforbidden

[Bêthberry]

Never before had the white screen of doom looked so forbidding. To be denied access to the Barrow Downs, why, it was strangely like being told to stay in The Shire and keep out of trouble. No dark barrows for us!

But now that we are allowed back into the eerie green glow of our beloved Downs--all hail the Barrow Wight for slashing his green sword across those barriers--let us greet all returning wraiths in appropriate Downs fashion: an RPG party here in Rohan.

Bring: A sense of humour and wit and civility

Attire: Cloaked in clever words and no uncloaking please. We are a family site.

Your host: Feyberry, the cryptic aura who is the Modalternator for Rohan.

Where and when: Starting now and continuing until all missing wraiths have been accounted for

PS: This thread is a squat (that is, an occupation of a given piece of public land in order to acquire title to it)! It has snuck around back of the Golden Hall and established itself in defiance of formal proposal. But show those in Meduseld that squatters know a thing or two about good gaming. Will we be forcibly removed--expelled--by the guards or will we win a permanent residence in Edoras? Time will tell...

(PS : Remember to remove your signatures. )

EDIT: No Downers are forbidden to game in Unforbidden. Let all who wish, even those without gaming experience or Rohan credentials, hustle their skinny skeletons on down to the a-wake-ening.

~~~

While Wyrd was delivering notice far and wide across the Net that the Downs gaming establishments were once again open for business, Bethberry surveyed the grounds to ensure an adequate supply of compestibles and potables. for hungry, thirsty squatters of the barrow field ...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

A dark and terrible tremble from deep in the earth arose, and from the horizons there sprang dark clouds. Fell voices were heard upon the winds that bore down from the mountains, and it became as night. Crack! went the world and a deep chasm opened beneath Bethberry's feet. A howling of horror filled her ears and from the chasm there emerged a single, pale emaciated hand. Clawing at the earth, the hand gained purchase and then there appeared an arm, rotted and flayed, with the ends of worms crawling through the dissolving flesh. A head then came out of the chasm, its eyes blank and white with rot, quickly followed by the putrid mass of a (cloaked) body. Bethberry gasped in horror and fell back, holding one hand before her nose to block the smell.

Fordim spoke, but his voice was thick and slurred with the pulpy mass that his tongue had become for its time in the ground. "Greetings my lady! It is good to be back, but as you can see," he moved his hand before him to indicate the advanced state of decay, "I am somewhat the worse for the wait."

[The Saucepan Man]

A sudden calamitous (corpus) cacophony split the air as a shiny figure tumbled from a portal high in the sky above Rohan and hit the ground with a resounding crash.

Dazed, the Saucepan Man picked himself up and brushed himself down. His fingers were aching and his pots and pans dented from having clicked and clattered at the aforementioned portal every 15 minutes or so for the past 22 hours to no avail. Until just a few moments before, his access had been denied by the most forbidding of locks (lock #403, apparently).

"Well, we're back!" He said, predictably.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

It had been a harrowing experience. A brief reprieve from the horror that is work had been required by the lass that is called Feanor of the Peredhil. She made her way silently and stealthily to the address bar... she began to type. F... O... R... U... A name mysteriously appeared below her command. She checked behind her, making sure was not followed. She pressed onward. Carefully Feanor returned to her work, pretending convincingly that she was accomplishing something. She spared a moment to look about... to see if she had yet reached The Barrowdowns. Her jaw dropped in horror.

Have I been blocked? she thought, panicking. I know I used words that are not particularly family friendly, but they were via private message... and they were used in discussing dialect, speech patterns, and all number of okay things. She tried again, fruitlessly. She made her way to the void that some call the Chât Rüm. A reassuring message met her.... the words of Bêthberry met her eyes, telling her not to panic. The letters could not have been more welcome than if it had been emblazoned on a small grey box. In any case, they were emblazoned within a large one.

Fea gave up all hope and returned to what has been labelled the Rëal World... a place full of terrible things, all of which should be sent to Mordor. Nearly completing the work that she so longed to put off, she eventually went to bed. The next morning she awoke.

A party? How droll. But at least we are back. Fea made her way to Bethberry. "Do you need a hand? Mine are theoretically detachable, should the need arise." She winked at the hospitable woman. "What in the world caused this stir, do you know?"

[the guy who be short]

The Guy Who Be Short awoke with a start. How could he have dozed off during his vigil? But the start was a pleasant one, for once more the landscape around him was a pleasing gold, black and green.

Just as things should be, he muttered.

Initially he had panicked to find himself in a bare, blank world devoid of intelligent life. Who could have Forbidden him from his own home? How? Perhaps somebody has simply painted his corneas white?

What were his fellow Rohirrim doing without him?

Fortunately, he had been able to gather his wits with surprising speed for one so small. Engaging in a strange form of osanwe-kenta with 538 passing butterflies and a two headed demon, he established that all the inhabitants of Rohan were blinded by the Whiteness. He quickly deduced that something must have got into the water, and that there was nothing to fear. A few hours later, if he trusted to the Great Wight in the sky, all would revert to normal...

Unfortunately, he had to spend quite a few hours in what some of the Rohirrim call the Rëal World, that is, an odd little place in the back of his mind with no resemblance to reality whatsoever.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

The yellowing papers stirred ever so slightly as the relic beneath them wondered how long she had been sleeping under that litter of half finished specifications, buried as she was by a landslide of documentation. She was late she thought, the alarm had gone off and she had missed it. Picking up her work weary head, the papers drifted to the floor like leaves as she peered hopefully at her computer, the same computer that had this morning informed her that she did not have the privileges necessary to roam the Downs, (but not the one that seemingly had abstained from presenting the internet portal to ME altogether, like some electronic hermit).

Clicking quietly in the deathly dry gloom of her barrow, she tried again. “Ah there now….” She breathed as the door opened. And peering out, a refreshing haze of green letters could be seen drifting through the blackness. "That is better now!"

[wilwarin538]

Wilwa awoke that morning and sat at her computer screen, wondering what funny captions Mr. Goomba had thought of today. Forbidden? It can't be, there had been times where the page had not loaded but to be forbidden? :eek:

She received a message from her best friend Glirdan, he was also Forbidden. Wilwa soon realised it was happening to everyone. The only thing connecting her to the green, yellow and black forum was the conversations she had with a short prince and someone who appeared to have two heads.

Then suddenly, it was back. She had worried for nothing. But how bored she had been for that day, making her own country and playing card games just to keep her busy.

There would be much celebration. :D

(forgive me for my lack of talent at RPGing :o )

[the phantom]

"Hello again, Bêthberry" said the phantom, as he materialized directly in front of her. "Thank you very much for setting my mind at ease yesterday- I was quite worried."

"Ha ha- yes, you were afraid The Barrow-Wight had banned you out of sheer annoyance!" laughed Bêthberry. "I must apologize, but I found your distress rather amusing."

"No, I understand," said the phantom. "Everyone enjoys seeing a regal chap like me behaving like some sort of overreacting teenager."

the phantom stared at the familiar green and black background. Ah, yes- this is the way it's supposed to be.

[Bêthberry]

Her ears ringing by the sudden tumult of cacaphony which the arrival of the SaucepanMan produced--such noise sounding all the louder given the relative quiet of the enforced withdrawal from the Downs--Bethberry--now in her party costume as Feyberry--could barely hear the voices of the revellers.

She nodded a warm welcome to Hilde Bracegirdle, and invited her over, along with a dazed and confused looking TGWBdozing. Meanwhile, holding her nose, she strained to catch what Fëá was saying to her, and looked not without some consternation at the train of deliquacious drippings that Fordim was leaving all over the simbelyne of the barrowfield.

In fact, Feyberry quickly plucked up a large trug full of the lovely scented flowers and proceeded to stuff them, decorously and of course to his great delight--he never having been so bouquetted before by her--in the holes left in Fordim by his decayed and rotting flesh.

Feyberry thought she had heard Fëá say something about hands, but she feared to say anything as she noticed Fordim had dropped one of his.

[alatar]

alatar stood leaning upon his staff, silent, peering at the closed door of the barrow. One might think that he were a blue statue, except for the bright light of his eyes. His multiple attempts to access the 'Downs door were all for not, and Wizards did not suffer such denials well. Was this the doings of the Enemy? What new plot was this? Did the wights inside finally tire of his *wit* and nonsense and bar the door? Was the Server of the Secret Webhost currently underwater? The clamoring voices inside his head shouted of their many questions. He quieted them down with a suggestion that he'd return to the 'We Love PJ' site if the noise didn't abate.

In the ensuing silence, alatar considered the problem once more.

The letters "Forbidden 430" were easily read, yet meant nothing to him. He knew many ways of opening a door - spells, Words of Command, passwords - even those reserved words in the secret tongue of Programmers that they do not teach.

Yet nothing would open the door.

"Must be missing something." He raised his staff yet again, but the door did not budge. Changed staves, changed spells, changed hats, tested various combinations - nothing worked! He even considered asking the assistance of other Istari, but in this his pride held him back - the waves of despair had not yet reach his toes.

"What haven't I tried?" alatar looked around, seeing if any hobbits were nearby, as purportedly some hobbits' heads were were thick enough to crack open doors (if properly applied). Alas, none were within reach. Finally, as he sat, tired and edging towards defeat, his staff laying nearby where he'd thrown it, there was a CRACK! The door was opening!

Quickly alatar stood, regained his composure and his staff, and waited to see what joy or horror would greet him.

It was the honorable Bêthberry who stood in the open doorway. "Come in," she said, "Sorry that the doors were stuck." He noted that she was oddly dressed, as if for a party, and alatar saw that all of his conjectures were for not.

Confused yet delighted he said, "Uhh...at your service and your family's," as he knew not what else to say on such occasions. He entered the barrow and set about looking around to see what may have changed. alatar gazed back at the door, at the barrow, and began to let down his guard. "All seems well enough," he thought, yet he still wasn't so sure, and would keep an eye on the shadows this night and those that followed.

[Lalwendë]

Was it fog or something altogether more sinister? It was formless at first but then took on some kind of shape and silently drew closer. The nearer it moved, the denser it became. If anyone had been lingering there, and this would have only been a wraith or ghoul but even these had been strangely absent for some time, then they would have been enveloped in this grey miasma.

A wrenching barking sound broke the silence and a tiny figure ran from this ponderous mist, coughing.

It was Lalwende. The creature was trying to get away from the heavy gasses that davem had been emitting (from his pipe (his smoking pipe)) these long, empty hours. She coughed again, and then looked up. A tall standing stone loomed above her and she knew she had found the right path at last.

"It's good to be back," she said, as she scurried off in search of some wordy sustenance.

[The Saucepan Man]

The raucus clatter occasioned by the arrival of the Saucepan Man was as nothing compared to the rising din as the Downs once more got into full swing.

Crowds gathered around the Jackson Shy stand to eagerly throw brickbats at a little round bearded nut on a pole.

At first a few light notes signified that the Crazy Captions Merry-go-Round was back in business. And before long it was again revolving with habitual speed, its jangling musical tones blaring out as those enjoying the ride LOLed and ROFLed with joy.

With a low, ominous roar, the Balrog Wing and Canonicity Pollercoasters cranked themselves up and long queues began to form as respected Downs elders and Newbies alike lined up in gleeful anticipation of their circular thrills and spills.

And a nervous but excited wave of paranoia spread through the building crowd as a bloodcurdling howl in the murky distance marked the re-opening of the Tol-in-Gaurhoth Ride of Terror.

The Barrow-Downs Fair was back in business.

[Meneltarmacil]

At that point, someone burst into the room and screamed at the top of his lungs:

"YESSSS! IT'S BACK! I'M FREE AT LAST!"

Everybody was suddenly silent. Meneltarmacil's face turned a bright shade of red.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I got too carried away. I'm so glad to find I haven't been exiled."

For he had been shocked and confused to find the gates of the Barrow-Downs locked against him. He had knocked repeatedly and tried everything he could think of, but still the great gates had remained shut against him. Meneltarmacil had wandered far and wide over the paths of the Internet looking for answers, but he could find none. He was about to give up hope when he ran across mormegil, who had suffered the same fate. Menel also learned that both davem and Lalwendë (may their reputations grow ever larger) were also being denied access. Unless The Barrow-Wight had gone completely nuts and started banning everyone in sight, then Menel hadn't been forcibly exiled from the forum at all. He once again marched up to the gates of the Downs... only to find them just as mysteriously open as they had been closed before.

Which explained why Menel had just burst in on them. He sat down at one of the tables, set down his gear, and got a refreshing drink of water.

[dancing spawn of ungoliant]

Dancing spawn was prancing her way to the infamous barrows. She visited there so often that she would have known the way there even blindfolded. On the spur of the moment she closed her eyes just to prove it to herself. A second later she tripped and fell flat on her face.

Spawn gathered her legs and other body parts from the ground, stood up and disbelief filled her. She shivered while gazing a gargantuan white barrier that had appeared on her way. After getting over the initial shock, Spawn tried to climb over the barrier. She tried to dig a tunnel under it. She walked a few miles to see if one could go around it. She even taunted it wishing it would disappear but finally Spawn had to admit that there was some strange white force blocking her way that was greater than her little means.

A night passed and a new day came but the White Annoyance remained the same. But lo! What was happening? Dark mist drifted through the barrier and thunder and the sound of clanging pans filled the air. Spawn stepped forward and there she saw all the friendly faces (or their reminders) of her friends. The horrible white threat had been defeated.

Of course this was worth celebrating! Spawn greeted the host and her friends. "Barrow, sweet Barrow", she sighed with a blissful smile on her lips.

[Kath]

Kath threw herself through the doors, nearly knocking over poor Bethberry on her way inside. The reason for this haste was her fear that if she didn't get in fast enough it might be locked to her again, and possibly this time for longer. The sheer horror she had felt the night before when she opened up her e-mail and tried to get onto the beloved site, only to find Error Messages and Secret Internet Languages that she could make head nor tail of, yet knew they were telling her she could not get in.

In grief she left and went to bed hoping that it was simply her computer being it's usual temperamental self, but when she awoke the next day to find that no one could get on all hope left her. The short one tried to comfort her with confusing words about Apache but it was of no avail. She continually tried to get on, beating her mouse against the mat until it squeaked in distress, but nothing would work.

Then, suddenly, the familiar black background appeared. She stared in shock, hardly believing her eyes. She quickly clicked on everything in sight to make sure she wasn't dreaming and the screen stayed open and no nasty blue words appeared. Cheering she returned to her friends and screamed the news at them before running back to the site.

Slowing down as her reminiscing caused her to realise that all was now well again, she stopped just short of the buffet table that had been generously heaped, and helped herself, glad to be back where she belonged.

[Estelyn Telcontar]

Apprehensively, Estelyn entered the woods and guided her feet in the direction of the very first of many pools therein. She dipped one foot into its water hesitantly, almost expecting to feel the solid ground at the bottom yet again. When she felt nothing, she held her breath, then jumped into the pond resolutely. Almost at once, a blackness appeared before her eyes, but rather than being discouraged or fearful, she was glad of it. Then pale green letters, interspersed with golden lines, could be seen. She moved about and found friendly greetings, wise words, and smiling faces. She had returned to her world, back where she belonged. All was well.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Earlier that very day, she had jumped without thinking into that pool and was shocked when her feet hit the ground and the water of the pond evaporated about her ankles, rising in a forbidding, impenetrable white mist. She had stepped back and tried again from a different angle, then yet another, before realizing the horrible truth – the way was closed! Was her favorite world lost forever? She could not believe it.

In an attempt to find friends who could help her, she jumped into another pond. And indeed, the world into which it led was there, white perhaps, and occupied by less people, hidden amidst the mIRCy atmosphere and much wallpaper. But having taken speech with a friend there, she was cheered.

Yet another pool had led to a meeting place unpeopled, yet with messages that comforted her heart, for she then knew that the entrance was indeed closed to all, not only to her, and that it would soon be opened again.

She tried out several pools which led to various other worlds she had entered in the past. One, which was once the home of a great city, was now also turned to white mist, and she wondered if the myriad persons who had once lived there were gone, or if it had only been moved. One world was populated, yet all activity there seemed delayed to a slow motion, for messages were few and far between. That was uninteresting for her lively spirit, and she soon tired of being there.

Mindful of the old adage concerning the reluctance of observed cookery to come to a point, she sensibly decided to turn aside to another nearby woods. There also were worlds to be entered, yet these had the form of papers, folded together. She let her hand glide over them, finally choosing one. Then she opened it and entered into a lighthearted, amusing, enjoyable world. Having chosen sunny, quiet surroundings, the hours passed quickly for her, and when she returned from that world, her patience was rewarded. Her favorite pool was opened again.

Delighted at the wonderful idea of a celebratory party, she greeted Bêthb - um, Feyberry. She waved the bottle of a bubbly, slightly intoxicating beverage that she had brought with her. "Anyone want a glass?" she asked invitingly.


(*with apologies to C. S. Lewis for borrowing and ruining a perfectly good idea of his)

[Alcarillo]

Alcarillo was relieved to find the Barrow-Downs clear of the thick mist that had hidden the tombs from sight. Just yesterday, he ventured into the silent hills, only to find nobody waiting. The entire land was covered with an ominous fog, through which no light penentrated. The whiteness covered the land in all directions, and when he entered, Alcarillo could not see his own hands held before his face. This had of course puzzled him; never before had such fog covered the Barrow-Downs. As he left the Downs he had fortunately met a giant spider who told him that she had also tried to enter earlier, but to no avail. The fog covered everything.

But today, the Barrow-Downs were free of the sinister fog, and the only mist lay far off in the distance. The wide, open fields between the tombs and crypts were filled with friends and familiar faces. The darkness had passed, cast away by the power of the Barrow-Wight, and the merriment resumed.

[Glirdan]

Glirdan woke after having a horrible nightmare. He called his best friend Wilwa to see if she was having the same problem. " Oh Wilwa! I just had a most horrible dream! I tought I was banned from my own barrow!" But then he recieved a jolt back into what people call the Rëal World. She was having the same problem as well! We quickly gathered are wits together. "Maybe it's just are area that is having problems," Wilwa suggested. "I'll go on and see if anyone else is having trouble,". And so she did. Then we recieved another horrible jolt. She talked to someone who claimed to be a short prince and someone with two heads, and they were having the same problem as well! "Oh Wilwa! What are we ever going to do!?"

"We will wait and see what happens," she responded. All that long, horrible day, I tried and tried to re-enter the barrow that I grew accustomed to. But to no avail. So I went to sleep on the cold, hard ground in front of it. When I awoke in the morning, I saw a light coming through the door. As I stood up, the door opened and someone was standing there! It was Bêthberry and she was dressed as if she was going to a party. "Come in!" she cried. "Come in and reejoice! You may now return to your barrow!"

"Oh thank you my good lady!" As I stepped in, I noticed that there was a crowd, and lo! there were streamers and banners (all deathly looking af course) and it was a party! Everyone was there, Alcarillo, Estelyn, Kath, Dancing Spawn, Meneltarmacil, The Saucepan Man, Lalwendë, alatar, the phantom, and of course, my best friend Wilwa along with a number of others. It was sure to be a merry party. Only two things, or should I say people, were missing. " Where is Gil-Galad and Eomer!?"

[arcticstorm]

He had left the barrow earlier in the day to enhance his studies of history, and when he returned later in the day, he only saw a strange message. error 403: or in the common tounge: "The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead. And the dead keep it."
He found this to be a little bit odd since he knew that it ws made by the dead, but what does "the way is shut" mean? Does it mean that his new home had blocked off the way to the barrow? While he was pondering this problem and trying unsuccessfully to enter, he was able to converse with others who were having the same trouble and arcticstorm knew that it was not his problem solely, which made the whole issue even more muddy. Had this place somehow ceased to exist? then almost twenty-four hours after the shutting of the door, it reopened. Arcticstorm was pleased and entered in to join in the celebration

[Holbytlass]

Drat that Tom Bombadill! Only he could have sang a song so powerrful as to render our beautiful Downs useless though he be many leagues away! But the ever wondering Holbytlass is greatful that it was not long-winded.
Though she wondered if The Barrow-wight and fellow moderators may have been angry with her, but nay, they give fair warning of any disapproval of wrongdoings. She was glad to know there would be no 1969 as her last visit!
Then she wondered if the vessel by which she travels to the Downs (computer) may be the problem. Ever she searched for a way in, by system restore and reboots and even wondered if perhaps she should change to (Middle)Earth-link.
Then she wondered if she couldn't get back in, would Encaitare be mad for spoiling her werewolf game? Or others for not fulfilling her obligations because she volunteered to mod the next one?
But, alas, she wondered nomore when her cyber-posts grew fat again from notifications of other fellower downers posting. And an email from Shelob consoling her that she was not alone.
Now Holbytlass wonders where the mead and party weinies are!

[Meneltarmacil]

Meneltarmacil, having satisfied his hunger and thirst with a can of soda and some slices of all-meat pizza, spoke up.

"You know, I haven't been happier to be on the Downs in my entire time as a BDer. It seems one really does not appreciate and treasure something until it is gone. I hope this will help us appreciate our time together more."

His sentimental moment abruptly ended. Menel switched to a completely different topic.

"I have a theory that I'd like to share with you all. I have come to the conclusion that there is definitely something...not exactly normal about Tom Bombadil. He talks to the Hobbits a lot, but says little about his true nature, as if trying to stay out in the open but avoid suspicion. He knows much about the evil beings in the area as well, as if he was somehow associated with them. I think Tom Bombadil is most likely a werewolf trying to avoid the noose."

Menel then wrote something on a piece of parchment and laid said parchment on the table. It read:
++Tom Bombadil

[Kitanna]

After a night of mourning and cursing the wicked 403 Error Kitanna is relieved to come back from classes to find her beloved Barrows working again. She breaths a sigh of relief and feels like she's home again as she returns to the Downs.

Kitanna joins up with her fellow downers, all of whom seemed to be just as relieved. She says something that most normal people wouldn't say, but then again most normal people don't go to the Downs. "Well, it's good to be dead again."

[Nerindel]

Nerindel burst into the downs flushed with relief and excitement, hugging tight the stunned guests and fellow downers to be sure they where real and not some cruel trick of the Forbidden! It's white glare which had so cruelly denied her access to her cosy barrow was still frightenly fresh in her mind.

grabbing a passing flakon she drank deeply hoping to calm her shot nerves, a tap on her shoulder made her jump. "oh Hilde I'm I glad to see you I was so worried Lespheria was so angry and naiore and menecin I..I... mean whith no downer to keep them in check I was afraid .... well you can imagine Naiore loose on the downs!!!" she swallowed hard at the thought and took another very unlady like swig.

"Now now dear," Hilde smiled sympathically "just calm yourself down and have a look about all is as it was." taking a steadying breath she carefully looked up and smiled to see the familiar black green and golden of the Barrowdowns and a quick look in the Shire assured her that all was well in the lingering darkness and everything was as it should be.

relaxing noticably she was suddenly aware of the festivties around her she was not the only one to be happy to be home and without warning she grabbed a stunned Hilde and danced to the music of the downs.

[mormegil]

Mormegil was sitting and performing his mundane daily tasks when he decided on a quick reprieve from the tedium. "I know" he thought "I'll make a quick stop to the Barrowdowns to see if anything has happened since I was last there" He attempted to gain entry to the portal, instead of the usual dark screen, all he saw was a horrible white face staring back at him. "Huh, that's funny" was his thought "I was just there not twenty minute ago. It must simply be a temporary closure"

Minutes ticked by and the tedium continued. Mormegil sat musing "what will happen if instead of being in the realm that I hold dear I am consigned to talking with those I sit with while doing my tasks." A cold shiver ran through his body at the thought. His faith that the problem would be resolved, however, remained resolute and soon he would gain entry to the portal. He was certain that at least for his lunch he would be able to take part in his daily discussion and mirth making.

His faith was shaken and great change began to come over him, when, at lunch, there was still that horrible white screen where once there was beauty. "What have I done, why would I be banned" these were the evil thoughts beginning to take shape in the recesses of his mind. "No, it's not just me, or is it?" For you see, poor Mormegil had nobody to ask or no other way of contacting those whom he considers friends. "I know" he exclaimed, "I'll merely try a different terminal". Upon doing this, he discovered that way was shut too and the next and the next. He contacted home pleading with his wife to try his usual terminal. All was to no avail. He was simply shut out.

Now you must understand, with no contact from his friends, Mormegil became a pathetic creature taking solice in looking at pictures of his fellows, his only tangible memory of his lost world. His once mediocre mind began quickly to deteriorate and evil thoughts commenced taking over. His speak became less intelligible, and soon he was simply speaking disjointed phrases. "Where has it gone precious?" "Will we ever gets it back we wonders?" "Filthy nasssty white face! We hates it we do!" Were all the thoughts left to wretched Mormegil. In such twisted thoughts he didn't sleep well and aroused himself around 5:00 in the morning. "Perhaps now precious it is back and we haves it again. Let's check the portal yes let's." To his distress there was still the nasty white face mocking him. But there was hope, his mind wasn't completely gone. "What if" he wondered, "somebody left poor Morm a message with his pictures, then we will know precious, we will know that we are not alone."

To his great satisfaction, sweet Lalwende sent out a ray of light and hope. "There are others out there too" he proclaimed. Knowing that he wasn't alone brought him great comfort. Then he found that the nasty white face had gone and he could go back to the darkness. Jubilation ensued and I must say here that Mormegil has regained most of his mind, but not before thinking of the nasty white face and yelling "GO AWAY AND NEVER COME BACK!"

[tar-ancalime]

Shivering in the damp, tar-ancalime pulled her cloak closer. She settled herself against the eastern face of the standing stone and breathed the misty air. The fog was thick, kissing her eyelashes with cold dew. She reflected as she waited.

Had there ever been a barrow? Had there ever been a Wight?

It seemed unlikely in the chill. Yet tar-ancalime remembered. Scores, even hundreds of Dead. Decaying corpses in the barrow. Princes, Auras, Shades. A great wealth of shining green jewels.

Her memories faded as the heavy cold pressed her. She would enter or freeze. Still the standing stone remained, and the chill turf.

Halfway to a dangerous sleep she felt a new fear. The Wight had forbidden her the barrow. Had he purged his realm of those unbelievers who chose screennames without the proper accent marks?

She was overcome. She slept.

She awoke in Rohan.

[Oddwen]

After a long stressful day at work, of which she would not mention for fear of laughing again, Oddwen gratefully sat down at her new desk and old computer. She clicked her shortcut button and waited for the black screen and yellow text.

"Forbidden - error 403"

What?!? Child Protection Area! Did her filter go awry? Has her mother finally put her foot down once and for all? NOOOOO!! She fell a-weeping at the gate, and awoke (late) next morning to the creaking of the hinges.

O joy and etcetera! Fêyberry stood with the gate wide open!

She ran weeping once again inside, embracing any 'Downer that stood in her way.

"Oh Menel, my fellow NMSbie! I'm so glad we can still post!
And Esty! My fellow Galaxy Quest fan, never give up - never surrender!
Holby, my fellow she-wolf! Kath and Kitanna, Saucie and Lalwendë!
Nerindel...I wish we knew each other, this is a little awkward."

Hastily casting a fond glance at the gathering throng, she leaped over to the rides of Mirth.

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

As Hilde settled down on the side of her mound, she thought not so much about the papers still awaiting her this morning, but what Nerindel had said. It could very well have gotten out of hand, with no one to mind those left in the lingering darkness. And she shuttered to think of Naiore stalking her beloved Barrow Downs, drawn by the fears of the forbidden wights. But looking around she was comforted to see Feyberry, and Esty, and other moderators milling about. And off in the distance was Pio battling a sizable troll that had stumbled on to the Downs. Defending the distant Shire, Pio had effectively halted the troll’s progress on that road. Hilde stood up and saluted her in the mist.

“Hmm… I looks as though we've had unexpected company!” the hobbit said to her friend, nodding in the direction of the troll. “Let’s hope the daylight finds him soon!” And sitting down again in the green grass, she and Nerindel began discussing the finer points of elven culture.

[Celuien]

A ghostly figure flitted over the dark hillside, a gray glint in the moonlight. A wisp of blue and white rags that might once have been a gown and a few strands of dark hair revealed its identity as Celuien. Fear sat upon her face, for a dreadful rumor had reached her ears. Breathless, she scurried up to a barrow door, half hidden in the fog and darkness. A high-pitched wail pierced the night. A glowing sign on the door mocked her. 403. Forbidden. Celuien had seen this before, usually when she had bungled a Word of Command in the strange tongue of UNIX while attempting to set her own barrow in order. But once it had meant the end. A friend had left that same ominous sign and left for distant lands, never to return. She decided to wait and see. It had been a long trip across the downs. Besides, the bright white background of the sign was beginning to hurt her eyes. She turned around and sat with her back against the door and drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Celuien would soon regret that decision.

Bang! The door flew open with a burst of wind. Celuien toppled over and fell inside. "It's a good thing I'm dead," she thought. "This little adventure would leave a nasty bruise if I were alive." She was beginning to wonder if her descent would ever end when her answer came in the form of a thump from the stone floor of the barrow. Ruefully, Celuien picked herself up, rubbing a sore elbow. But here was a welcome sight! Black walls with dimly glowing green runes greeted her weary eyes. Other figures sat in the barrow, eagerly debating Canonicity and what belonged in Mordor. Celuien smiled and murmured, "Home at last."

[Gurthang]

A figure suddenly appeared. The other wights wondered at this, for he did not seem to be a ghost, but a mortal. Yet the pasty white of his flesh and the blank dark stare of his eyes reminded them of who he was. Only once before had any of them seen him, and only those who had been to that Great Birthday were expecting what happened next. Words were heard, though the figures lips did not move. It was the sword he carried that spoke:

"I come again, at long last. A long wait that seemed, though short compared to a life; and yet like to it also. Forbidden I was, yet the block is removed and the Black Sword is back where it belongs. Gurthang I am known to you, but also Destroyer of Glaurung, Bane of Turin, and the Black Sword. I am a Sword of Spirit, and also a Sword among Spirits, for which I am once again grateful to be. Thank you Bêthberry for having this gathering. And thanks be to The Barrow-Wight for allowing us return."

Murmurs of pleasant surprise were heard around the room, as well as some quiet giggling over the semi-dramatic entrance. Gurthang traversed amongst the guests and greeted everyone with joy like they were long lost friends.

[Bêthberry]

Feyberry--opps, Fêyberry--danced and skipped around the party, amazed at how the remembrances of the Downs were recalled in so many different ways. Circus acts, pools, locked doors, magic screens and talking keyboards. Were people succumbing to a memory of a memory of a perfect time in the past? What was it davem had said? If only she could remember. Something about 'arousing the memory of a memory of some place not of this world.' She shook her head.

And that idea about Tom! Tom a werewolf! Why, the very thought of it was so, so wargish! It belonged on Eomer's thread at least. In her mind Fêyberry composed some fleeting rhyme for consideration there.

"Tom, Tom,
He's nobody's son.
Stole a lilypad lady
and away he run."

But finally Fêyberry had tired and come to lean against the outer wall which still encircled Edoras, even in these enlightened times. She stared at the empty glass by her side, which had been so thoughtfully provided by Estelyn--opps, Èstêlÿn. It was empty now. Fêyberry rolled the glass around in her hand thoughtfully, trying to see if any small drops remained that could catch the Light of the Two Twees. If she could catch them, capture them, maybe she could ensure that the Downs would not again be locked against its faithful wraiths. But alas all that the impish creature could spy was dust. Dust? Dust! There were dust mites clinging to the edges of the glass! Had Èstêlÿn brought in dust from another story? What dark materials had our seamstress brought in to us when she stepped between the worlds of pool and time?

Would dust be settling on the Barrows? Would there be a momumental battle between warring views of , well, the primary world, if not subcreation? Posts only could tell. . .

[Glirdan]

After a drink and a slice of his favorite pizza, Glirdan decided to walk around and talk to the other Downer's. He went to the "Crazy Captions" where he was glad to see all was in order and decided to leave a little post of his own there. Then he walked around a little more and stopped at other places, two of which were new. "I'm really glad everything is still in order. But there is just one problem. WHERE IN ERU'S NAME IS GIL AND EOMER!?!?"

[Mithalwen]

My dear Lady Feyberry, I thank you for this kind invitation. Most pleasant it is indeed after the unpleasantness of this week. But Mr Hedgthistle, please....compose yourself such behaviour is unseemly in such society whether one is living, dead or differently dead.

Imagine my discomfort when, about to post a long promised discourse (to which task I must shortly return and thus will only briefly avail myself of your hospitality), I was summarily banished from these very catacombs! I

t was enough to occasion a fit of the vapours and if young Mr Istarion had not been so kind as to reassure me that this was a general exclusion and not a personal snub, I would have been quite prostrate. Indeed it took me a day to recover and on my return I found yet more trouble had assailed our community - invaded by a vagabond. Such things are most distressing but occur in the best run households. Nevertheless it is to be hoped that we are not afflicted again.. apart from my task there was so much correspondence to be attended to.

Why thank you - I believe a little wine would be restoring...

[the guy who be short]

TGWBS pondered Feyberry's offer before politely declining. He was, after all, still a young'un, and could have got her into serious trouble.

He looked around at the pleasant Rohirric landscape - Wights posting, Shades arguing, Thorns polling. All in all, very pleasing.

He ambled over to Kath, waving, jumping and generally far too pumped full of E-numbers. I told you the Apaches couldn't have destroyed the whole site! he began. Noting her abstract agreement, he decided to be silent before confusing both of them further - sometimes, even he didn't know what he was talking about. Well alright, a lot of the time then.

However, before he could start discussing the finer points of owning one's own nation - for Kath, like wilwa and TGWBS, had descended into this obscure field of study to ease her boredom - Kath had run off!

Entirely understandable.

TGWBS breathed deeply.

[Celuien]

A-choo! A-choo! Dust had never agreed well with Celuien. Something would have to be done. And mites too. Terrible. Off she went to find a mop, bucket and dust rag. This room needed a good washing...

"Have a glass of Chæm-pängê?" queried Èstêlÿn. Celuien jumped up startled from the closet where she had been rummaging for cleaning supplies, knocking over several brooms and startling a napping mouse in the process. "Thank you," she said doubtfully. Even the slightest bit of chæm-pängê had the tendency to make Celuien tipsy. For that reason, she usually avoided intoxicating beverages. But today she would make an exception. It was a celebration, after all.

The drink was good, and the bubbles tickled her nose less than the dust. Before long, the glass was empty. Thoughts chased each other through Celuien's head. A strange noise, like that of bells on a spring morning, sounded in her ears. "What's that ringing, ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding-dillo..." A few moments later, she was singing about Tom (of course).

"Tom Bombadil is a werewolf fellow!
Sharp his claws may be and his teeth are yellow."

Fortunately for the rest of the party, Celuien's song was cut short by another fit of sneezing. Where was all of this dust coming from?

[alatar]

Twenty three minutes.

alatar sat at the banquet table, the glass of iced tea in front of him half empty. Condensation on its side caught the light and sparkled, making the tea appear to be...well...more that it would appear. It also reflected and distorted the images of those that passed or danced nearby. The table was heaped with various foods and delights, yet was missing only Eru's most perfect creation - the cheeseburger. alatar adjusted his hat, pretended to be interested in a scratch on his staff.

He looked around the barrow. More and more entities had entered as he sat there, now for a total of 17 minutes, all with excited tales of their experiences with the barred door. Some entered screaming praise, some just entered, some stayed and chatted while some just went off about their business, further down into the tomb.

Four minutes more, then he would leave.

It was the scientist that looked out of alatar's eyes now, the persona that was colder than the barrow and of a metal and wheels mindset. Not the clown, the theologian, the moviehater nor the advice columnist, but the scientist. The locked door had brought him forth, and now he sat at the party. This version of alatar thought himself very much one of the living - for some reason, he overlooked that he was dead just like all of the others. An oddity, that, especially for one who considered himself a scientist. But such things were as they were. So the responses that he made to the others' salutations were what he calculated to be appropriate, as were the number of minutes that he should attend the party.

Which were 23.

More and he might have to start taking an active part in the festivities; less and it might be considered an affront. Twenty was too orderly, too obvious, and someone might notice.

Three...two...one.

He rose from the table, pushed in the chair and made his way through the revelers, deeper into the barrow. He saw Bêthberry, and made to thank her as she danced on by. "Thanks for the party, Bêth...I mean Fêyberry," he said, the mistaken name intentionally done. "I'd like to stay, but I have things that need attention." He bowed low, then was off, searching the 'Downs for a good discussion that involved religion or the supernatural.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim shambled about the edges of the party, trying not to take it too personally that everyone was avoiding him. He found it difficult to blame them, for the noxious smell of his own putresence was disturbing even to him. He hoped that nobody noticed his left hand. It had fallen off soon after his arrival and he had stuck it back on with sharp stick.

He was getting a bit better, though. With the Downs once more open and welcoming he could feel some of the rot being reversed, and new vitality flowing through his veins. The wine helped...well, the wine that made it into his stomach that was, for much of it dribbled out of his mouth as he tried to drink: decayed lips and tongue made swallowing difficult.

He took another deep breath of the invigorating air and felt a little better still. He plunged once more back into Books and Mirth...soon, he would be his old self again, and then, those people in the CbC had best watch out....

[Holbytlass]

With a gut full of mead, weinies and all other delectables brought to the table, and a silly-happy grin on her face, Holbytlass looked around. So glad to see all back at the Downs and so glad to see many at Feyberry's party, "this", she thought, "is what makes death good".

[Glirdan]

Glirdan was just going to have his 10th (or was it 20th) cup of mead and was feeling a little tipsy when he remembered. "Hey *HICK* Fêy..Fê...Fêyberry!!! Aw..ss.ssum *HICK* p..par..ty!! Real..eally *HICK* f..fun. By the *HICK* w...way, *HICK* did y..you *HICK* gu...guys no *HICK* it's *HICK* Bal...rog app..re..ci*HICK*ation mon...th? *HICK* I th..think I'm *HICK* go..go..ing to *HICK* lay down!" And with one final *HICK* he collappsed in front of Bêth... I mean Fêyberry.

[the guy who be short]

Stepping daintily over Glirdan's corpse, TGWBS continued strolling around the Barrow. The many familiar faces filled him slowly with a mead-like warmth, allowing him to do without the Satanic Liqour.

Approaching Fordim, he began to chat pleasantly about their general deathlihoods and everyday events just to prove that he didn't mind the reek. He was used to odd smells, though that wasn't a story he wished to delve into.

Presently the Conversation turned to Dust. TGWBS wondered where it could have come from. Turning around to inspect the corners of the Barrow, he was confronted by a large, kilted wolf. Quickly distracted, he slowly edged away. Dogswere bad enough, but the sight of that bristling fur and murderous looking tartan were terrifying.

TGWBS hid behind Fordim, wondering selfishly if the flesh of the latter would be fresh enough to distract the lycanthrope.

However, there was no need to sink to such drastic actions; the wolf quickly stood up on its hind legs and sparked an intelligent and philosophically fulfilling conversation about male use of eyeliner.

[Kath]

Kath continued to wander around the great hall, not quite confident enough yet to stay in one place for fear of being shut out again. She had spoken to TGWBS and a few others but had mostly been simply enjoying seeing all the Downer's back together again. Well, nearly all, she mused, noting the absence of a few of the more esteemed Downer's. She wondered whether they felt this party was below them, or whether they were scared to mingle with all these strange dead folk who kept bursting through doors and floors in various states of decay.

However, as she saw Holbytlass appear, and recalled that it was Oromin's birthday and she should really be PMing her once fellow werewolf to congratulate her, she decided to forego worrying about those who were missing, and just assume that they would eventually appear to join in the fun.

[Glirdan]

Glirdan woke up sharply with a pain in his head. "What's the time, I wonder?" He looked down at his hand and remembered he didn't have a watch. So he got up and started walking around asking the other Downer's what time it was. Unfourtunately, none of them had a watch either. Then he spotted a clock on the wall. "9:45!? I've been out for nearly a day!?!? Why didn't anyone wake me up!? Why does my head hurt?" And then he remembered yesterday. He remembered having one to many drinks. "Oh my! I'm so sorry my dear Fêberry! I won't be drinking again for awhile, that's for sure." Then he walked around again, having conversations with his fellow Downer's. Then he noticed something, something strange. "Ok, this party has been going on for awhile, and Gil and Eomer are still not here!! What's the deal with that!?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fëa reappeared at this time accompanied by one too many diacritics. "Shoo," she warned, scolding it like a bad puppy. "You're a pain in the bum. You are not welcome here. You see this doorway? You shall not pass it." It hovered on the edges of the party, watching with a sad look upon it's very small and unbrowlike brow.

Fea moved through the crowd with remarkably more ease, meaning to track down TGWBS. She found him hovering near what was left of Fordim. She hesitated for a split second and remembered that her nose was stuffy due to that Mordor-assignèd bee that stung her on her way to class yesterday. Fea could not smell much, so she made her way over. She stopped short, realizing that smelling perfume is remarkably less offensive and powerful than getting a full facefull of rotting Fordim. Apparently not being able to smell doesn't affect things at the 'Downs.

She continued, hoping that Fordim did not notice her pause. She had no desire to offend the resident pollster. It would never do to wake up to discover a poll entitled Who Thinks Fea's Insane? a) I do, b) I don't, c) other _______.

"Tuh-GHiB-Short, I forgot to ask you... were there any crebain at the zoo the other day? Or oliphaunts? Fordim, it is wonderful to see you, although I must say... you look a little worse for the wear. Is there anything I can do to um... help?" She fervently hoped he said no... the rotting flesh was beginning to creep her out... but good manners dictated asking. After all, t'was not as if she could pretend he looked as buff, studly, and generally Harrison Ford-like as usual.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Fordim jumped at the sudden notice of Fea, her usual beauty marred somewhat by an odd swelling of her nose. She spoke and at first he had difficulty making out her words (due to the rot that had seized his eardrums) but eventually he was able to make out, "Is der anytig I can do to helb?"

He shuffled from foot to foot (causing a slight stir in the pool of his own oozings that had gathered beneath him -- the guy who be short moved off a bit to avoid being splashed) before answering. "Well," he said finally, "I believe that if I were to, um, that is to say I think that if a pretty maiden were to...well...I mean I'm not sure but I did some research into my condition, and as it was caused by neglect and distance, it should be reversible by the opposite so if you were to, er..."

Fea's face went white as she cried out, "You don't want me to kiss you do you?"

Fordim's face assumed a look of utter shock. "Of course not! What an idea! What possible use would a kiss be of to me in this state?" Fea's face assumed a look halfway between relief and embarassment. Apparently not noticing Fordim continued. "No no, what I need is a hug!"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea's allergies had miraculously cleared up after being heavily dosed with the Anakronism that is Tylènòl állërgy rèlïëf. Fordim's scent was becoming more and more repugnant. The time had come to make a choice... either solve the problem, or run away swiftly to a safely scented distance. She decided with a barely noticable shiver. She stepped forward hesitantly, putting her arms around the decaying lump of Fordim. She held her breath, eyes closed, and stepped away.

Without opening her eyes, she spoke. "Did it... work?"

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Sadly, it had not.

Fordim's putresence continued, and he shuffled about in anxiety. It was the ubiquitous Feyberry who noticed, however, that one of Fordim's fingers had begun to regrow, albeit slightly. "Perhaps," she ventured, "he nearly needs to be hugged by more people...?"

[Celuien]

Celuien blinked and rubbed her eyes at the entrance of the fashion-conscious wolf. She had never seen such a marvel before. The only lycanthropes she had previously encountered were terrifying, villager-devouring werebeasts. She was quite glad to see that the creature was friendly.

Celuien's dust allergy was still bothering her. She had not brought any Tylènòl, Sòodhafèd, or other useful Anakronisms with her to the party. Fortunately, her diminished olfaction kept her from being disturbed by Fordim's malodorous condition. Her ear caught by Fêyberry's comment, she took a closer look at Fordim's hand. Indeed, the finger had grown back. And one of the holes in his body seemed smaller. Perhaps more hugs would help. Celuien was willing to test the theory. Bravely stepping into the puddle of ooze that surrounded what remained of Fordim's feet, she moved forward and gave him a hug. She then retreated, trying her best not to splash the puddles too much, and awaited the results...

[Glirdan]

After being horribly lynched by the villagers, Glirdan moved on and heard that Fordim was asking for hugs so he could turn back into his old form. He decided "Hey, if it's to help out a fellow BD'er who was blocked form the evil "error #403", I might as well give it a shot!" He stepped around the puddles of ooze that came from Fordim. "I think I'll go clean this up. A favor for Fêyberry for having this party," he thought to himself. He then stepped up to Fordim and gave him a hug. He stepped back beside Celuien and awaited the results....

[Bêthberry]

Feyberry could not decide if she should attend to the rotting Fordim with a mop and bucket or with a spade.

"After all," she said to herself, "compost does happen and Bethberry's garden does do so well with the organic stuff." She looked again at Fordim after observing the various hugging positions which various BDers invented to circumvent any nasal distance that was more close than necessary. She particularly noted the retching condition whick Glirdan was heroically attempting to hold down and decided that perhaps a cup of stiff Stärbûcks or Tîm Hòrténs mojo might be called for. She sighed in remembrance of Barrow Wight's Coffee (http://forum.barrowdowns.com/showthread.php?t=1888) and wondered what she could do to help Celuien with her allergies. "Surely Bethberry must have a herbal remedy?" Feyberry decided to confer with the forum moderator about the propriety of such in the game before offering it, however.

Yet after all this rumination and hugging, Feyberry thought she observed more aspects of Fordim's resurrection. She was sure she saw his nose growing.

[Celuien]

Memories stirred uncomfortably in Celuien's mind at the sight of Fordim's lengthening nose. She seemed to remember a tale of another whose nose had grown. Could Fordim hold the secret to his own regeneration, and his request for hugs be a mere ploy? She quickly banished the thought. No one who had been to high Taniquetil would do such a thing. Then again, what had he done to merit being stalked by petty dwarves? For now, Celuien decided to operate under the assumption that hugs were indeed the cure for Fordim's condition. After all, the results of the hugs he had received had been seen and his improvement was indisputable.

But what to do next? The efforts put forward by Fea and Celuien had done little to help. Not even Glirdan's Bear-Hug had been enough for a cure. Fordim's case was desperate, and it called for desperate measures.

Celuien stood up and called to the assembled guests. "Fea, Glirdan and I have attempted to aid Fordim to the best of our abilities, but our efforts have not been sufficient. I fear that we must take drastic action and use the ultimate weapon of hugging. We must use the Group Hug of Doom. Who will join me?"

Fordim's jaw dropped to the floor, literally. He quickly retrieved his mandible from its landing place under a table and set it back in place. "Now, don't be hasty," he said. "Shouldn't we think this over some more?"

But it was too late. The Downers formed a Ring around him. At least two-dozen arms encircled Fordim's corpse.

Several Downers were overcome by the odor Fordim emitted and fell to the ground. The others, including Celuien, whose nose was still too congested to fully appreciate his condition, continued to hug away. When they felt that they had done their best, they scattered. Only time, and Fordim, could tell if they had cured him at last.

Humming a little tune, Celuien set off in search of Bêthberry and her herbal remedies. The dust allergy had served her well for the Fordim project, but she was starting to grow tired of sneezing and her other unpleasant symptoms.

[Glirdan]

Glirdan woke up suddenly with a sharp pain in his side. "What happened? Where am I? Why am I on the floor?" He saw Celuien walk by and called her(?) over to him. "What happened my friend? Why am I on the ground?"

"We gave Fordim the Hug of Doom and you passed out over the smell. Here, let me help you up." she said. "Thank you Celuien. Did our attempt work?" Glirdan asked. "We don't know, only time, and of course Fordim himself, will tell. Now please excuse me. I have to go find Bêthberry to see if she has any herbal remedies for my sneezing." and she walked off, sneezing every five seconds. "Well, I guess there is nothing to do but wait to see if the hug worked. I'll go get that mop and bucket and clean up the ooze that Fordim left behind. Oh Fêyberry! Where's the mop and bucket located?"

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Fea returned from some boring errands and decided to see if her question about a Godless fate had yet been answered. Turning on music, she began to thoroughly enjoy Blind Guardian as she gave the customary directions to the being that asked "Address?" and contemplated who she could talk with as she waited. Checking away messages, she noted Encaitare's... and swore. The 'Downs? Down? Again? No...

And then it happen. A "400 nàvïgàtïon ærror." Her breath caught in her throat... But.. she thought... at least it doesn't say forbidden. Swiftly she sent a message by the fastest means to Encaitare. "'Tis not just you, m'dear... it just won't work!" she wrote. Fea hustled to her back-up source of information... Iütürnà. It worked! Bethberry was there... And told her that the 'Downs was indeed not working quite right, and that the time could be put to use drawing more cartoons. Fea grinned appreciatively and decided that the time could be put to better use taking a nap. She sprawled happily and slept, waking up in time to be late to a class. Upon her return... she met a full barrow.

What in the world is happening? Are they weaning us from our habit? Forcing us to go without so that a sudden disappearance will not kill us? What sort of sick prank is this? Do they not realize that some of us have nothing better to do? Surely more important things, but certainly less interesting...

[Anguirel]

Anguirel prepared to seamlessly sachay, as ever, back into the Barrowdowns, and continue to practice worthy activities such as lynching, er, evicting, Hobbits, mourning Maeglin, and marshalling nasty Coavalta. He had always regarded the entrance to the Downs as something to be taken for granted, a mere formality, for such a distinguished Talking Sword as he. He scoffed at mere Wights, picnicking Dunedain, White Wargs, frolicking hobbits. No such obstacles would impede him! Sa-ha! Crunch.

One of the hills had elongated and heightened. It was now a massive fossa and defensive wall, and the complacent blade had just sliced into it. He cursed in a horrible, sharp, harsh voice, but the Connection Wraiths merely cackled in reply. He flailed the length of his body, cutting swathes around him, but the wall seemed endless. At last, realising that he was-shock horror!-in danger of becoming blunt, he backed out, admitting defeat, his proud spirit broken.

It was a humbled, suppliant sword that returned the next morning; Anguirel was ready even to be silent for a week, if he could only be let in! Thank Eru this time there was no resistance. Hearing of revelry where his sorrows could be drowned, he slid over in search of a nice comfortable anvil...

[Kath]

Kath had wandered out of the hall for a few minutes to get some fresh air, as the smell of Fordim's rotting flesh had steadily drifted across the room andhad her feeling quite sick. After breathing deeply for a while she squared her shoulders and went to go back inside, prepared for the whiff that would hit her as she did. But horror of horrors! She was locked out again! But this was not the lock out of the white screen and the Error message, it was but a Search problem, and this was not a rare occurence on her stupid lump of a computer. Needing to rest for a while anyway, she sent TGWBS to investigate and went off to bed without giving it a second thought.

She came back the next day, pushed at the doors and found that they opened with ease. Happily assuming that it had just been her computer after all she entered, and was shocked to find so many people discussing the funny events of the night before. It had not just been her! She was glad now that she had not stayed, or she would have had no sleep that night, worrying whether the Down's would be reopened.

Shaking her head she moved to the table, hoping a nice plate of food would calm her nagging fears. This had happened twice now, was something going wrong?

[Bêthberry]

~ ~ ~ To Elvenhome ~ ~ ~